Leading up to the song "Misery", in 2:16. Just had an idea for how the whole thing happened.

Blaine did not know that Kurt was mad at him, specifically, but at the same time, Blaine knew that Kurt was pissed, or stressed, or under pressure, or whatever. He didn't think about it, because he had a ton of things to think about. Like David's love life, or the new episode of Modern Family. His knee had done this weird popping thing the other day and he didn't know if he should get it checked out by a real doctor or let it sort itself out. So at the Warbler meeting when Wes said, "I've been listening to Maroon Five a lot lately," and everyone got very excited, and Wes asked Blaine to look over the lyrics to "Misery," so he could solo it, he just nodded and rotated his leg a little bit to see if the popping thing would happen again. Kurt heaved a sigh, next to him on the couch.

After practice Blaine caught up with Kurt in the hall. "Hey so, Misery."

"Well, if we're going to do Maroon Five, I guess that's a good one, although with Wes and David both listening to it all last week-I just shouldn't have burned them that CD that Cede's gave me."

"You don't like it? But it's so peppy!" Blaine grabbed Kurt by the shoulders and shook him a little. "Come on! It's going to sound great! We'll take romantic anguish to the next level! The next, cheerful level."

"I know I know."

"And there's that section where we'll get to bang on tables!"

"Are we going to lug tables onstage for regionals?" Kurt arched an eyebrow as they made it to the cafeteria.

"We'll figure something out." Blaine brushed the problem away. Kurt was looking out the windows of the cafeteria as they waited in line. Blaine tugged on his blazer, smoothing it along Kurt's shoulder, rubbing a little as he went. "You sound tired. You sound stressed. Want to get coffee or something?"

Kurt flashed him a smile, and Blaine thought, just for a second, His eyes are blue today, before Kurt shook his head and sighed again."Thanks, but I have to get through a paper on Thoreau. I swear that man was getting it on with every woodsman in Concord." Kurt brushed in front of him and grabbed a tray, a salad, an apple and a water.

"I'll get it, Kurt, don't worry about it." Blaine pushed forward to pay for their meals, setting his tray down, digging out his wallet and briefly gripping Kurt's upper arm. "I always thought Thoreau was playing for our team. I mean, why else would he go out to the woods, talking about flowers and fruit and manly endeavors?"

"That's what I said."

"And did you see his picture? That neck beard! I think he wanted to scare away any potential ladies." They reached their normal table.

"That's what I said! But Mrs. Paulson thinks he was just introverted." Kurt laid his napkin on his lap. Kurt's crossed legs, which could rock a pair of skinny jeans on the weekend, like they did last weekend, reminded Blaine of his earlier problem.

"Oh hey, I wanted to ask you. My knee is doing this weird popping thing and I didn't know if it was serious or not. Do your knees pop?" Blaine looked at his knees, then at Kurts, then up at Kurt, who was regarding him with serious, wide eyes. Blaine had a flash of Green in this light before Kurt asked him about specific instances of the pop, and said that they'd take a look at it tonight, after Kurt finished his paper. Yes, they would look at his knees tonight, and Kurt would tell him his knees were fine, and that maybe he was overworking them. Maybe Kurt would tell him to put a brace on it. And then they'd talk more about Thoreau and Kurt wouldn't be tired or stressed-or at least he'd be happy enough to balance the other things out. Kurt happy was preferable to Kurt unhappy because Kurt unhappy meant more sarcastic, cynical one liners and less sashaying, twirling, giggling awesomeness. So Blaine sat back and in his chair and said, "Thanks Kurt, I owe you one," flashing a smile. Then he waved to Wes coming in the door and missed the way Kurt's lips tightened and eyes flared.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kurt ended the skype call with a grumble. Everything was great at home; the shop had a steady flow of customers, Carol's work was for the moment drama free, and Finn was spending more time with Rachel, which meant he was happier over all. But Rachel was attempting song writing-a horrible song about only children, which she wanted the group to sing for Regionals. Finn said no one else really liked the idea of original songs, or at least not enough, so Rachel was pretty much it and he wasn't sure if she was going to get past head band material. They'd probably end up doing 80's stuff again. Santana was vying for a solo.

