Title: Swing the Spinning Step
Author: mybriefeternity (a.k.a. aspiringtoeloquence)
Artist: darrenstop (art post can be found linked on both tumblr and lj - I will add a link to my profile ASAP)
Rating: PG-13 for language and sexual discussions.
Betas: whenidance, idoltina
Wordcount: ~32,000 total
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Blaine [with some background canon pairings]. Rachel Berry, Mercedes Jones, Tina Cohen-Chang, Sam Evans, Finn Hudson (and a couple of blink and you'll miss them cameos).
Summary: Kurt Hummel, a copy-editor at The New York Sentinel, just got his big break: the chance to become a reporter, go undercover at a local high school and write an expose. His job is made a lot more complicated by the people he meets (one in particular, an English teacher with a passion for his subject and a penchant for bowties) and the things he learns - both about high school and about himself.
Notes/Thanks: My betas, whenidance (lj) and idoltina (lj), deserve all the praise and thanks in the world; it's a miracle that either of them are still talking to me (tricking you into beta-ing was the best decision I could have made!) . They helped me carve out this story, and without them it never would have happened. Additional thanks go to aubreyli (lj) for working plot through with me in spite of (dot dot dot) and to whatiknew (lj) for letting me keysmash in her direction. Thanks also to my wonderful artist, darrenstop on tumblr, who is both endlessly talented and completely lovely! Please go check out her wonderful art for this story linked on my tumblr or livejournal (or her tumblr)!
Extra Information: As well as being written for the beyond_dapper (lj) Blaine Big Bang, this was also posted anonymously as part of the 2012 klaine-endgame challenge. So you can also find the first part (and subsequently all six) over on their livejournal. The only changes made in the interim were the adjustment of a couple of typos and one or two necessary phrase changes. Thank you to the mods of both fests for being so accommodating!

This is a complete retooling of the movie Never Been Kissed (1999). It shouldn't be at all necessary to have seen it in order to read this. Some basic elements from both universes have had to be altered, and for the sake of being true to the characters (this version of them) some minor points from the movie have been removed altogether. In this universe Kurt didn't go to McKinley, and he and a (slightly younger) Finn were the only members of what might have been the Glee Club to go to school in Lima. Other characters may appear in different capacities (and to varying degrees). Title from the song 'Kiss Me' (by Sixpence None the Richer).

An unbroken wall of noise.

That's the best phrase Kurt can think of, the one running around in his tired brain as he steps into the stadium. It's packed, and he'd be able to pass that off as the fans out to support their favorite players were it not for the posters. He can only see the ones nearest him, but there's definitely a "Kisses for Kurt!" and "I'll Kiss U!" nearby.

It's surreal, is what it is, absolutely insane, and if you'd told Kurt Hummel a few short months ago that this is where he'd be... well, he would have dismissed you as just another crazy person in a city full of crazy people.

It's also honest. It's true, every second of it, and all Kurt can do is wait and hope that honesty is enough.

Kurt Hummel was running late. To be more specific, he was running late and making his way as quickly as possible across the floor of The New York Sentinel, juggling the latest proofs for the front page of the arts section and page two of the news. When he dropped the latter on a desk near the door and got a groan in reply, he didn't even pause, just muttered a calm, chipper "Learn to use a comma, Peters, and maybe the next one won't look like it's bleeding to death," over his shoulder and kept walking. He handed the pencil from behind his ear to Matt, the sports reporter turning his desk upside-down, and yelled out a thank you to Mike for the dance-school recommendation as he passed Tina's office - Carole loved the anniversary gift, even if his dad had looked a little panicked. He stopped short, however, when he got to the door of his (tiny but stylishly decorated) office, because he was surrounded on all sides by Tina and Mercedes, who looked prepared to pounce.

"Kurt Hummel, where the hell were you last night?! We texted you from the bar - I must have left you three voicemails -"

Of course. He very deliberately set his satchel on his desk and flipped through a stack of folders. "My phone must have been off. Why does anyone drive in this city? I can't -" Mercedes was still regarding him with a raised eyebrow. It was her classic you've-got-some-explaining-to-do face, and it did not bode well for him. "Oh, sorry. I had plans."

