Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4031728.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Blaine_Anderson/Kurt_Hummel
  Character:
      Blaine_Anderson, Kurt_Hummel, The_Warblers
  Additional Tags:
      Hybrids, Age_Difference, Blangst, Teacher-Student_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-29 Chapters: 1/4 Words: 12607
****** Blended Education ******
by luckie_dee
Summary
     When kitty!Blaine has to restart his high school career at Dalton
     Academy after being bullied out of public school, he's not sure what
     to expect... but it's definitely not meeting someone like Mr. Hummel,
     the coordinator of Dalton's Hybrid Student Services Center.
Notes
     Warnings:Hybrids (yes, kitty!Blaine – bear with me!), age difference
     (in this chapter, Kurt is 22 and Blaine is 15), teacher(ish)/student,
     Blangst, references to past violence/assault, homophobic and
     prejudiced slurs. Warnings will evolve in later chapters.
     Author's Note:Well. This was supposed to be a porny one-shot for
     Lindsey's birthday, but instead it developed into a monster multi-
     chapter thing with a plot (and eventually porn) for Lindsey's
     birthday. It's not finished, although significant parts of the next
     two chapters are. I don't usually post WIPs anymore, but I wanted to
     have something ready for Lindsey's actual day, and totally understand
     if anyone wants to wait to read. :)
     Happy birthday (again) Lindsey! My life is better every day because
     you're in it and I'm honored to be able to call you my friend. ♥
     Here's to 30 more years of fangirling together! Last but not least,
     huge thanks to Sam for the beta and to Sadie for finding the perfect
     song for Blaine to sing in this chapter!
See the end of the work for more notes
On his first day at Dalton Academy, Blaine stands in his tiny dorm room and
examines himself in the mirror hanging over the even tinier dresser. He
looks... not awful, he thinks. Definitely much better than he feels, about to
start classes — to start over — at a new school because he’d been beaten out of
the old one. Literally.
He likes the uniform well enough. The fabric is stiff and coarse, especially
the blazer collar poking at his neck and the thick white shirt underneath, but
it’s comfortable in other ways. Most notably, that it’s designed to accommodate
his tail without being needlessly revealing or causing any odd bunching or
wrinkling.
Even more important, it makes him feel less like that boy. He doesn’t even
think he looks so much like that boy, really, the scared catboy slinking around
his public high school, or lying broken on the ground in the parking lot. He
actually has grown a little, or so he hopes, and the boxy cut of the jacket
makes him seem bigger too. He’s got his hair smoothed down neatly, something
that he likes but had always caused too much trouble at his old school because
of the way it makes his ears stand out. It shouldn’t matter here though; Dalton
has a strict, no-tolerance, anti-bullying policy, and it’s the best school in
the state for blended hybrid-human education. If Blaine can’t be himself here,
he can’t be himself anywhere.
He can’t help feeling a twinge of nerves though, and his ears droop a little
while butterflies flutter in his stomach. It’s still a whole school full of new
students — and he didn’t move in until late yesterday, so he missed all the
orientation events in the afternoon, thanks Cooper — and it’s a totally
different curriculum, and he’ll be the oldest freshman by default, and he’s
never lived away from home before. He frowns at his reflection.
His self-pity is interrupted by his phone buzzing and rattling suddenly on his
desk, and Blaine jumps so hard he nearly leaves his feet, his heart knocking
madly against his ribcage and his tail puffing out. He hurries to grab the
phone and stop the alarm, acknowledging ruefully that it might be more than
just a twinge of nerves. There’s no time to calm them, though: if he doesn’t
leave his room now, he’s going to be late for breakfast with his student
mentor.
Blaine slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and heads for the door before
he has the chance to worry about anything else.
*
His student mentor is another hybrid, of course, a junior catboy named Wes with
fur that’s dark like Blaine’s but much sleeker. In the cafeteria, they both
choose smoked salmon on toast with cream cheese, and Blaine kind of wants to
laugh at how obviously Dalton is catering to the feline among them, even
though, well — he does love fish. It’s in his genes and he can’t deny it.
