#if he enjoys school cafeteria tater tots and eats school lunch out of his own volition (esp USA school lunch. esp SPRINGFIELD ELE. LUNCH)

[flowerbloom-arts]

I’m guessing this might be the case; but for you think Skinner would express his love for Chalmers through cooking? What kinds of dishes do you think he would make? (Honestly I just want a reason/excuse to ask for cute chalmskinn art.)

I think if Seymour had the resources he'd make all the fancy foods he wanted to make for years, especially for Gary.

(Also you don't need an excuse to get ChalmSkinn art out of me, I'll do anything for them,,)

[hepaidattention]

denial

part 5

where Allison never died in s3 and Lydia and Stiles are going strong in the flirting game but still stubborn, so Allison decides to set them up (with Scott’s help of course).

read part one, two, three and four here 

Scott was shaking his head, his arms propped up on the lunch table with hands intertwined and placed in front of his chin. “I don’t know...” he looked deeply concerned, like he didn’t trust any plan that didn’t come from the mouth of Stiles. “Are you sure, Allison? ‘Cause it seems...”

“Genius? Brilliant?” she smirked, plopping a tater tot in her mouth with sass. 

“I was going to say messy.”

“Scott, relax. It’s going to work.” Allison was sure it would. Lydia was the most jealous person she knew - there’s no way this wouldn’t. 

Before Scott could voice more of his doubts, Lydia dropped into her chair with a huff. “God, I despise this school’s feeble attempt of a sustainable meal. I knew I should have packed my own.” Lydia grumbled. Neither Scott nor Allison answered though. They were just looking at her. Lydia felt uncomfortable under their insinuating stares so she looked over her shoulder, then over Scott’s head for a distraction. “Where’s Stiles?”

Allison was eating tater tots with a face that was purely devious. “Don’t know, haven’t seen him since class. Got any plans?”

Lydia’s head dragged back to meet Allison’s treacherous gaze. “No, I was just going to ask him how his test went.”

“Right, right,” Allison spun her fork between her fingers, the tot sitting on the ends of the four prongs. “What was his test on again?”

Lydia’s cheek smashed into her fist as her other hand used her fork to pick at the questionable food on her plate. “Uh, I think it was A&P,”

“Oh, well that’s great, Lydia - you know plenty about that subject, right?” Allison had a teasing tone, but even Scott found it slightly cruel. They could both tell where she was going with it. Lydia kicked her from under the table in, but Allison continued with, “Maybe you could help him study next time, you know, give him a few anatomy lessons of your own.”

Lydia threw a tater at her head. Allison dodged it. Lydia looked at Scott and he was avoiding all eye contact, so she knew that meant he knew now. If he didn’t, he’d just be looking at them like a deer in the headlights. “You told him?” Lydia hissed across the table.

Allison shook her head, trying everything not to laugh. “No, I promise I didn’t.”

“I- I sorta already knew,” Scott awkwardly scratched his chin, his voice timid and sweet. “Stiles told me, you know, when it happened.”

Lydia was trying not to shrink into her seat and cower. “You’re evil.” Lydia told the grinning Allison. 

She shrugged, her eyebrows dancing as she ate the tater tot from her fork. “You know, you’re right, Lyds. I am being unfair. Obviously you’re just friends with Stiles, and I realized - I just want to see Stiles happy. I mean, don’t we all? He’s had a such rough year, and I think he deserves some happiness - so me and Scott think we should try to set him up with someone.” 

Lydia’s face fell, her eyes unblinking. “You... want to set up Stiles...Stilinski?”

“Yup, kind of the only Stiles we know,” she nodded enthusiastically. “At first I clearly had you in mind, but once you said how you’d be happy to see him with someone else I realized you really were just friends and I’m not going to push something that’s not meant to be. Now, now I’m thinking about Ginny Green. She looked really into him, and I mean she’s super sweet.”

“And hot,” Scott meekly added, still feeling morally wrong in this plan. Also morally wrong in subjecting people, so he added, “But more importantly, she’s sweet.”