"Plans like... dinner and quality couch time with someone handsome, I hope?"

"That depends on whether you consider Tim Gunn handsome." He kept himself busy rifling through his inbox. "There was a marathon of the early seasons last night, and Carole froze leftovers last time she and Dad visited."

Mercedes put her hands on her hips with a sigh. "We lost out to television? Come on, the bartender at the second place we went to was just your type."

"And what exactly is my type?"

"Handsome? Gay? Comes with the ability to fix a martini?" She shrugged. "How should I know if you won't tell me?" He was quietly impressed with her second long-suffering sigh. "At least tell me we're still on on for dinner. And a movie or something this weekend."

"Of course." He continued to flick through the folders on his desk. "Where are my messages?"

Tina shot a covert glance out towards the reception area, which meant they were, for all practical purposes, beyond saving. "I'm guessing somewhere out there, wherever Sugar has decided to leave them today. Including the one about the staff meeting."

"We have a meeting this morning?"

"Yeah, in ten minutes." The women exchanged a look. "It was called by Sue."

"Sue? She's never -"

"I know. Nobody knows." Tina lifted her shoulder in a small shrug. "But she's the owner, when she says jump..."

A thought came to him, and he brightened instantly. "Maybe I can talk to her about my pitch," he said, reaching into a drawer for a well-loved folder. "I know the last editor wasn't totally receptive to it, but maybe if she -" Tina and Mercedes were exchanging a look again, and his shoulders slumped a little. "What?"

Tina put a hand on his arm. "Hey, you know both of us think you're a great writer. I just... the boss said he didn't want lose you. You're the best copy-editor we have." She squeezed lightly. "I don't want you to be disappointed again."

"I'll be fine." He picked at the corners of the folder a little, the one containing the story he'd pitched to his editor last month. He'd gotten brushed off with empty compliments and assurances that he was the best they had. The best copy-editor. Not reporter.

He was proud of that. Kurt Hummel was damn good at his job, had gotten a job in print media (which everyone kept telling him was a dying field) after getting his degree and realizing that the life of an almost-literally starving actor was not really him. His passions had morphed in college, expanded. After graduation, armed with drive, intelligence and double degree in musical theater and English, he'd made his mark. He was proud.

He just wanted more.

He wanted to be Hersh, reporting on wars, bringing information to light that would change the way people looked at their country or their government. He wanted work with people like Dorothea Dix, uncovering injustices and spurring change. He wanted the things he wrote to matter. Local to state, national or global, he wanted to be a part of the news. He knew he had a long way to go, but he had to start somewhere.

And how could they ever know how good he'd be unless they'd give him a chance?

He swept out of his office in what he hoped was a casual manner, zeroing in on Sugar's desk. She was chattering into her earpiece, as was normal, her polka-dotted nail-file working busily on her fluorescent pink tips.

"So I said to Daddy I don't care if his family only eats potatoes, or whatever, I'm taking him with us to the Hamptons and that's that. It's just like that time with the Christmas party, and the imported peacocks, he just doesn't understand -"

"Sugar." Kurt set his hand down on the desk and raised his voice, because otherwise he knew he'd be waiting until Sandy or Mistii (with two i's) or Colin (who was the chattiest of all of them and had a poodle he swore he had a psychic connection with) had to go get their dog groomed or their teeth whitened, and today there just wasn't the time.

Sugar held up one sparkly finger, snapping her bubblegum, and Kurt pursed his lips.

"I know, I know, it's like he doesn't even remember that I have a job! I mean, he's the one who said I didn't appreciate how good I had it. And now he's mad that I went shopping at Saks twice last week. I said listen - I work a full fifteen hours a week, daddy, and a girl needs some time to unwind - I only bought myself some shoes. Well, and a new coat. I needed them for work, everyone here had already seen most of my clothes. I don't think he understands how much they rely on me here, and really, the bill was under two grand, I don't -" She sighed loudly (maybe she'd been taking lessons from Mercedes) and turned to Kurt, who was tapping his fingers. "Excuse me, Col. Yes?"