Still, it feels fake, somehow, cloying, and he’s stunned to find out that it’s
standard fare. Blaine thinks he’s starting to realize just how different the
world he’s been thrust into is.
Wes chats with him easily while they eat, and he cuts up his food with a knife
and a fork. Blaine is relieved that he doesn’t have to feel silly doing the
same. It’s all going just fine until Wes asks, conversationally, “So, Blaine,
what brings you to Dalton Academy?”
Blaine’s entire body stiffens and his tail swishes a few times before he
schools it back into stillness, winding it around one leg of his chair. “I,
um…” he starts, stabbing a bite of toast with his fork. “I —”
He can feel Wes watching him, but doesn't kanow if it's because Wes is confused
or concerned or laughing. “Blaine,” he finally interrupts Blaine’s stammering,
though not unkindly, “it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want
to. Or if it wasn’t your choice to come to Dalton, that’s fine too. I think
you’ll still grow to like it in time.”
Not his choice. Blaine scoffs internally. It had been his research that had
found Dalton, and his weeks of begging and cajoling his parents that had gotten
him here. “It’s not that. I — had some troubles in public school. The humans…
weren’t kind.”
Wes nods sagely. “I’m sorry to hear that. I think that, unfortunately, as
hybrids, we’ve all faced discrimination and biased opinions.” Or fists and the
painful connection of foot and ribs, over and over, Blaine thinks wryly. “I can
guarantee that you won’t experience anything like that at Dalton.”
Blaine nods and tries to give Wes a polite smile, even though he can’t even
lift his eyes from his plate. “Good. I’m glad.”
“Good,” Wes echoes. There’s a moment of silence that Blaine uses to pick at his
plate, and then Wes speaks again, his voice full of false cheer. “Are you
finished eating? We still have time for a quick tour before the assembly.”
“Yes,” Blaine says gratefully, setting down his fork. He clears his throat,
strives for the polite tone he’d been using earlier. “Thank you.”
*
Blaine sits near the back of Dalton's huge auditorium during the assembly and
peeks around at his fellow students instead of listening to the principal,
noting the heads with pointed feline ears and those without. It’s a
surprisingly even mix, and humans and hybrids alike are scattered throughout
the seats. It’s a far cry from Blaine’s public school, where the catboys and
catgirls had stuck together in a tight knot on one side of the room and the
human boys and girls on the other, not by rule but by choice.
After the assembly comes a day of truncated classes, syllabuses, and a few
first-day homework assignments. Wes finds Blaine at lunch, and they eat with a
group of boys from the school’s show choir, who are all excited when Blaine
tentatively admits that he loves to perform. At the extracurricular fair that
kicks off when the final bell sounds, they descend on him again, and Blaine
agrees to try out even though he’s not sure he wants to. He’s amused to find
out that the group’s called the Warblers — a name, Wes explains, that’s been
used since before human-animal hybrids were even a twinkle in anyone’s eye, and
now it’s just ironic, a half-cat choir with a bird's name.
School starts in earnest the next day. Most classes are blended, but once a
week, the hybrids are siphoned off for specialized instruction and discussion.
There’s absolutely nothing like it in the public school curriculum, and it’s
facilitated by a catwoman with graying fur at the base of her ears that matches
her sensible, dove-gray suit with its knee-length skirt. She announces that
they’ll spend the first half hour getting an introduction to the Hybrid Student
Services Center. “And who better to give you an overview than our brand new
HSSC Coordinator,” she says grandly, gesturing to the back of the room. “Class,
say good morning to Mr. Hummel.”
Blaine opens his mouth to intone good morning with everyone else, but instead,
it just stays ajar as he catches sight of Mr. Hummel walking up the next aisle.
Luckily, he manages to snap his jaw shut just in time as Mr. Hummel reaches the
front of the room and turns to face them.
