Chapter 2

Dear Dad,

Well, it's day two of imprisonment. Hope you're happy. The food, you'll be dismayed to hear, really isn't that bad. Made friends with the small family of mice who live under my cot, but they aren't too talkative. Must have something against smokers.

I have my first lessons today. I did mention earlier how I loathe you and everything you stand for, right? Because I think the fact that you signed me up for AP French has just amplified that loathing sky high.

Excuse my language, dear ole father, but fuck you kindly.

Cadet Blaine Anderson

PS: Met a super hot guy yesterday. He was naked. Sang to him about peacocks. Maybe this place won't be terrible after all.

6:15am.

"Wes, come on."

The lump underneath the bed sheet simply groans. Kurt rolls his eyes and, tightening his grip on the stubborn boy's shoulder, shakes him violently. He refuses to be late for French a second day in a row due to his roommate's inability to function in the mornings.

The grunting lump suddenly sprouts a hand, a hand which promptly makes a feeble attempt to swat Kurt away. Wes paws at empty air and finally grinds out, "Ten more minutes, Mom."

Life lesson #6: Being a motherly figure isn't always a bad thing, It gives you the upper hand.

"Oh, quit your whining and move before-"

"Cadets?"

Oh crap.

Kurt stands ramrod straight, shoulders back and arms plastered by his side. Sure, the order hadn't been "attention, Cadets", but Kurt was taking no precautions. As Sergeant Tanaka takes slow, even strides into the room, casting a fervid eye over Kurt's (thankfully) spotless cot, Wes manages to untangle himself from the knotted confines of his own bed linen just in time to adopt a similar stance to Kurt. Tanaka nods at Kurt with a twinge of a smile peaking the corner of his lips- ever since Kurt agreed to play kicker for the Academy football team, Tanaka had been more than willing to give Kurt the easiest life possible.

"At ease, Cadet Hummel." Kurt does as he is told, spreading his legs half a metre apart and clasping both hands behind his back. Wes, if he is worried at all, is a picture of seriousness with his eyes staring straight forward, unblinking. Keeping such composure around such a formidable figure as Sergeant Tanaka is not easy. Kurt would have to commend the brave Asian cadet later.

"Cadet Taylor," barks the Sergeant, "Drop and give me forty. I will not have laziness in my ranks."

Wes gave a sharp nod and spat an apologetic "Yes, Sir," stumbling down to the ground. Forty pushups, ten minutes and a lot of scathing remarks muttered in rapid Catonese later and Kurt and Wes are being berated for their tardiness by a very angry Monsieur Garré. Sighing heavily as he turned to face his seat, it isn't until this particular moment that Kurt realises someone is sitting in his seat. The boy's arms, lined with just enough muscle definition to remain firmly in the zone of what Kurt deems attractive, are crossed over his chest, head cocked and mouth quirked in an amused, verging on lewd grin. He looks only vaguely different than he had without the clothes on.

Kurt walks over to the desk, dropping his bag heavily onto the hard wooden surface. "You're in my seat."

"I see you've dropped the idea of calling me a Cadet at the end of every sentence, then."

"Just get up, alright?" Kurt hisses. Blaine simply chuckles lightly, using one foot to tip his chair backwards by just a fraction of an inch before collapsing it back down again with a thud. The brown of his eyes is glinting with something Kurt instantly labels as dangerous.

Blaine tuts at the look of contempt which now contorts Kurt's delicate features. "Mind your manners, darling. I'm beginning to get the feeling you aren't too fond of me."

Life lesson #7: Keeping your emotions under control will be more advantageous than disadvantageous. (Especially with regards to people of lesser minds).

"You wouldn't be wrong." Kurt blinks away the anger threatening the pitch of his voice and raises an eyebrow. Rein it in, Kurt. You're better than this.

Blaine whistles, long and loud.

Monsieur Garré clears his throat.

Blaine ignores him, eyes bright and daring and focussed intently on Kurt. "With that expression, you'll be lucky not to bust a blood vessel."

"No, but I do intend to bust your nose if you don't let me sit there." Kurt's tone is clipped and harsh, not unlike how he'd address any idiot whose stupidity had led them to take his seat. His seat. Kurt has grown to become a creature of habit, and he'd always sat in this seat in every French class of his high school life. Blaine wasn't going to spoil this for him. Kurt wouldn't let him.

Blaine simply grins wider and, head propped up on clenched fists, leans forwards so that his face is at an alarming parallel with Kurt's crotch. As a violent pink heat floods his cheeks, Kurt makes a mental note to find a way to stop blushing so easily. Maybe it's all the hot showers.

"Why let you sit when I like the view when you stand?" Blaine purrs to no one in particular.

"Desolé, mes fils, mais ce n'est pas apropos pour ce leçon." Monsieur Garré shakes his head at Kurt. Kurt feels his hands tighten to fists at his sides. The titters and giggles escaping their owners' stifles are the ultimate straws that break his back; Kurt realises that, yes, it is probably time to give up.

I'll get him back for this, Kurt promises himself, offering up one last venomous glare before plucking his bag from Blaine's table and dropping down into the only available seat- the one next to him.

7:00am.