The poodle whisperer it was.

"Messages, Sugar?"

She rolled her eyes, handed him a stack of pink slips that were sitting under her iced coffee, ring of condensation and all. "Anyway, as I was saying, Col, this gala next week, I'm going to need a new dress. I've worn everything once, and -"

"At least you got them this time," Tina offered. "Travis - from accounting, with the horrible ties? - told me he had to wait ten minutes on Thursday to ask her about coffee for a meeting." Kurt grimaced at a call from personnel that was dated the previous Tuesday. "She gave him her order, handed him a twenty, and said he could keep the change."

He rolled his eyes, made a mental note to call Carole back, even though he was pretty sure she'd called him on his cell phone after she'd left the message, and steered the three of them towards the meeting room for whatever Sue Sylvester, the rarely seen (but often heard) voice of authority had in store.

"- as most of you will already know, our former editor will be spending the next few months at Happy Oaks, recovering from his small stress-related breakdown. I'm sure we all wish him well. There is a card to sign at reception, as well as information if any of you would like to send a gift - remember, no sharp objects! From a logistical point of view, there will be several people temporar -"

"Will Schuester wouldn't know a story if it danced naked in front of him slathered in that paste he calls hair gel and singing hits by mediocre bands from the eighties."

And with that Sue officially began the meeting. The assistant editor who had been giving the progress report scuttled back to his seat as she took her place at the head of the conference table in a way not at all different from what one would expect of a Bond villain. Although a bond villain probably wouldn't buy a pantsuit in that shade of blue, or pair it with a necklace that looked like a cross between pearls and teeth.

"Greetings, small percentage of my staff that I have deemed mildly competent. I have called you here because this newspaper has spent too many months under the leadership of an impotent - and, frankly, inane - editor concerned only with appealing to the advertising market, filling the pages with meaningless celebrity puff pieces and a deathly boring series of features chronicling the return of the sweater-vest. That is not journalism, nor is it interesting, and I did not spend my hard-earned blackmail money on a newspaper to watch it sink to the level of mundane trash. I want feature stories, investigative or not, filled with actual content and.."

Kurt drifted off as Sue went on about her vision, unable to avoid watching Tina making eyes at Mike through the plate glass wall of the conference room (licking the pencil? Really?). Schuester's departure after two months at the paper had been a shock to no-one, and there wasn't anyone who had been especially sorry to see him go, even if the simultaneous loss of the slightly obsessive redheaded secretary in Human Resources was, according to Mercedes, a great one. And as Sue was rhapsodizing about bringing people down, underage drinking and the lamentable state of the public education system (as demonstrated by her neighbors and their teenage hoodlums), he was trying to restructure his pitch for his article - an expose of a local businessman who, although he didn't have the sources to prove it yet, looked to be skimming from the LGBT shelter he ran - and steadfastly ignore Tina sucking on her pencil with her chair angled towards the hallway where her boyfriend was waiting.

"And so I've decided to send someone in. Someone still babyfaced enough to pass for a teenager, and clueless-looking enough not to draw attention. You. Porcelain."

It took Kurt a few seconds to realize that everyone in the room was looking at him. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, you'll do nicely. You start Monday. You'll enroll in a local public high school, find me the dirty secrets, where and how much alcohol they actually get their hands on. The administration will be able to pretend it was their idea all along, and this paper will finally print something of value."

"What?" He wasn't proud of the squawk. "Me?"

Sylvester eyed him over her glasses frames. "Oh, you'll fit in nicely."

"But," someone said, "he's just a copy-editor." Kurt was pretty sure it comes from the features corner of the room and he sent an appropriately crafted glare in that direction.

Sue appeared either unaware or unconcerned that anyone had spoken. "Alright, shoo. Porcelain, someone will be working this whole thing out with administration. Monday."

The room emptied quickly after Sue swept out, until finally he, Tina and Mercedes were the only three left.