He’s young, Blaine things dumbly. And hot chases quickly afterwards. Most of
the adults that Blaine has encountered at Dalton are at least forty if not
older, but not Mr. Hummel. He’s young and thin and tall, dressed in dark jeans
and a trim suit jacket over a bright shirt, and ensemble that, as far as Blaine
is aware, just barely falls within the staff and faculty dress code. He’s got
gravity-defying hair, but there are no feline ears for it to conceal. He’s
fully human, and he’s the most beautiful man Blaine thinks he’s ever seen in
real life. From the second row of desks, Blaine can scent his cologne.
He forces himself to lay his thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter — Mr. Hummel is
a teacher, or if not a teacher exactly, then at least an adult, and Blaine may
be the oldest freshman in school, but he’s still just a kid, and his interest
in other boys has never caused him anything but trouble anyway.
“Good morning!” Mr. Hummel responds brightly to the students’ lackluster
greeting. He claps his hands and smiles, and his smile. Blaine shakes himself
again and focuses on what Mr. Hummel is actually saying, because as it turns
out, it's information he actually wants to know.
Mr. Hummel is outlining the services available at the HSSC in a high, strong
voice. There are counseling services to specifically aid hybrid issues, help
with college searches and applications and scholarships, opportunities for
political activism.
And then, the most interesting thing of all: he's looking for student
volunteers. “If you're interested in applying,” he says, looking around the
room, smiling, and his eyes briefly meet Blaine's — Blaine inhales sharply and
sits up, even as Mr. Hummel's gaze trips away and he continues scanning the
room, “stop by any time!”
*
Blaine almost doesn't go. He's not even sure why he should — how is he supposed
to help other hybrids, when he hadn't even been able to help himself? He can't
quite get the thought out of his head, though.
When Blaine does walk into the HSSC, he’s surprised to find it decidedly less
grand than he’d imagined. It’s ornate in the way that all of Dalton is ornate —
oak flooring, thick crown molding — but like the rest of the school, the room
is definitely showing its age. In fact, Blaine is pretty sure there’s more
disrepair than in any of the classrooms he’s seen, and the smell of dusty
hardwood is even thicker here, making his nose twitch. There’s a table set up
on one side of the main room that appears to serve as a makeshift desk,
although there isn’t anyone sitting there. On the opposite side of the room, a
few ragged armchairs are stationed in front of two overflowing bookshelves.
There’s a threadbare rug on the floor and, down a short hallway, three doors,
all either closed or ajar.
Blaine shuffles awkwardly for a moment, adjusting his messenger bag against his
hip. He catches sight of an index card taped to the top of the table with a
cheerful message scrawled in black marker: Please ring the bell if you need
assistance! :)
After one last glance down the hallway, Blaine reaches over. The ding of the
bell echoes too loudly in the stale air.
He pricks his ears toward the sounds of a chair scraping against hardwood, of
feet shuffling, and then one of the doors swings open to reveal Mr. Hummel, a
cell phone pressed to one ear. He offers Blaine a wave with his free hand and a
tight-lipped grin, then motions that he’ll be just a minute. Blaine manages a
nervous smile in return as his heart accelerates near-painfully in his chest.
As Mr. Hummel ducks back through the door, Blaine crosses the room and peruses
the spines of the books, not taking in a single word printed on any of them.
Mr. Hummel emerges again a few minutes later, sans phone, hurrying out into the
open room with a smile and a breathy, “Hi! Hello. I’m so sorry for making you
wait. We don’t have our volunteer staff in place yet this year, so I’m wearing
all the HSSC hats at the moment. They’re all fabulous, I assure you.” He pauses
for breath and sticks out a hand. “Is this your first time here? I don’t
believe we’ve met.”
Blaine blinks, pulling himself back from staring in awe as the melody of Mr.