“Yes, so true,” Allison gestured towards Scott and dramatically dropped her arms to the table. “So hot. What do you think, Lydia? I mean, obviously you know Stiles way better than I do, so we really need your help in this whole thing.”

Lydia pursed her lips, her cheek still resting on her fist like she was bored with this conversation. “I think you’re full of bullshit.”

Allison scrunched up her nose, her eyes squinting with it. “Tell that to Ginny Green.” She pointed behind her. 

Lydia whipped around, seeing Ginny making her way to the table with a tray of food. Lydia looked back at Allison in horror. “You didn’t.”

Allison was waving at her, her face appearing innocent and friendly. However, the look Allison gave Lydia was nothing but conniving and wicked. “Why? Do you think someone else would be a better fit?”

Lydia gave up on Allison. She looked at Scott for help, but he just ducked his head and pretended he had been eating this whole time. Ginny sat down beside Allison, and Lydia wanted to punch her right of her seat. God, Lydia hated Ginny Green. No, it wasn’t because she liked Stiles either. Ginny Green had been more of a bitch than Lydia herself since 2nd grade. Everyone knew her as sweet Ginny but Lydia could smell a bitch a mile away. It was always the bitches who pretended to be nice that made her skin crawl. At least own up to it, god. 

“Hey everyone,” Ginny gave a sickly sweet smile that made Lydia was to puke. 

“Hey Ginny,” Scott was genuine, it hurt Lydia’s heart just how genuine and nice that boy was. 

Ginny grinned and looked at Lydia. “Hey Lydia,” The stink eye she gave her, with the pursed lips and carping glare she bestowed, it was enough for Lydia to just leave the table. However, Stiles just then flopped in his chair beside her before she could make a move to leave. Now she couldn’t leave, then Allison would be proving her point, as well as trying to set up loyal, unwavering-love Stiles with the Wicked Witch of the East. Stiles was not about to become one of her flying monkeys - not if she had anything to do with it.  

“Hey,” he said just to her. It was quiet and warm, and he meant it for Lydia and Lydia alone as he smiled at her with her golden honey eyes. 

“Hey back,” she felt her nerves calm some. Stiles said hi to everyone else at the table, but mostly to the new guest. He was enthused to speak to someone new, so engrossed into a conversation about things that weren’t supernatural for once, that Stiles failed to notice the not very subtle hints of flirting Ginny kept offering to him. Stiles never reciprocated, he was too oblivious for it. But he never once stopped talking - Ginny knew all the right questions to ask. Almost as if someone, and by someone she meant Scott and Allison, had given her a Stiles 101 guide book beforehand. 

At one point, Lydia wasn’t entirely sure when, Kira and Isaac joined the table. Kira and Scott were quiet and she thinks flirting, its hard to tell with them. They’re both so awkward sometimes. Isaac didn’t say much, he just listened to Ginny and Stiles blab while he held Allison’s hand under the table. 

Lydia had said nothing, not even once. She didn’t want to interrupt, Stiles clearly was enjoying himself, but she also was very quiet due to her growing hate for Ginny Green. Not to mention a new found hate for a certain Allison Argent’s antics. Not Allison herself, she could never, but her devotion to making her life a living hell was becoming a new found loathing for her. 

Much to her surprise, when the conversation transferred from Ginny and Stiles to Ginny and Kira for a moment, Lydia felt a hand reach in her lab and grab her hand. Lydia looked down, Stiles’ fingers entangling with hers. She looked up to meet his eyes, wondering what on earth he was doing, when she realized he was silently asking her if she was okay. There was a flutter in her chest, squeezing his hand and forcing a smile up at him. That seemed to satisfy Stiles, but he didn’t let go of her hand. They were holding hands under the table, and she didn’t want to let go. The thing was, it was obvious, too. The way Stiles’ arm had to angle, anyone at the table who had eyes could tell his hand was in her lap. Lydia wasn’t sure if maybe she too was a little evil, because she couldn’t make herself let go, despite the gaze of Ginny Green looking between them with a flicker of sadness and disappointment in her eyes. Stiles was clueless too, using his free hand to eat his lunch as he continued to talk about whatever their conversation had headed to now. 