Undercover. He couldn't even mind the nickname (he'd always been proud of his skin), because he was going to goundercover.

"Did I just become a reporter?" he asked the room at large, just to be sure.

"You got an assignment from Sue Sylvester!" Tina sounded happy, if a little surprised. "I'm guessing that if this goes well then you sure as hell will be."

"I have to call my dad." He reached for his phone, but Mercedes' face stopped him. "What is it?"

Her smile was strained. "It's just... you're going back to high school." She let out a breath of air, her lacquered nails fiddling with her necklace. "Honey, better you than me."

And then it hit him, beyond the rush of oh, god, I got the job, I'm a reporter and I get to write. He was going back to high school.

His stomach knotted, and all of a sudden his pale blue cravat seemed a little stifling. "Shit."

"I met Mike in high school," Tina smiled into her sandwich. "He was the best part."

"You guys have been together for a long time." He knew that; he'd been at their anniversary party last summer and it had been so lovely, watching them still so clearly in love. There had also been an ache, though, wondering if he'd ever have that - someone who looked at him like he was everything they'd ever wanted or needed, something precious. "High school romance that lasts." He found it a little difficult to look her in the eye, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of what could come from this; what he could do if he was given the chance to be an actual investigative journalist.

"They can be fun even when they don't last," Mercedes smirked, spearing a carrot with her fork. "If you do it right."

"Making out in the backseat of their car -" Tina reminisced fondly, earning an interested glance from a nearby waiter.

"- or the front seat in your parents' driveway."

"Racing to get back before curfew -"

"Wearing a scarf in June to cover your neck..."

"Or your chest."

"Really? Tee, you go girl."

She turned to Kurt. "How about you?" she asked. "Any salacious high school romances?"

He carefully swallowed his bit of pasta. "I went to high school in Ohio," he reminded them. "Not exactly a hotbed of support for out and proud teens."

She looked immediately contrite, a little uncomfortable. "Right, sorry... I'll bet you broke some hearts once you got to college, though. Strewn all over the city."

He shrugged, took a sip of his drink. "No one important. You and Mike, on the other hand -"

"Oh, come on. Just one story. Sneaking out of bed after a night of fun? Let me live vicariously through you, I've told you most of mine."

"Mostly when I didn't ask. There's been no one special," he added emphatically, "it's just never been right."

Mercedes waggled an eyebrow and leaned in conspiratorially. "Sometimes wrong can be a lot of fun too."

He gave her a small smile. "To each their own. I want to find it, though."

"Love?"

"Maybe. Yes, obviously, eventually." He took a breath. "But... someone that matters - that I matter to. You know? Someone that... when I kiss them, or they kiss me, it feels like nothing else matters. That I'm what they want. All of me. And it won't matter what I've done or haven't done, it'll just matter who I am. Him and me... Everything else will melt away."

There was a pause.

"Damn," said Mercedes, pouring herself another glass of wine from the bottle. "You are a writer." There was a short pause while she took a sip. "But, I mean... don't we all?"

Tina looked a little teary, but she put her hand on his arm. "You'll find it," she promised. "And it'll be worth it when you do."

"And in the meantime there's always that bartender at Tara's," Mercedes added, but she nudged him playfully to belie her seriousness.

Tina held up her glass. "To love and friendship," she proposed, beginning to get a little giggly. "In every form that matters, whenever it chooses to come."

As they clinked glasses, and the girls started talking about what he'd need to start school the next week, Kurt couldn't help but hope that, in his case, it would be sooner rather than later.

He tried not to lie about it, but he'd realized over the years that the truth was more complex than just a no, not really everyone's business, and there was a tendency for people to make a big deal out of it. As though being kissed initiated you into some club that non-members could only dream of. Like you could only understand people, humanity as a construct, if you'd had someone's tongue (or other things) down your throat.