Hummel’s voice washed over him. Mr. Hummel is even better looking up close, so
much so that Blaine almost feels intimidated by it, but he makes himself
respond. “Hi, Mr. Hummel. Um, no. No, we haven’t,” he stammers. “My name is
Blaine Anderson. I’m —” and he can’t bring himself to say a freshman, he just
can’t “— new here.” He takes Mr. Hummel’s hand to shake, embarrassed that his
own palm is sweating a little.
Mr. Hummel doesn’t give any sign that he notices or cares. “Pleased to meet
you, Blaine. My name is Kurt, and you’re welcome to call me that if you want.
Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
He can’t imagine calling Mr. Hummel Kurt, but Blaine warms a little because he
likes knowing it all the same. “Of course.”
“So, what brings you here today, Blaine?” Mr. Hummel asks, leading him over to
the set of armchairs. They each perch on one, and Mr. Hummel fixes him with a
patient stare.
Blaine zones out for a few seconds more, and he brings himself back to reality
by briefly, roughly clearing his throat. He snakes the tip of his tail under
the skirt of the chair and wraps it lightly around one leg. “I was hoping I
could volunteer here, actually. I came to pick up an application?”
Mr. Hummel’s face lights up. “That’s great! I’m really excited about getting
our student volunteers more involved.” He’s up and out of his seat, and he
crosses the room with an enthusiastic spring in his step. “Mr. Digacamo did a
great job establishing the HSSC, don’t get me wrong, but one of my top
priorities this year is working with our students more,” he continues as he
retrieves a folder and a clipboard from the table-desk. “That’s where the
change is going to come from, right? Young people like you.” He drops back down
into the chair across from Blaine’s and passes him an application. He’s
beaming, but then he chuckles, looking abashed. “I’m sorry; I’m babbling. I’m
just really excited to be here.”
Blaine can’t help but smile back. “It’s okay. I think that’s — really great,”
he finishes lamely.
“Do you want to fill that out now?” Mr. Hummel asks. He holds up the clipboard.
“I’ll be here until five-thirty. Or you can take it with you and bring it back
when you’re done.”
“I’ll stay,” Blaine says quickly. He can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks,
and he ducks his head to begin writing.
“Take your time.” At the edge of his vision, Blaine sees Mr. Hummel’s legs
straighten as he stands. “I’ll be in my office. Feel free to come on down when
you’re done, or if you have any questions. First door on the left.”
Blaine nods. “Thank you, Mr. Hummel.”
Mr. Hummel’s footsteps retreat, and Blaine continues working his way down the
application. The beginning is easy — name, student ID, grade — but the further
he gets, the more he wonders if he should have filled it out on his own time.
He stares numbly down at questions like Why are you interested in volunteering
at the Hybrid Student Services Center? and Do you have any special talents,
skills, experience, or training that you can apply to volunteer work at the
HSSC?
No one at Dalton knows about his history yet, other than the Dean of Admissions
who’d made an exception to consider Blaine’s application, submitted two weeks
past the deadline. Some of them might have heard about him in the news, but
another catboy being bullied had made barely more than a blip on the radar,
even though the incident had landed Blaine in the hospital.
Blaine doesn’t know what to do, but at the same time, he doesn't think it would
reflect well on his chances of being selected if he were to change his mind and
just leave, so he sets his jaw and works doggedly down the page, answering
honestly and carefully, filling the lines neatly with blue ink. He doesn’t
reread anything when he’s done, just jumps to his feet and moves quickly toward
Mr. Hummel’s office, his tail twitching behind him.
“Mr. Hummel?” he asks, accompanying himself with a tentative knock on the door
frame. The office is small but artistically attired with pictures and
decorations between the books on the shelves, a large framed photograph of what
looks like someone’s collarbone, and creative uses of draped fabric. Mr. Hummel
is sitting at the desk, writing on a notepad.
He glances up with another friendly smile. “Are you all set?”