His hand stayed there for a couple minutes, Lydia appreciating his tender concern and the feel of his hand in hers too much to make them separate. It wasn’t until Lydia felt like she was being stared at that her grasp loosened. She looked over at Allison (across from her), and Scott (who sat at the end), both watching them with smug expressions. This immediately made Lydia snap her hand away from his and suddenly stand up at the lunch table, excusing herself abruptly. 

Allison was happy with the outcome, but Scott was not. Scott looked guilty, Stiles looked confused, Ginny looked pleased, and Isaac and Kira just shrugged it off as moody Lydia. 

“... You know what I mean?” Ginny said, talking to Stiles. His mind, however, was a little preoccupied with watching Lydia storm out of the cafeteria. “Stiles?” Ginny questioned, but everyone knew that he was a goner. A few seconds later he got up, without excuse, and followed Lydia's trail.

Ginny looked insulted. “What’s their deal?” 

“They’re like in love or something,” Isaac informed, before anyone else could interject. Once everyone made it blatantly obvious that was the wrong answer, Isaac tried to laugh it off with a, “Uh, hell, like I know, right? Ha, they’re uh... I’m sure they’ll be right back.”

The table went silent. Ginny, without another word, stood up and left the table (leaving her untouched food for them to deal with). 

Scott let out a chest rattling sigh. “Are you happy now?” he said to Allison, his face in the palm of his hands.

“Yes, perfectly.” Allison shimmied her shoulders and popped another tater tot in her mouth in enjoyment of her success. “It’s all going just as I planned.”

-

read part 6 here

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “Not in Service” (Rated PG)

After years of pining over the most popular boy in McKinley - Kurt Hummel, nerd boy Blaine Anderson manages to get Kurt's cell phone number ... the day before Kurt loses his phone and decides to buy a new one. Blaine decides to use this as an opportunity to confess every feeling he's ever had for Kurt, how much he admires him, how much he's wanted to ask him out, for once and for all in the safest way possible ...

... because there's no chance anyone is ever going to see those messages ... right? (3654 words)

Notes: Okay, so I had been writing this alongside another one-shot I wrote for K*urtbastian (Dead Air), but I liked the other one better. But seeing as I had put so much work into this one, I've decided to post it. If you've read the other, you'll see that this one is entirely different. Let me know which one you like better <3

Warning for mention of bullying. Head Cheerio Kurt, nerd Blaine.

Read on AO3.

“Oh, give me a break!” Kurt exclaims out of nowhere, cutting short the conversation he’d been leading about the upcoming Regionals, and McKinley High’s chances of grabbing the gold.

Which is of course, obviously.

He starts rifling through his book bag like his life depends on it, then searching the pockets of his letterman jacket – first patting them down, then shoving his hands deep in as if expecting them to open up, revealing storage areas previously unknown.

“What’s wrong now?” Mercedes groans, looking up from her lunch - tater tots and celery sticks, her own personal compromise. She’s trying to slim down, but she refuses to spend the rest of her life eating like a rabbit to get there. Though, at present, the number of tater tots on her plate are dwindling while the celery sticks seem to be multiplying.

“My stupid phone!” Kurt huffs, searching his bag a second time, removing its contents piece by piece to be sure he’s covered his bases. “I’ve lost it … again! What does this make?”

The third time this week, Blaine thinks.

“I think this makes the third time this week,” Mercedes offers.

Blaine, pretending to appear deeply enthralled by his Calculus textbook, bites his lower lip and smiles, choosing to overlook how stalker-ish it is that he knows that.

“Well, you know what this means …” Kurt tosses down his bag in frustration, then re-thinks that and rescues it from the filthy ground.

“That you’re not responsible enough to own a phone?” Santana supplies. Kurt and Mercedes (and from his far corner of the cafeteria – Blaine) glare.

“Thank you, Satan,” Kurt snaps.

“Why don’t you trade up to an iPhone?” Mercedes stabs a celery stick with her fork, then changes her mind and spears another tot. “You’ve only wanted one forever.”