The fact was that high school had been a wasteland, a hostile environment that he'd finally accepted as just a stepping stone, something he needed to survive to get to where he wanted to be. It wasn't until college that he'd found his stride, felt comfortable with being himself in public, met people who inspired him and formed friendships that had roots deep enough that they'd last. He was still in touch with a couple of people from high school, a select few, but his college friends - and the friends he'd made since - were the ones who had become a huge and lasting part of his life. They, along with his family, were what he felt had slotted into place since those days in the West Lima High halls where he'd just been hoping to get by, even though he'd always known he was lucky to have a father who would fight for him at every turn.

But that had driven him in college, the desire to be everything he could now that he was finally in his element, and the romance he'd always wanted had never come. There were guys, ones he'd idly daydreamed about, who mentally fit into his fantasy wedding (which continued to evolve significantly from his five-year old self's incarnation) - the most notable in his junior year of college, a guy in his voice class with a really nice smile - but he'd either been too wary, too awkward, or too focused on keeping his grades up, on his future for anything to come of them.

He was twenty-five years old and he'd never been kissed. Because the timing had never been right, because the guy hadn't been right, whatever the reason at whatever the time, whenever he felt uncomfortable about it he remembered what his father had told him when he went off to college: he mattered.

The whole waiting-until-his-thirtieth-birthday thing might prove to be more prophetic than intended - it wasn't like he was planning on waiting for a ring or anything, but he'd always thought something would have worked out by now.

But with a steady job, hopefully working his way into the career he truly wanted, with his college degree and wonderful (if meddlesome) friends, he couldn't help but feel the lack of that - not just a kiss, or someone in his bed, but someone to share everything with. 'That thing'... for lack of a better term.

He wasn't ashamed of it, because it wasn't something to be ashamed of. He just didn't talk about it if he could help it. Like everyone, he had bad days, of course, where he was convinced he'd never find anyone - days when he ordered two cheesecakes and turned on a television marathon about someone more screwed up than him. Days when he was this close to going out to a bar and getting it over with; he knew he wasn't unattractive. He had the power to make it happen. Days where he blamed his hips, his hair, his insecurity and fear... but ultimately he always ctame back to knowing that it had never been right.

He just hoped it would be someday.

In the meantime his expectations for his first kiss were rising higher and higher (except for the days when he wanted to get it over with), so at this point it looked like he'd be holding out for not only fireworks, but also ten dozen roses and possibly a carriage driven by unicorns.

Standards were important.

He'd know what he wanted when he found it, when it was worth it, and in the meantime he had a job to do. He had a chance to be a real reporter, and it depended on him being able to pass for eighteen years old all over again.

Luckily, he thought he knew where to start.

"Why can't you take your car?"

He sighed - slightly dramatically, and Mercedes could have taken some lessons on appropriate levels of ennui - and nearly upset a display of hawaiian print packing tape. "I told you. My car won't fit in. I need something that looks cheap - I mean, that looks well loved. Your car is perfect."

Finn looked up from the boxes he was restocking. "Your car isn't that new. Why do you even still have one, anyway?"

"Yeah, now the offices have moved to Manhattan it isn't practical, but I know someone who'll buy it - anyway, it's newer than -" He shook his head a little. Now is not the time. "Listen, I just need it for a few weeks -"

"For this job thing?"

"Right. And then you can have it right back... I'll owe you."

Finn settled into that confused smile that used to make Kurt want to strangle him. It still sometimes retained that effect. "And you have to pretend to go to high school."

"No, Finn, I have to actually go to high school, I just have to pretend like I haven't done it before." Finn didn't seem convinced. "I start Monday."

He walked back behind the counter and started sorting a pile of envelopes. "But... you hated high school."

"I didn't hate school."

"Yeah, you kinda did. You hated everyone there."

"Well, they were cretins," he sniffed. "With a few exceptions."

"Do Mom and Burt know?"

"They aren't back in Ohio yet and you know it. So no."

Finn raised a very annoying eyebrow. "You could call them at their hotel. Or on one of their cell phones, they said they'd check their messages."

"I don't want them to worry." He uncrossed his arms huffily. "Anyway, that's not the point. This is my chance to actuallyreport a story, Finn."