With all the screwed up things that plagued New Directions, why did they have to hit him over the head with all the good stuff? Why hadn't the weekly solos and freedom of expression been as important before? But now Kurt was stuck doing back up all day, every day, forever and ever and ever, and staring constantly at the suave (if over gelled) hair, the giant mouth, the solid (so solid) torso, the cute butt, and the popping knees of one Blaine Anderson. All the time he had to watch Blaine be adorable for everyone else. Blaine could flirt successfully with a chair. Who's the one in misery now? Kurt was in misery; Blaine paraded around and sometimes danced himself into a sweat and Kurt couldn't freaking touch or taste or even look askance. And there was no chance to distract himself or get even, or feel evenly matched with his own solo so that maybe Blaine would have to be the one looking at Kurt's hair and Kurt's butt-no, Blaine would take front and center every time.

He'd had it up to here with this whole Blaine-Takes-Over-The-World-And-Kurt-Laps-It-Up thing. Thoreau was talking about apples as a metaphor for something, Kurt hadn't figured out what, yet, and Blaine was coming up soon with coffee so that Kurt would reassure him that yes, his body was, in fact, perfect. Great. What if Kurt wanted to know if his body was perfect? What if he wanted to know if Blaine would do back up for him? What if he wanted to actually do his homework and not worry about it, for once? Gah.

So when Blaine knocked, holding coffee in front of him like a trophy, smiling with eyes that looked at Kurt like they look at everything else, chairs included, Kurt found himself feeling decidedly contrary.

"I don't see anything wrong with your knee." Kurt would not focus on how shapely Blaine's calves were, at the straight, dark hair, at the small bit of thigh exposed as Blaine held his pant leg, rolled up, just above the knee.

Blaine frowned. "You're not a doctor though, what if I pulled something? What if the bones are coming out of their sockets?"

The leg was still out, looking masculine and lovely. "You're being an hypochondriac. There's nothing wrong with your knees." Kurt turned away, leaning over his desk, down at his laptop. "You can put your leg away now. I saw all kinds of injuries when I was on the Cheerios and your knee looks like the picture of health."

Blaine considered his leg for another second and then let his pant leg fall over his shoe. "Well great! Thanks Kurt!" He wrapped Kurt into a hug from behind, which, because both boys were devoid of blazers, was just chests and thin shirts and tight arms. Kurt felt Blaine's heat soaking into his back, Blaine's chin on his shoulder, Blaine's wide hands spread on his chest.

After a moment Kurt said, "You're welcome. Anytime." his voice was gruff, lower than normal, and he blushed when he heard it.

"You ok? Bad week? The coffee will cheer you up." Blaine was still hugging him.

"Just tired. Thoreau's been difficult." Kurt took a final breath, and turned to loosen Blaine's grip. He couldn't deal with this much closeness. Not now, not when he knew Blaine didn't mean anything by it and was just being infuriatingly friendly. Blaine had always been touchy feely but today more so than ever. "Thanks. You should probably get back, though, you have that french test, right?"

"Oh right." Blaine shrugged. "Je peux parle francais moy bueno."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Don't do that tomorrow and it will improve your odds dramatically," he said as he led Blaine to the door.

Blaine grabbed his hand and placed it, entwined with his own fingers, over Blaine's heart. "Peut-etre tu peux aider moi avec los trans-lattes."

Kurt disentangled his hand. "That wasn't even a word."

"Los Translattes? Si Si! Mucho Bueno a word. A word pour la cafe, translated en francais!"

"Good night, Blaine." The door was almost shut.

"Kurt?" Blaine whispered.

"Yes?" Kurt looked Blaine straight in the eyes, Chocolate, Mocha, Warmth, Want.

Blaine was staring at him with a small smile. "Thanks for looking at my knee."

Kurt huffed. "Anytime, Blaine. Go to bed."

Then the door shut, and Kurt curled up in bed, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried not to remember how Blaine's breath felt on his neck.