Things are about to really pick up in here. Ooh, I'm so excited! This is a long one, too. Review, I own nothing, etc! Love and squee!- Maya (I'm so excited I just misspelled my own name. Y'all ready for this?)

"Have you ever thought, just maybe,

"You belong with me?

"You belong with me."

After a beat of silence, Mr. Schuester clapped his hand over his forehead and dragged it slowly down his face to finally fall resignedly into his lap. "Rachel…"

"Yes, Mr. Schuester?" Her eyes were bright with anticipated praise.

"Do you recall what the assignment is this week?" Santana attempted to stifle a laugh, but it came out anyway as snort.

Rachel smoothed her hands over her matronly micro-miniskirt. "Of course; to be discreet."

"Yes," Schue sighed. "And you know what it is to be discreet?"

She sniffed indignantly. "I should think that would be obvious. I have discretion pouring from my ears."

Mr. Schue lifted a brow. "Oh? Then why is Finn blushing so hard?"

Suddenly Finn was staring extremely hard at the floor. Quinn, as his girlfriend-du-jour, slowly turned to fix him with a sweetly murderous look. "Yeah, Finn. Why are you blushing?"

As Finn spluttered incoherently and Rachel—lying poorly—insisted that she hadn't been singing to him ("No, I was singing to a different boy. You don't know him he goes to… another school, one that's not Carmel High, though, obviously, I mean how dumb do you think I am?"), Kurt rolled his eyes and examined his nails in the back row. Another Finchel off-again phase, really? The same old, same old, and it would never change. He didn't even need to act as peanut gallery; that was what Santana was for. They wouldn't miss him, when the time came.

When a resigned Mr. Schuester slouched away into his office, Kurt began packing his bag as Mercedes attempted to defend her telling the girls about his and Puck's… friendship, he supposed. It's to keep you safe; I was just worried; I needed backup, since you're not listening to reason. He sighed and slung his bag over his shoulder, Mercedes still talking at his elbow; he'd have to cold-shoulder her for at least the next twenty-four hours. As if he didn't have enough to do. From the corner of his eye, he saw Puck break away from Tina and Quinn and come toward him. "Hummel."

Kurt sighed and looked up to meet his eyes. "Yes, Noah, what is it?'

Puck blinked at the use of his first name, then asked, "Can you give me a ride home? I'm still kinda stranded."

Kurt closed his eyes briefly. "Yeah, sure." If he was tired now, he'd be drained tonight, and that would not do. He let Puck lead him from the room, both of them ignoring the girls' frustrated calls. From his pocket blared "No Boundaries," and Kurt stopped short and withdrew his phone, giving Puck an apologetic look. "Sorry, I have to take this." Without waiting for his answering nod, he scampered into the empty girls' bathroom and brought his phone to his ear. "Blaine?"

"Kurt. How are you doing?"

Kurt raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm alright."

"You're no such thing." He could hear the indulgent, sad smile in Blaine's tone, his breathing.

"You're right. Of course I'm not alright, but I could be worse."

"Could you?"

"I could be bleeding behind the dumpsters." That sure shut him up. "Honestly, I'm counting the days until I am."

Blaine was quiet for another moment. "Listen, Kurt. I'm pulling some strings over here at Dalton—I have some influence as the Warblers' lead—and—"

"Blaine. What happened to facing my demons?"

"That obviously didn't pan out. I just want you to be safe."

"I know," Kurt said softly.

They were quiet for a few seconds before Blaine changed the subject. "Are we still on for this afternoon?"

"Oh, right." Kurt ran his hand through his hair again. "Sorry, I can't make our usual coffee date; I have something to attend to tonight. Next week, though."

"Alright, I'll let you go. Please, be safe, okay?"

"I'll do what I can," he promised honestly before disconnecting.

Puck let his head fall back against the wall, his ankles crossed and hands in his pockets. Hummel had a date? Hummel dated? Who the hell did Hummel have within a fifty mile radius to date? And Hummel was cancelling that date? The hell? Puck pursed his lips. But wait, these dates were "usual"? It sounded like a weekly thing. Kurt Hummel was going on dates with some dude—named, like, Bob or Barry or Stewart or whatever—every week?

Get it, Hummel.

Said boy pushed the bathroom door open, halting in the doorway with wide eyes at the sight of Puck leaning against the wall, waiting for him. "'Sup," he greeted casually.

Hummel blinked at him. "Hello, Noah."

Puck smirked knowingly at him. "So, cancelling a hot date?" Hummel rolled his eyes, pushing past him with a noise of disgust. Puck's smirk grew as he followed him to the parking lot, hands still tucked casually in his pockets. "I mean, really, Hummel. I'm not positive that skipping out on a date is the smartest thing you've ever done."

They reached the Navigator, and Hummel arched a brow at him over the hood. "Oh?" His eyes were ice chips, and his tone clearly indicated that this was a rhetorical non-question.