“Because losing a $500 phone would be less devastating than losing that crappy $100 one?” Santana says. She puts her hands up in defense as another round of glares heads her way. “Hey! I’m just sayin’.”

“I did want one until I found out that I won’t be able to keep my old number for some stupid reason,” Kurt explains, choosing to ignore negative comments from the peanut gallery. “That’s going to be a hassle.”

“But it’s worth it,” Mercedes sings, flashing her own iPhone with its shiny gold cover, knowing how much Kurt’s been coveting it.

“I don’t think I have it in my budget to buy a new phone,” Kurt argues, gathering up his things and getting ready to let Mercedes persuade him to buy one anyway.

“Nonsense. They’re on sale. And you know how much you love shopping for stuff on sale.”

“True, true.”

“Plus, it’ll give us an excuse to skip next period.”

“Cedes!” Kurt hisses, winding his arm inside hers as they hurry out of the cafeteria, huddled close together as if that will make what they’re doing less conspicuous. “You’re so bad!”

“Yes, but you love me anyway.”

“I do.”

Blaine peeks over the edge of his book and watches the friends leave. They get swallowed by the mob of students loitering outside the cafeteria doors, and then poof. They’re gone. Blaine sighs. Welp, there goes his master plan. That would be just his luck, Kurt losing his phone the day after Blaine managed to get his number. Kurt didn’t give it to him. Blaine paid Noah Puckerman, the boy with the stickiest fingers in McKinley, $20 to swipe the number for him. To be fair, Blaine doesn’t know if what he has is Kurt’s real number, or if he’d been swindled out of twenty bucks.

But he’d been optimistic.

Blaine didn’t have a plan past getting the number. In fact, he had no idea what he was going to do with Kurt’s number (provided it was his). But now, he doesn’t even have a chance.

Not like he had any before. What did Blaine think – Head Cheerio and most popular boy in school Kurt Hummel was going to date nerd boy Blaine Anderson simply because he managed to get Kurt’s number? Kurt probably wouldn’t give Blaine the time of day once he found out because how creepy is that? Paying some lowlife to get a hold of your phone number? And Kurt would be right. Kurt’s number was unlisted in the student directory for a reason.

And that reason probably looked a lot like Blaine.

Blaine takes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up Kurt’s number. Just seeing it there, with Kurt’s name at the top, makes his heart flutter. He imagines what it would be like if he had permission to have it. If Kurt had given it to him for real and he hadn’t spent his allowance on it. If the two of them were friends …

… or boyfriends.

But with Kurt’s phone gone, Blaine has to start over from scratch. Maybe this is a lesson well learned. Maybe he should just grow a pair, go up to Kurt, and say hi, tell him how handsome he is, how talented, how long he’s admired him from afar ...

Yeah, right. Blaine might also sprout a pair of wings and start circling Kurt’s house at night like a giant bat.

That conversation would earn Blaine a permanent spot in the dumpster out behind the cafeteria – the one the lunch ladies toss the expired coleslaw and uneaten seafood salad in – after the football team finds out.

According to Brett Bukowski, that smell never comes out.

And it wouldn’t matter one lick to Kurt because Kurt has no clue who Blaine is anyway. Not that Kurt abides by bullying. He absolutely doesn’t. In fact, it’s been Kurt’s personal mission to abolish bullying ay McKinley High School once and for all. But Blaine would have to be on Kurt’s radar in order for him to care.

And Blaine isn’t.

Blaine has been sitting behind Kurt in nearly every one of his classes for the past three years. They even went to elementary school together. It was only for a few months when they were eight years old. They sat next to each other in class, and at the same table at lunch. Kurt even helped Blaine straighten his bowtie once. But at some point in the middle of the year, Kurt’s mother passed away, and his father sent him to a private school. Kurt looked different back then, but Blaine recognized him right away, the first moment he saw him.

Kurt doesn’t seem to remember.

Kurt has said hi and bye in passing, but only ever speaks to Blaine to ask him to pass notes to Mercedes. He doesn’t know why he thought getting Kurt’s number would change anything, but at the time it seemed like an inspired idea.