He held up his hands. "Hey, I'm happy for you and all, I just wouldn't think you'd want to do that again when you were so glad to get out."

Sometimes, clueless as he could be, Finn had a knack for hitting the nail on the head. That struck a nerve, and without really thinking about it Kurt shifted the subject. "You could still go back, you know. Take your last few credits, get your G.E.D."

As a diversionary tactic, it wasn't exactly subtle, but Finn didn't fight it. He just rolled a shoulder, dislodging the garish blue flowers that circled around his neck. "I think it's too late for that now, dude."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You're twenty-one, Finn. I know that getting sick derailed a lot of your plans -" and not getting picked up by that scout, he added mentally, but would never say out loud - "but you're so close, and once you did that -"

"What's the point?" He'd moved across the floor to grab some wrapping paper off a high shelf, and when he turned around he had that look on his face, the one Kurt recognized as not confusion, but frustration. He'd had it all in high school, Kurt knew, even if by that time he'd already left for New York, and after he'd gotten severe pneumonia during his senior year it had seemed like his world was ending. In a way, it had. "I can't play football anymore, and I never wanted to go to college." He thought for a moment. "I'm not you, Kurt. I was never going to go get a degree in english, or musical theater, or both, become some star journalist. I told Mom and Burt when I decided to move out here... I just need to do this for a while. I'm not in high school anymore." He gestured around to the store, laughed a little awkwardly, with more bitterness than Kurt expected from him. "At the moment... this is my life."

Kurt paused, deliberating the twenty or so things he wanted to say to that. They ranged from cruel and biting to...

"I want you to be happy, Finn."

And that was a smile, albeit a strained one. "You too, bro. It's all good."

"Aloha! Welcome to the Tikkipost, where packing is our pleasure and our customers are always right! A free lei for every customer!"

"Relax, Stu," Finn told his manager, who had just come out of the back room and settled purple flowers around Kurt's neck. "It's just my brother."

"Oh." The lei disappeared, and Stu soon followed. "Make sure you pack up Mrs. Simmons' wine glasses before your break. I gotta call Renee, trouble with the kids."

"Yeah, sure." Finn dug into his pocket. "So, you really need Drizzle?"

His lips twitched into a small smile, and he tried not to laugh. "I really do."

Finn's eyebrows furrowed. "What am I going to drive?"

He paused. "You... can drive my car. As long as you're careful."

He dropped the keys into Kurt's hand. "Dude, awesome. Your stereo is way better."

"Your stereo hasn't worked for about two years." He handed his keys over gingerly. "Please don't get ketchup all over my car seats."

Five minutes later he was driving 'Drizzle' out of the Tikkipost parking lot, making his way out of Brooklyn and really hoping that Finn had tuned up the engine recently, otherwise he was going to have to do it himself.

At least he might look like he was on a high school budget now. If he was going to have to commute - at least the school was in Brooklyn, he wouldn't have to drive far - then he'd look the part.

Oh, god, he still had to decide what to wear.

Kurt sort of wondered, walking into McKinley High for the first time, if maybe there was one person who had designed every high school in the country from a single blueprint, because the halls of McKinley High seemed eerily similar to his own memories of West Lima. He'd finished his growth spurt by graduation, so there wasn't really a noticeable difference in scale, but the long hallways with their shiny lockers - scrubbed clean over the weekend - set that uncomfortable knot back in his stomach.

He'd spent a lot of time considering his outfit, and he finally thought he'd achieved the perfect balance: stylish without standing out too much (he was undercover, after all), casual enough for his teenage self but classy and enough to say "why yes, I know my color palette, why don't you?"

He fiddled a little with the chain on his brooch and hoped to god there was no slushie machine at this school.

He'd managed to find a parking spot fairly close, and so by the time he'd gotten his schedule from the guidance counselor - who had dropped him a wink, so he was pretty sure she either had terrible gaydar or was part of the circle of admin who had been consulted - the halls were beginning to fill, cliques gathering in their appointed places.

Yeah, he was back in high school.