“All set,” Blaine replies, falsely cheerful. He all but throws the sheet of
paper at Mr. Hummel, glad to have the ugly story out of his hands. He starts
edging away immediately. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Hummel says. He puts the paper on his desk, pats it with one
hand. “I’m looking forward to reviewing your application. We’ll be making our
final decisions by a week from Friday.”
“Sounds good.” Blaine continues moving back toward the main room as he speaks.
“Thanks again, Mr. Hummel.”
He turns and strides away as Mr. Hummel calls, “Have a great afternoon,
Blaine!” after him.
*
Blaine hurries back to his room, nodding tersely at the few people who greet
him. Behind the safety of his door, he drops his bookbag, yanks off his blazer
and necktie, and loosens his collar with rough movements that nearly take the
buttons off. He sinks to the edge of his bed, shaking, and buries his hands in
his hair, pressing the tips of them into the softer fur at the base of his
ears. His breath comes in harsh shudders as he remembers, remembers, remembers.
The jeers and the taunts and the threats in the hallways, both called out and
whispered, the second kind somehow seeming worse. Being pushed to the ground —
you pussy — scuffing and scraping against the pavement, the blooming pain each
time he was kicked, the dark air and the throbbing stars behind his eyes.
Slowly, he lowers his head until it’s between his knees, trying to breathe more
deeply. He shouldn’t have put all of that on his application. He’s supposed to
be starting over at Dalton, breaking free from the chains of his past and
becoming a better version of himself. And now Mr. Hummel is going to want to
talk to him about it, and he’ll have to dwell on it even more than he already
has, and what use is he going to be to anyone else anyway? At least the HSSC
will have to keep his information confidential, right?
Without even sitting up, Blaine rolls back onto his bed and curls up into a
ball, tucking his knees up almost under his chin and curling his tail over his
legs. He tries to do some of the breathing exercises he’d looked up online, and
eventually he does start to feel calmer. The buzzing in his head starts to
recede, slowly seeping away as he realizes how exhausted he is, not only from
that afternoon but from the combined stress of the entire first week, and he
falls into a fitful sleep.
*
Blaine feels residually rattled for the next few days, but he tries to put the
whole thing out of his head. He starts thinking — kind of hoping, actually —
that the whole thing will just blow over. It’s not like his application is
going to get selected; he doesn’t have relevant experience, or anything else to
offer in terms of helping other students.
Other than the hiccup with the HSSC, being at Dalton is — not terrible. It’s
definitely a huge step up from the hybrid hell on earth that was the
Westerville Public School System. The course work is harder, but Blaine
actually doesn’t mind that very much. He might change his mind in time, but for
now, challenging trumps boring.
He keeps largely to himself, but thanks to Wes, he always has a seat with the
Warblers at lunch if he wants it. Blaine’s not sure how long that’s gong to
last if he isn’t chosen to join, but he takes the opportunity to sound out a
few of the guys about what kind of song he should choose for his audition. He’s
been singing and accompanying himself on the piano for as long as he can
remember, but he doesn’t have any clue how to try out for a show choir. He’s
surprised when his innocent questions spur a debate that lasts for most of the
lunch hour, but from it, he gathers that he should choose a standard or
something from Broadway.
Later that evening, after he’s done with his homework, Blaine starts scrolling
through his music library. Some things he’s able to dismiss quickly (Katy
Perry, Maroon 5, everything else that had been in the top 40 in the past ten
years, Bryan Ferry) and some he lingers on but eventually rejects (a few
Sinatra numbers that don’t seem to have the right amount of gravitas,
selections from Les Mis that have too much). He hums a few lines here, gives
voice to a few others there — but nothing seems quite right.
Until he skips forward again and hears a few poignant bars of music and, “You
fold his hands, you smooth his tie…”
He listens through the whole song, but he knows before the first verse ends
that he’s found what he was looking for.
*
On audition day, Blaine sits in a row of chairs at the back of one of the
common rooms, along with a handful of other boys and catboys, mostly
underclassmen by the looks of it. His heart is already beating a quick tattoo
in his chest, there’s a sheen of sweat building up under the suddenly-too-heavy
fabric of his uniform, and his tail is curled securely around his chair leg.