A nudge to the side of Kurt's foot. Kurt looks down in alarm, nearly stabbing himself in the wrist with his pencil as he does so, only to be met by the sight of a scuffed sneaker resting atop his own ankle. Head snapping to the side, Kurt sees Blaine scribbling on a piece of paper, the self same token smirk playing about his lips. They seem a little pursed now, as if Blaine is sucking his teeth in thought. Even the line of his jaw is set straight and curving down to a neck whose porcelain smooth skin is exposed in Blaine's semi-permanent, inquisitive head tilt. Kurt didn't dare look down the rest of his body. He feared his treacherous cheeks might betray him once more.

Blaine stays facing Monsieur Garré as he runs a hand through his hair slowly, tugging on the wild curls as he feigns a yawn and reaches up with his other hand. Kurt watches, confused, as Blaine brings the hand down in a laboured movement, dropping a slip of paper on the ground in between their desks. Kurt feels somewhat obtuse as Blaine makes a point of pushing the paper towards Kurt's foot with his own. He lets his eyes flash to meet with Kurt's once more and winks coyly, almost predatory. Rolling his eyes, Kurt bends down to pick up the piece of paper in a single swift movement. Blaine has a lot to learn if he thinks Monsieur Garré will do so much as give you detention for touching the ground. In fact, as Kurt knows well enough from experience, this teacher is particularly fond of the school's disciplinary strategies and will be all for making you do twenty pushups for disrupting a lesson. Monsieur Garré and McKinley's punishment scheme are a match made in heaven.

Kurt unravels the note in his lap, putting the tip of his pencil between his lips to chew in thought. From his periphery, Kurt notices the curly-headed Blaine Anderson scribbling yet another note.

1. Francis.

2. Eric.

3. Daniel.

4. Shane.

5. Elliot.

Kurt nearly makes a most guttural snort despite the risk of pushups. The name game? Still? He sighs, and tears a strip from his exercise book. In neatly looped cursive, he writes:

1. God no.

2. No.

3. Never.

4. Pretty, but no.

5. I am deeply offended.

Simultaneously, they drop their pieces of paper on the floor. As Kurt's hand brushes against Blaine's, he swears Blaine drags a deliberate finger over Kurt's thumb, and the sensation instigated the need to suppress a shiver. He wasn't going to lie- there was something exciting about passing notes during class with a near perfect stranger. Who has nice arms, whispers Kurt's conscious. He shakes the voice away and reads:

The way you chew and suck your pen when you're concentrating is totally hot. Wonder what else you'd care to put in there.

Kurt's hand is flying across a new strip of torn paper before he has time to even consider blushing.

Vraiment charmement. I'd only bite it off.

Practically flicking the piece of paper onto the floor, Kurt picks up yet another note from the floor. Blaine is looking at him expectantly as Kurt unfolds his new message:

Your name isn't Rumpelstiltskin is it? Yowch.

Kurt scoffs at the accusation. It's too stupid even to warrant a cold remark in his sloppiest handwriting. Resigned to the fact that Blaine's playfulness is getting a tad wearisome, Kurt turns his focus back to conjugating the pluperfect tense.

All he can see chalked into the blackboard is a pair of dusky hazel eyes.

Suddenly, a tiny paper aeroplane stabs at his temple and bounces off to crash land atop his open exercise book. Blaine's stretching now as Kurt undoes the folds, smoothing out the creases in the paper as Blaine's shirt rides just a couple inches above his waistline and Kurt totally doesn't want to actually turn and stare at Blaine's arm muscles flexing at the shoulders. He definitely does not. So instead he settles for reading the note:

You're a biter? Hah. Kinky. Again, it's cool with me. Bite away, good sir.

The bell sounds just as Kurt brings his pencil to paper for a final one liner, and when he looks up in defeat, Blaine has sauntered halfway through the door. Kurt grits his teeth and packs his bag in silence. Uncertainty and wariness and some kind of liquid electricity course through his veins.

"Hummel, my man!" Noah Puckerman vaults a desk and sits on a chair back to front, smiling a champion smile at Kurt. Puck's look, for whatever reason, unnerves him.

"You look like you know something. It's scary."

Puck snorts. "Don't play games with me, dude, I totally saw you making sweet sweet note-passing love with that Blaine kid just now. Call me stupid but-" he makes a loud wolf whistle- "Man, that was some tangible sexual tension right there. And I know sexual tension like a physicist knows elastic tension."

Kurt has to raise his eyebrows in appraisal. "Nice simile. I like that." He really does not, but Puck looks too proud of his words for Kurt to be nasty.

"Thank you," Puck says, pleased, "Worked on it all lesson to prepare myself for this conversation. Because Kurt Hummel, we are getting you laid. Finally." His eyes are actually glistening right now with happiness. Kurt honestly doesn't understand the straight male's obsession with sex and the sex lives of their friends.

"Thanks, Noah, but no thanks. Really." Kurt makes a move to leave. Puck looks devastated, clambering over numerous desks and nearly sending himself flying more than once in a desperate effort to stand in Kurt's way. It doesn't work.

Life lesson #8: A lady never reveals her secrets. Neither does a really clever Cadet.