It took him several minutes of wandering to find the main office again, several science classrooms, and restrooms. His locker, however, remained a mystery. He was pretty sure it couldn't exist - any number after 350 and below 375 seemed to be outside the school's purview - until a chance ducking around a corner to avoid a flying football (he'd stiffened, but the letterman jacket had passed right by, yelling to his friend) revealed a whole other hall. It was just as chattery, and in all ways identical to the others but for the locker numbers, which were promising.

Locker number 378, however, proved very difficult to open; a couple seemed to have chosen it as the perfect site for their morning greeting, and they looked to be well on their way to a cheery morning second base. His quiet "ahem" did nothing, and neither did the next. Before he could convince himself to work up to anything stronger the first bell was ringing and he was on his way to Pre-Calculus, the only math class that had been available, at least according to Sugar.

Sugar had, for better or worse, been the one trusted to set his schedule, and while he'd drawn the line at Spanish III (he couldn't even count to ten, for god's sake), he was stuck with Pre-Calculus - in spite of the fact that he hadn't taken a math class since his freshman year of college, and even then it remained the only B in his entire academic history. At least he had English before lunch, a subject he was fairly certain he could comfortably coast in for however long he needed to. What could some stuffy high school English teacher have to say that would go over the head of a professional copy-editor with a degree in literature from one of the country's finest universities?

He just hoped they weren't reading Lord of the Flies. He hated Lord of the Flies.

Math was as awful as anticipated (he didn't have to do all the homework, right? Just enough to blend in. Oh, who was he kidding...) and, as the icing on the cake, he got lost on the way to French. When he walked in ten minutes late he handed the teacher the note the main office had given him - just in case - and she whistled to get the attention of the chattering students, who were taking the opportunity to catch up on their latest teenage drama.

"Silence, s'il vous plaît!" She turned back to him. "Kurt, voulez-vous vous présenter á la classe?"

He smiled. "Oui, madame. Est-ce que vous préférez de moi parler en anglais ou en français?"

She blinked at him. "Ah, vous pouvez parler en..." She shushed a guy in the back row who seemed to be inching his desk closer to the blonde cheerleader next to him and appeared to recover. "Je pense que l'anglais c'est la choix la plus sûre." She gestured to the front of the room and he took a deep breath.

"Hi, I'm Kurt Hummel," he waved. "I'm new," he heard a giggle from the back of the classroom and made himself stand up straighter. He was a professional, he worked with actual adults all the time, why was it that talking to a room full of high schoolers was making his palms sweat? His story, right, they'd decided to keep it simple. "I'm eighteen, from Ohio-"

"Buckeyes suck!" someone contributed from the back, and he vaguely heard the teacher snap at them to show some respect for their peers.

"We moved, though, for my dad's job, so that's why I'm switching schools so late in the year."

They weren't paying attention; Kurt was pretty sure about seventy percent of them were still playing Angry Birds, but at least there didn't seem to be anyone mortally offended by his voice or clothes, and that was a start. A vast improvement on his last high school experience. And it was probably better that they didn't think too hard about his cover story, because as far as Kurt was concerned it lacked a large amount of credibility.

He moved to sit down, but the teacher cleared her throat. "One more thing, Mr. Hummel."

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid that in this class, tardiness has a price." She pulled out a tall hat shaped like the Eiffel tower.

"But... I'm new," he tried, eyeing it with horror.

"And after five minutes in this hat you'll never be late again."

A few people shot him sympathetic looks, and there was an olé! from the back of the room that made him inclined to agree with Sue's assessment of the public education system .

He took out his notebook, settled into an empty seat, and noticed that they were still working on future conjugation of irregular verbs.

At least he probably wouldn't flunk out, even if his plus-que-parfait was a little rusty.

He was almost late to English too - Madame Nolan pulled him aside after class to give him the syllabus, and she also complimented his vocabulary. He started to explain the semester of his junior year that he'd spent in Paris, but managed to alter course and mumble something about spending a summer there as a child and picking it up (the lie sounded and felt awkward, even though it wasn't even his first of the day, and he was undercover for god's sake, what was he supposed to do? Stay silent? Teenagers mumbled, right?).