He’d expected to be nervous, but not this nervous. He doesn’t really think
there’s any reason for it: he’d rehearsed the song so many times over the past
few days that he’s pretty sure he could perform it on autopilot, even the key
change at the end. He’d sung in front of rooms full of people before.
But never without some kind of background music, at least not since he was a
tiny kittenboy warbling shakily along to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and the
alphabet song, which both had the same melody anyway. And never when the stakes
were this high: sing well and you’re in, hit a few bum notes and you’re out.
Blaine’s not even sure when or why he started caring so much.
He waits as patiently as possible while Wes reads the rules and procedures —
for those who are auditioning, for the Council members who’ll be judging them,
even for the Warblers who are just watching. He’s more formal and strict than
usual, and he punctuates his words with bangs of a gavel that make Blaine jump
minutely in his seat. He finally wraps up his announcements with a tense smile
at the line of waiting boys and a, “Best of luck to you all. Number one, please
take the floor and state your name and grade.”
They’ve drawn numbers to determine the singing order, and Blaine isn’t sure if
his position about two-thirds of the way through the lineup is good or bad. On
one hand, he gets to watch several auditions before his own, but on the other,
he has to wait. He thinks the boys before him sound good-not-great, but he’s
not sure that he’s going to sound all that great either. His number is called,
and his heart jumps into his throat — not very conducive to singing, he thinks
wryly, as he takes his place in the center of the room and announces, his voice
barely shaking at all, “Blaine Anderson, freshman.”
He may just be imagining it, but he thinks Wes’s mouth quirks up a little as he
says, “Thank you, Blaine. What song will you be performing today?”
“‘Left_Behind’_from_Spring_Awakening,” Blaine replies. He clasps his hands
behind his back and forces his ears to be politely alert, his tail to hang
still behind him.
Wes and the other members of the Council — two senior boys that Blaine doesn’t
know well at all — nod approvingly. “Whenever you’re ready,” Wes instructs,
“you may proceed.”
Blaine nods and closes his eyes. He tries to block out the feeling of so many
people staring at him, to hear the first few lines of the song in his head like
he’s playing them in his dorm room. He takes a deep breath. Begins.
The first two verses come out all right, he thinks, his eyes coming open as he
sings, even though he doesn’t look directly at anyone in the room. He sounds a
little tentative, maybe, and he continues into the first chorus with more
strength. Something strange is happening, though, and the wistful emotion of
the song is getting all tangled up with his words in a way it never had when
he’d been memorizing the song alone in his room. The character is singing about
someone who died, Blaine knows, but he’s not sure who he’s singing for.
Himself, maybe, even though he’s still alive, parts of himself that have fallen
away or gone dormant since the optimistic joy of his childhood, parts of
himself that had been kicked out of place in that parking lot — and his voice
unexpectedly cracks on “and all of the crying you wouldn’t understand, you just
let him cry, make a man out of him.”
Blaine is horrified — he’s blowing his chance — and he tries to reel it back
in, but somehow he can’t, and the emotion builds on itself, the anxiety and the
regret and the fear and the sadness, and he realizes that he sounds almost
angry as he sings, “all the fears that flickered through his mind, all the
sadness that he’d come to own,” and that’s not right for the song, is it? He
finishes the last few notes blinking back tears, huffs out a breath, and pulls
himself together to issue a terse “thank you” as he turns to take his seat
again.
There’s a quick-fire smattering of polite applause (as permitted by the
guidelines for audition attendees) that, to Blaine’s ears, doesn’t sound any
different from any of the others. Well, he hadn’t hit too many sour notes, at
least, so maybe that’s deserving of applause.
When he’s seated again and the clapping stops, Wes looks at him and actually
smiles, polite but genuine. “Thank you, Blaine. Number twelve, please take the
floor.”
