KURT

"All right, for those of you who have been living under a rock or suffer from short-term memory loss, or who, for reasons the Dean of Dance and Choreography did not reveal to me, are attending this class without taking Dance 101 last year, I would like to remind you that the Midwinter Critiques are coming up," Ms Cassandra July announced, surveying her class of leotard-clad students. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Blaine before continuing.

"They are a substantial part of this semester's grade. You will be performing in front of the faculty and the other students who are scheduled on the same day. You are expected to show you are be able to devise a performance that incorporates learnings from your core classes as well as a general understanding of how to captivate your audience, and you get one shot at it."

She began to walk around, tapping her cane on the springy wooden floor. "I assume that for the past weeks, every teacher you have will have told you that their discipline is the most important one. And now you're wondering, 'how am I going to find appropriate pieces to show off everything I can do and please everyone?'."

A few of the students exchanged looks. Kurt kept his eyes on Ms July, who had a tendency to bear down on students she felt weren't paying attention. Of course he had been asking himself the same question.

"The answer is: you can't," Ms July said. "No matter how multi-talented you think you are, you all have your defects. You're not the Triple Threat your mommy, your high school teacher or your community theatre coach said you were. The whole point of these exams is to find out where your strengths lie, and to help you choose what you will be majoring in. It's not gonna be Dance for everyone in this room. I for my part will be advising to flunk some of you."

She made eye contact with a few students, making them squirm under her gaze. Kurt knew it wasn't an empty threat.

"The good news for you is that the final call for your grades is made by the Deans." Ms July smiled, but it was a calculated grin. "So cheer up," she said brightly. "Today will be all about constructive criticism."

The class groaned as a whole. Ms July's 'constructive criticism' gems from the past had included "cut off a butt cheek" as a weight loss tip, and "blisters are for babies- real dancers calluse." She was serious about her craft, but her remarks weren't for the faint of heart.

From the corner of his eye, Kurt could see Blaine staring at him. He did that a lot these days at the classes they shared. Kurt wasn't sure, but he suspected Blaine was waiting for him to come around and apologise. Since that wasn't going to happen, Kurt ignored him the best he could and took a place at the barre as far away from him as possible for their warm-ups.

Much to the envy of many in his class, Kurt had never been the target of Ms July's barbs so far. He sometimes wondered if that was because he had complimented her abs right after being introduced, or if it was just luck. Whatever it was, it made a nice change from being the butt of almost every teacher's jokes in high school. Even Mr. Schuester occasionally indulged in a round of casual effeminophobia to tickle some laughs from his students. Maybe, Kurt mused as he moved through his port de bras, he just didn't stick out as much here. That thought comforted him more than it he liked to admit. It wasn't always fun to be a unicorn.

"Okay, that's enough warm-up or I might pass out into a coma," Ms July announced, and the music stopped. "Hit the diagonal for jetés. Two rows. I want to see four at least, but the hobbits among you can give me five or six." She glanced in Blaine and Rachel's direction, and Kurt bit the corners of his mouth. It wasn't fair, but secretly, it was a little funny.

Though Ms July had leniently moved Rachel's midterm the year before to accommodate her Funny Girl callback, Kurt suspected that had a lot to do with pressure from above and not so much with Cassandra's enthusiasm for Rachel herself. She didn't play favourites and treated Rachel the same as she always had- with a cold eye for her flaws - even after she landed the role of Fanny. Rachel's 'new best gay' Blaine didn't garner her any sympathy points either - Ms July let out no opportunity to remind everyone that she never gave the go-ahead for him to join her advanced class.

Kurt watched the others as he waited for his turn in line. He knew he wasn't bad, but he also wasn't as graceful as some of the other students. Taking ballet classes in his formative years had helped, but he'd only gone once a week, in Lima, and he had dropped out after his mother died. He suspected the others had been taking several classes a week since toddlerhood and kept it up through high school. Then again, he wasn't planning on majoring in dance, and he wasn't looking to join the national ballet either. He just needed to be good enough to pass his classes.

He was almost up and he pushed his thoughts away to focus on the count of the music. He straightened his back, elongated his posture and unfolded his legs into the first jump. The rush came automatically as he jumped higher with every step, working up to a grand jeté at the end of the diagonal and feeling like he was flying. He wished the mirror room was three or four times as big so he could just keep on, jumping and flying ever higher. But the room eventually ended, and he landed, daring to take a glance at Cassandra July who was standing in the corner watching them. She gave him a small, dismissive nod to direct him towards the row of waiting students. Then, she zeroed in on someone behind him.

"Oh my god, what is that? Do you need a jet-pack or something? You're barely leaving the ground. I can't even tell the difference between yourchassées and your grand jeté. You get twice as many jumps as the others and you still can't get it up."

Some of the students around Kurt sniggered.

"I was just-" Blaine started, but Ms July cut him off and pointed sternly at the corner where he had started.

"By yourself," she said. "No hiding behind the big boys."

Blaine looked conflicted, but walked back and waited for her to start the music again. Kurt hadn't seen his first line of jumps, but now he had the chance to watch. It was pretty bad. Blaine had never been much of a jumper (well, when he wasn't letting himself drop from furniture, that was). He had no real training apart from "booty camp". He had had trouble in West Side Story as well. Kurt knew he could improve if he practised more, but any suggestions about how he could try had met with deaf ears. It was the same thing with his vocal warm-ups; Blaine didn't believe he needed any, and so usually ended up overstraining his vocal chords. Kurt had stopped trying to help him long ago. There was only so many times one could be told to mind their own business.

Now, he watched Blaine get his due with all the added bitterness of an old boyfriend.

"Okay, stop," Ms July said, shaking her head as she killed the music. "Just stop. You're wasting your fellow students' time. And much worse: you're wasting mine. Just stay at the barre while the rest go through a second round. Hummel. Walsh. You start. Watch and learn, grasshopper."

Blaine stood panting and gaping at her for a moment, then shuffled off. Kurt could definitely feel his eyes on him this time. He nodded briefly at Cecily Walsh- another lucky one who hadn't stood out enough to earn a nickname- and they waited for the music to start. Kurt was pretty sure he had been chosen because Ms July knew of his romantic past with Blaine and wanted to rub it in, but being the first to start the exercise meant he could hydrate before they continued, and that was good. He stretched out his legs, and lifted himself into the air again.

Notes:

I took the liberty of changing the midterms situation at NYADA for this chapter. I figured it made more sense if every class has an exam; not just Vocal Performance (like in canon). Also, There is no super-special place in Cassandra July's heart (or class) for Rachel Berry or Blanderclown. Finally, "with all the added bitterness" is a stolen quote from my hero, Oscar Wilde.