The English classroom was larger than he expected, with a piano in the corner that hinted it probably also doubled as a music room. Students were scattered; the second bell hadn't rung yet and the seat-shifting-Buckeye-hater, mohawk still as rodent-looking as earlier, had moved on to a brunette cheerleader, although this one seemed to be immune to his dubious charms. Someone was fiddling around on the piano (Vivaldi, he thought, not bad, really), and so Kurt took him time selecting a seat in the first row, next to a girl in an unfortunate sweater who was intently scribbling in her notebook.

He brightened at the chalkboard's announcement that they'd be discussing the central themes of As You Like It, an unusual choice for assigned reading; if he was going to have to sit through lectures on iambic pentameter and blank verse, at least it was a play he liked. And yeah, in Lima the closest they'd gotten to studying the beautiful language of Shakespeare had been a football player and a cheerleader guffawing and giggling their way through the balcony scene until the teacher finally put them all out of their misery and started the movie, but...

Even a boring lecture would be better than Mrs. Rawlins' post-divorce (and plaid-clad) tirades on the diminishing returns of what people had misguidedly thought was true love. West Lima High School was not known for its professionalism. His Shakespeare Class at NYU, however, although at 8am, had been excellent, and he'd discovered levels of meaning in the language that he found intoxicating. That class had been one of the things that pushed him towards adding his English major, and so it had taken rather a significant role in his career choices, his life after graduation.

The bell prompted most of the students to settle into their desks, and by the time Kurt flicked his eyes up from his cell phone (Mercedes and Tina kept asking for updates, did they not understand the meaning of undercover?) the teacher was clearing his throat, leaning against the desk.

And he didn't look in the least boring.

He was already smiling at the class, young-looking, he couldn't be that much older than Kurt himself. Kurt couldn't help but notice the nicely shaped arms braced on the desk behind him, and he really couldn't stop his eyes making the full trip up and down, from his smile and slightly crooked bowtie (pale blue, Kurt approved) to his shoes and then back.

"Hi, everyone." He rubbed his hands together with slight glee. "So, I have no doubt that every single one of you did the reading for last night, and so you won't mind if I give you all your test today -"

There was an outbreak of groans and, if anything, his grin only widened as he held up a hand.

" - I'm not, but consider it a warning. Do your reading. Give me something to work with, here. How am I supposed to pick your guys' brains if they're busy wondering what the h- heck I'm talking about?"

Several girls behind him tittered, and his eyes fell on Kurt in the first row.

"Well, we seem to have someone new in our midst. And you are?"

His spine seemed to straighten of its own accord. "I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel. I'm new."

"Well, Kurt, Kurt Hummel. I'm Blaine Anderson. Mr. Anderson, usually, to keep things formal, but the drama club, choir and jazz band all call me Blaine, as long as everyone's comfortable. Welcome."

"Thank you."

"Buckeyes suck!"

Blaine sighed heavily, his eyes drifting closed momentarily. "Noah, if only you were half as passionate about Shakespeare as you are about supporting the wrong football teams."

The guy with the mohawk leaned back in his seat. "Hey, come on Mr. A. -"

His lips twitched, and Kurt found himself missing just a little that smile directed at him. "We're not starting this again, and especially not during class-time. Don't trash my team and I won't trash yours."

"The new kid's from Ohio too."

He looked up from his desk. "Really." His eyes flicked back to Kurt, who nodded. "Well, it's nice to finally have some class in here." He picked up a book on the table. "So, on to business, who has thoughts on As You Like It?"

The hand of the girl in the sequined sweater shot up immediately, and Kurt settled back into his seat, kept his eyes deliberately on his paper. He knew his cheeks must still be that awful shade of pink; he hated that his embarrassment or nervousness was always so obvious. He was twenty five years old, for god's sake. Seeing a cute guy was not the end of the world.

Being back in high school was really messing with his perspective.