A stroke of genius.

With the depth of his own pathos sinking inside his stomach, he gives composing a text to Kurt a try, just to see what it feels like.

To: Kurt

Hey, Kurt! How have you been? I just wanted to tell you your hair looks really nice today. See you in class J

Blaine smiles. It’s such a simple message, the kind two friends would definitely send to one another. But he’d never have the courage. Because they’re not friends, and probably never will be.

Blaine’s smile fades as he exits out of his messaging app and puts his phone in his book bag. He packs his belongings and makes his way to the library before the end-of-lunch bell rings. He doesn’t enjoy picking his way through the crowd that floods the hallways after lunch. Too often he gets bumped or locker checked, and not even by people picking on him. Sometimes just by accident.

Because he’s small, and insignificant, and easy to overlook.

It doesn’t have to be this way, though. By rights, he’s done with high school. He finished the last of his required courses the end of junior year, and is actually a sophomore at Lima Community College. Being a year ahead in his classes meant two things for Blaine – either graduating a semester early and taking advantage of his early acceptance to Harvard, or filling that time with the extracurricular, throw-away classes he didn’t get the opportunity to take.

He opted for the latter.

Ironically, he didn’t want to grow up just yet.

Most of his high school career has been abysmal, that’s true. He’d been tossed in dumpsters more times than he wanted to remember, stuffed in one particular locker so many times the door had been removed by the janitor permanently. Blaine only had a few months to fix that, to do something, anything, that would erase the pain and misery of those first three years.

Maybe that’s why getting Kurt’s number was so important to him.

He cringes. Just thinking that, he feels like the lazily written protagonist in a late 80s rom-com, the kind you look back on 30 years later and realize how fundamentally flawed it truly was.

How much you should have been rooting for anyone but the “hero”.

He gets to the library five minutes before the bell. He sets his things down at the tutoring desk (tucked in a far, secluded corner) and takes out his phone, figuring he’ll scroll through his Instagram feed before the first student shows up.

But the notification that pops up before Instagram opens makes his heart stop.

Message sent.

“What?” Blaine mutters, re-opening his messaging app and checking his sent message log. His stopped heart dislodges from its place inside his ribcage and drops to his knees as he sees the first message on the screen – his message to Kurt. “No … no!” Blaine checks Google to see if there’s any way to stop the message from being sent, desperate to get it back, but it’s too late. The message is gone, on its way to who knows where. If that wasn’t Kurt’s number, well, no harm no foul. But if it was …

… that phone’s lost anyway, isn’t it? Kurt will have a new phone by the end of the school day and, from the sounds of it, a new phone number. So, in theory, Blaine should have nothing to worry about.

But, unfortunately, that’s not how Blaine’s brain works.

Just to be on the safe side (and keep himself out of the dumpster) he decides to compose another message to counteract the first one. But what should it say? Sorry, wrong number? How likely is that when he opened the text Hey, Kurt? Should he try to convince Kurt that he knows another Kurt and that that message was meant for him? What are the odds? Besides, that wouldn’t explain how Blaine got Kurt’s number in the first place. Kurt is a smart boy. He’d never buy that excuse. No sane person would! He takes a deep breath and starts typing, hoping he can come up with something on the fly that will sound halfway reasonable.

To: Kurt

I’m sorry! I’m so so sorry that I sent you that text! Please ignore it! I promise, I won’t do it again!

Blaine sends the message before he really gets the chance to read it. Then, realizing that Kurt probably has no idea who sent him either message, he quickly follows up with:

To: Kurt

This is Blaine, by the way. Blaine Anderson.

After he sends that message, his poor, overworked heart withers and dies. He’s such an idiot! How can a boy with a 5.0 GPA and early acceptance into one of the most prestigious universities in America be such a phenomenal imbecile? He never identified himself in the first message, nor the second one. What are the odds anyone in Kurt’s friend circle has Blaine’s number? Blaine rarely gives it out. Kurt would have never known who sent the first message to begin with, and Blaine would have gotten away with it.