Blaine sags into his chair. Maybe it hadn’t been so bad after all. When
everyone is done, a few of the other guys who tried out even compliment him on
his audition — but maybe it’s just civility, because he returns the courtesy,
even though he can’t even remember what anyone else sang. He leaves the
auditions feeling buoyant with relief and cautiously optimistic.
And then, back in his room, Blaine checks his email, and his heart almost stops
when he sees a message from Kurt Hummel. It’s simple and to the point and
terrifying:
Blaine,
Thank you so much for submitting an application to volunteer at the Hybrid
Student Service Center this school year! I would like to further discuss the
information you provided. Please let me know when you’re available for a 20-30
minute conversation.
Best,
Kurt Hummel
HSSC Coordinator | Dalton Academy
*
A few days later, Blaine is back in the doorway to Mr. Hummel’s office. He
shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other and raises one hand to
tap on the door frame, even though Mr. Hummel is already looking up, his lips
tilting into a welcoming smile. “Blaine, hi! Please, come in and have a seat.”
Blaine steps over the threshold and, after a seconds hesitation, eases the door
shut. The HSSC is, again, deserted, but he can’t bear the idea that someone
might come in and overhear something. Mr. Hummel just keeps smiling at him
placidly, so Blaine releases the knob and takes a seat. “Hi.”
Mr. Hummel sifts through several neat stacks of paper on his desk , unearthing
a file folder. When he flips it open, Blaine sees his own volunteer
application, and he glances down, feeling some of the blood drain from his
face. “Blaine —” Mr. Hummel starts, and then he pauses for a moment. “Thank you
so much for applying. I imagine that this wasn’t easy for you to fill out.”
“No, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine mumbles. He can feel the weight of Mr. Hummel watching
him carefully, but he doesn’t look up.
The silence hangs heavy in the air, and then Mr. Hummel says, “You are clearly
an exceptional young man.”
Blaine’s shocked eyes fly up to search Mr. Hummel’s face. “What?”
Mr. Hummel catches his gaze, holds it. “I mean it, Blaine. It clearly took a
lot of courage for you to share your story, and it’s wonderful that you want to
take your experience and use it to help other students. I think that’s
remarkably admirable.”
“Thank you,” Blaine says quietly. He flutters a little, somewhere small and
deep down inside, but it’s there and it glows like a coal gone to embers.
He feels one side of his mouth tick up, and Mr. Hummel gives him a reassuring
smile in return. He closes Blaine’s folder and folds his hands over it. “I
don’t usually do this in person,” he continues, “but I’m thrilled to invite you
to volunteer with the HSSC this year.”
Blaine blinks at him. It’s exactly what he’d wanted to hear, but suddenly his
head is all tangled up with his story and his experience and Mr. Hummel’s quiet
confidence when he has no idea what he’s doing. “I — I’m honored to be
selected,” he finally replies. “But…”
Mr. Hummel frowns. “But what?” His hands are frozen in midair, already in the
process of pulling out a sheaf of papers that had been tucked behind Blaine’s
application in the folder.
“I don’t know if I should,” Blaine admits.
“What makes you say that?” Mr. Hummel asks.
Blaine takes a deep breath. He’s about to demur, make up some excuse about
focusing on settling into a new school and taking time to get used to the new
curriculum — but Mr. Hummel’s eyes are serious and concerned, his whole face is
radiating concern, and Blaine suddenly feels like his arms are shaking and weak
under a weight that he’s been carrying for miles. He slumps a little in his
chair and starts again. “I don’t — have anything to — to offer. I mean, I have
no idea how to help anyone else. I’m just a kid who got beat up once. That’s
not anything special. It’s probably happened to every catboy here, and some of
the humans too.” His tail curls more tightly around the chair leg as he talks.