Puck, however, did not care. He never did have the greatest self-preservation instincts. "You see, Hummel," he lectured, climbing into the passenger seat, "around here, you're not likely to date much. Don't even get me started on your lack of sex life—"

"Oh, I won't," Hummel snorted, starting his baby up.

Puck gave him a reproachful look. "It's rude to interrupt, you know." Hummel rolled his eyes, but said no more. "Anyway, it's not like underwear models who enjoy cock are just coming out of the woodwork in the center of Ohio. Actually, I think you're the only gay guy in Lima." He paused to consider. "Well, except Rachel's dads, but I'm pretty sure they're not your type." He glanced at Hummel, and stopped to stare. Hummel was staring hard at the road ahead, his lower lip clamped between his teeth. His grip on the steering wheel was turning his knuckles white—like it always seemed to when he was upset—and his face was even whiter. "Hummel?"

Hummel blinked twice, relaxing his fingers on the wheel and releasing his lip to take a breath. "Sorry," he said haughtily, "I started tuning you out at the mention of sex. I do not need to discuss that with you, or anyone else for that matter."

Puck didn't buy it, but he played along and let it go, rolling his eyes. "Poor Barry, then."

Hummel gave him a confused look. "Who in the world is Barry?"

"Bernard, then. Brett? That guy you were on the phone with, What's-His-Face."

"Oh, Blaine. What about him?"

Puck leaned toward him with a leering smirk, which Hummel didn't react to even a little bit. Damn. "I heard you talking about a date? What, were you just gonna leave the poor guy with blue balls when the time came?"

Hummel rolled his eyes. "Not that it's any of your business, but Blaine and I aren't together. When we say 'date,' it's more like… 'appointment,' for lack of a better word."

"Then why not just say 'appointment'?"

"Too impersonal. We're gay; we're allowed to use overly personal terms like that when we don't mean them."

Puck nodded slowly, then allowed Hummel a minute or so of quiet. He had building up to this. "So, what was all that I heard about bleeding behind the dumpsters? That a euphemism?"

Somehow, Hummel managed to freeze, rigid as a cliff, yet still operate the vehicle safely, even though his movements were stiff and woodenly uncomfortable. It was like he was some porcelain marionette, someone else pulling his strings while he sat there with his carefully blank eyes in his carefully blank face. After a few seconds of silence, Hummel said in the tiniest voice, "You heard all that?"

"You're just counting the days?" Hummel winced before schooling his face back into that mask. "What has you so scared, huh?" Puck demanded. "You're one of the most fearless people in this shithole town, so who scares you that much?"

A weak, tentative smile stretched Hummel's lips, but a sad, breathy excuse for a laugh slipped through them. "You think I'm fearless?"

"Don't change the subject. Are you being threatened?"

Hummel sighed, raking a hand through his hair as he turned onto Puck's street. "Look, don't worry about it."

"Didn't I tell you not to tell me not to worry? Because, A: you're not the boss of me, I'll worry if I want to, and B: that just freaks me out more, like you're hiding something."

The Navigator stopped (a little abruptly, in Puck's opinion, but he wasn't about to comment) in front of the Puckerman residence, and Hummel dropped his hands into his lap and dug his perfect nails into his palms. He kept doing that today. "I'm not hiding anything," he said quietly. "You know me, Noah; I've never been any good at hiding."

When he got home, Kurt made himself some coffee and sat at the kitchen table to drink it, staring at the wall in front of him like it had all the answers if he just looked hard enough. It didn't though, or it didn't feel like sharing, so he finished his coffee and washed out his mug, then the coffee maker. He began his homework, but it seemed to take longer in his distracted state. He wasn't sure if he was grateful for that or pissed. Despite himself, he finished two essays ahead of schedule and had the next three chapters of both pre-calculus and physics outlined. With a sigh, he abandoned his schoolwork and got upstairs into the waning light to make dinner. Burt Hummel made it home ten minutes before his son was done cooking, and Kurt let him set the table. They shared a companionable-as-always meal, during which Kurt complained only half-jokingly about what eating so late would do to his skin.

At length, his dad retired to the TV room to watch Deadliest Catch, and no matter how eager Kurt was to put off his plans for that night, he could not sit through that nonsense. So down he went into his room. He drank a bottle of water and cracked a second one open before warming up his vocal cords unnecessarily and singing through his song for Glee—it was his turn next practice—twice. Once he'd wiped away his tears, he dug through his closet for an old sweatshirt of his dad's that he'd appropriated. Now it smelled of detergent and Chanel No. 5, but as he pulled it over his head, he could have sworn that a trace of that motor oil scent still clung to the worn fabric.

He raked his fingers nervously through his hair before sitting down at his desk and opening his laptop. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he turned on his webcam.

Songs used: You Belong With Me by Taylor Swift; No Boundaries by Kris Allen (mentioned briefly, but practice safe fanfiction!). I own neither them nor their respective music. I wanna hear what you guys think Kurt is doing!