Unless Noah told. That’s a distinct possibility. He probably would. But shit!

Blaine’s skin prickles with cold despite the fact that he’s sitting beside a heating vent going full blast; his head swims with the reality of what his life might end up looking like for the next week or two.

Strangely enough, when he pictures it, he only sees darkness.

Blaine’s head drops to the desk with a hard thunk. What’s left for him now? Does he pick up his bag, walk out of school, and never look back? Hitchhike to Harvard and camp out on the main lawn until the start of summer school?

No.

He’s been carrying this secret with him, deep inside, for so long. He has to let it go. Even if it’s to empty cyberspace, he has to give it up.

He’s dug himself in deep this time. He might as well fill in the hole.

He lifts his head, and composes another message.

To: Kurt

You don’t know me … at least, I don’t think you do. You’ve only spoken to me a handful of times, but otherwise, you don’t seem to know I exist.

Blaine chuckles. That’s the understatement of the century. And it’s not because Kurt is one of those popular kids who has his head shoved so far up his own ass that he doesn’t associate with people outside of his social circle.

Quite on the contrary.

It’s simply that Kurt is completely and utterly out of Blaine’s league.

To: Kurt

But you and I have history, so to speak.

To: Kurt

Well, to be honest, it’s more like an anecdote.

To: Kurt

I sit behind you in a few classes and I’ve always wanted to say hi to you, but …

To: Kurt

I’m just too afraid.

To: Kurt

I’m afraid of being laughed at. But also … I get picked on a lot, and I’m afraid of becoming more of a target than I already am.

Blaine’s hands shake as he writes that. Even if Kurt never reads this, and odds are he won’t, the fear is still too real.

To Kurt:

But I look up to you so much.

To: Kurt

You’re smart and popular, and you have so many friends.

To: Kurt

You sing in Glee Club and you’re captain of the Cheerios.

To: Kurt

You’re doing everything I would have done if I’d had more courage.

To: Kurt

Speaking of courage …

Blaine hesitates, a small voice in his head screaming, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Turn back now before it’s too late!” But another voice reminds him that Kurt is never going to see these messages.

So what would it hurt to go for broke?

To: Kurt

I’ve been trying to find the courage to ask you out forever.

To: Kurt

Nothing major. Not like prom. I wouldn’t want your reputation to tank because of me. Just coffee.

To: Kurt

I know that you’ll think I like you because you’re Head Cheerio, because you’re popular, but that’s not it. I swear.

To: Kurt

There are hundreds of reasons to like you that have nothing to do with you being popular.

Blaine bites his lower lip, knowing he’s going to step over some lines, drudge up some past that maybe he shouldn’t, but he can’t make himself stop typing.

To: Kurt

When Coach Sylvester wanted you to lose weight after you joined the Cheerios, I saw how hard that was on you. But then you told her that if she didn’t want you on the squad plus or minus a few pounds, that she could go to hell. And she made you captain.

To: Kurt

You ran for student body president on a platform to end bullying, because you overcame bullying yourself, and even a death threat to get where you are.

To: Kurt

But when that other Cheerio won (I think because she promised to go topless one day a month), you were so gracious in defeat. And then you still went on to get the superintendent to ban dodgeball in all public schools, for which I, personally, thank you.

To: Kurt

You were so strong after your dad got sick.

To: Kurt

I heard you spent every night with him at the hospital, and then came to school every morning. I don’t think I could have done that.

To: Kurt

You brought that boy Sam some clothes when his parents lost their home last year.

To: Kurt

And I’ve seen you stand up for the Glee Club against the football players, even against Coach Sylvester.

To: Kurt

You’ve been out and proud in school for years now, and have paved a way for LGBT kids in our school to feel safer and more accepted, which is difficult when you consider the mental Neanderthals we’re surrounded by every day.

To: Kurt

No matter what life threw at you, you never gave up.

To: Kurt

You’re a good person.

Blaine looks at his phone after that last message. He could end it there, but that’s not the end. He takes in a breath and holds it. He has nothing to lose, he reminds himself.

To: Kurt

So, if I don’t sound like a total loser, and you think that maybe the two of us could be, you know, friends …

To: Kurt

I’m in the library, at the tutoring desk. Maybe you could stop by, and we could talk.

That first little voice rings in his head, “Mayday! Mayday!” and Blaine steps his remarks back a bit.

To: Kurt

Or not. I know you’re a busy guy. I’m sorry for bothering you.

To: Kurt

P. S. Just so you know, I’m not a stalker, so please don’t call the police on me.

“Ugh!” Blaine moans, dropping his head back onto the desk. “Why? Why did you text that? You pathetic loser!”

He turns off his phone and sets it aside.

And … that’s it.

That’s all he had in him to say.

He did it, though. He overcame his fear and told Kurt how he felt … in the safest, most non-consequence facing way possible.

He should feel relieved.

But he doesn’t.

He sent those messages, expressed all of those feelings, but they just disappeared into the ether, never to be retrieved (once Blaine clears his message history), their intended recipient totally unaware of their existence. What good would it have done if Kurt had read them anyway? What would that change except to make Blaine seem like more of a loser than he already feels?

He thought he’d feel lighter after admitting all of that, like he’d accomplished something. But he doesn’t.

He feels vacant.

Empty.

Vaguely incomplete.

He knocks his head on the desk a few times, chanting, “You. Are. Such. An. Idiot. You. Are. Such. An …”

“Hey. Are you busy?”

Blaine stops chanting and sighs. “Do I look busy?” He doesn’t care that he sounds snippy. Only five or so people come to see him on the regular anyhow, and most of them have witnessed him in the midst of an existential crisis before.

“Well, you look like you might be having some sort of episode. If that’s the case, I can come back.” A giggle follows that remark that sends a chill down Blaine’s spine.

That’s no regular.

That’s Kurt.

Blaine looks up, a nervous smile plastered to his face as he tries to remain calm. This is a coincidence. That’s all. Nothing but a weird, wacky, one-in-a-million, kick-you-in-the-crotch coincidence. Blaine is here to tutor. Lots of kids, from the cheerleading squad to the football players, come to see him. Even the ones who have tossed him into dumpsters stroll in as if there’s no bad blood between them to ask Blaine for help bringing up their grades. So this isn’t that out of the ordinary.

Except that Kurt has a 4.8 GPA. He’s never needed tutoring, so why would he be here?

It can’t have anything to do with those messages. No way. That phone is gone, those messages went nowhere.

So … why today of all days? Why on the one day Blaine bore his heart to him – or to his lost phone – through dozens of inane text messages, would Kurt show up for tutoring?

Blaine can’t begin to guess. But once this does turn out to be one big, crazy coincidence, he’s going to buy a ton of lottery tickets because fate is obviously working overtime.

“Uh, no. No, I’m not. I … is there something I can help you with?” Blaine asks.

“I … I wanted to show you something.” Kurt reaches into his book bag, pulls out his phone, and shows it to Blaine. Blaine exhales, relieved. That’s all. Kurt got his new phone and he’s showing it off, probably to everyone he sees. He happened to be in the library, noticed Blaine sitting at the tutoring desk, and decided to brag.

Completely reasonable.

But when Blaine takes a second look, he sees it’s not a new phone. It’s Kurt’s old phone. There’s a message displayed on the screen. It only takes Blaine three seconds and the words please don’t call the police for him to know that it’s his message.

Not the first message Blaine sent, but the last.

“Your name is Blaine Anderson,” Kurt says, letting out a breath as if he’d been holding it for an hour now. “You sit behind me in science, math, and economics. Last year, you sat behind me in history, math, and AP European Literature.” Kurt takes a step towards the empty chair in front of Blaine’s desk. “We met for the first time in elementary school. You wore a bowtie to school every day. I used to wear suits, and my hair …” Kurt runs a self-conscious hand through his bangs “… was less highlighted then.”

“I … I remember,” Blaine says, swallowing heavy.

“So do I.” Kurt takes a seat. And with a small, bashful smile, he takes Blaine’s hand. “Can we talk?”