Mr. Hummel doesn’t respond right away, and when Blaine hazards a glance at him,
he looks thoughtful and troubled. “I disagree with you,” he says. His voice is
still gentle, but there’s a sudden, steely edge of conviction. “Maybe it’s not
unique that you faced prejudice because you’re a hybrid — although I think you
faced it at an extreme level. What is special is the fact that you’re choosing
to take the pain that you went through and turn it into something positive.
Something that helps other people.”
“I don’t know how to help other people,” Blaine protests. “I don’t even want to
tell anyone else about all of this. I can’t, Mr. Hummel, I can’t —”
“Blaine,” Mr. Hummel interrupts him. “You don’t have to. I would never to ask
you to disclose something so personal. You would help just by being here and
contributing to keeping the Center running smoothly. I’ll teach you everything
you need to know. And this is new for all of us! We’re all going to learn
together. I’m new here too, remember?”
Blaine’s lips quirk into a weak approximation of a smile. “Yes, Mr. Hummel.”
“So, what do you say?” Mr. Hummel says. He lifts the papers again, flashes
Blaine a grin. “Can we count on your help this year?” When Blaine doesn’t
answer right away, he adds, “Please consider giving it a try, at least. It’s a
volunteer position, not a blood oath. You can always change your mind if you
decide it’s not for you.”
“You really want me to?” Blaine asks shyly. “Even after —” he waves a hand
“—all this?”
“Especially after all this. All you’re doing right now is proving to me that
you should be here, because your concerns show that you’re very thoughtful and
take this opportunity very seriously. I already knew I made the right choice in
approving your application, and now I’m sure of it.”
Blaine feels like he’s blushing, and he realizes suddenly how close he is to
actually crying despite the smile playing around his lips. “Thank you, Mr.
Hummel. I’d be honored to volunteer. Or at least to try.”
Mr. Hummel grins and passes him the paperwork.
*
Blaine feels skittish as he heads to the HSSC after class one day for volunteer
orientation. He walks through the halls light on his feet, his tail twitching,
and he jumps to the side when someone unexpectedly slams a locker nearby. He
doesn’t even understand where all the nerves are coming from. At the door, he
takes a deep breath, drawing the dusty smell of the school down to his toes,
and then he enters quickly, clutching the strap of his book bag in both hands.
Several seats have been positioned around the armchairs at the side of the room
— a few desk chairs on wheels and two unforgiving wooden folding chairs — and
there are a handful of other students scattered there, a few hybrids and a few
humans. There’s no one Blaine recognizes, but they all look up to greet him
politely. Blaine murmurs a quiet hi and moves to perch uneasily on one of the
folding chairs. The others go back to talking, and Blaine listens and waits.
Luckily, it’s not long before Mr. Hummel appears with a stack of papers in his
hands. “I’m sorry, everyone! The copier jammed with only two copies left to go.
I wish I could say that was a rare occurrence. Oh, Blaine! You made it.” He
pauses to shoot Blaine a smile. “I’m so glad. Now that we’re all here, let’s
get started.” Mr. Hummel passes out papers as he speaks, and when he’s done, he
takes a seat on the chair across from Blaine. “I’d like to start out by having
everyone here introduce themselves. I know we have a few new faces joining us
this year, including me. Does anyone want to start? I’m not afraid to call on
you if you don’t, remember, and I’d like everyone to share at least their
name.”
Blaine hunches into his seat a little and looks down at his hands, but to his
surprise, one of the older students starts talking right away. Over the course
of the next few minutes, Blaine learns that not only is he the only freshman
volunteer, but that all of the others are passionate about volunteering and at
least adequately articulate. They know and voice their support for political
issues, or they want to become teachers or counselors. And then there’s Blaine
who’s here because — well, he’s not really sure why he’s here.
When it’s his turn, he stammers out his name and says, “I um — I decided to
volunteer because as a hybrid, I want to… be a part of making Dalton the best
place in the state for hybrids to go to school.” It’s vague and uninteresting
and not even worded well, but when Blaine’s eyes flicker up to Mr. Hummel after
he’s done speaking, Mr. Hummel gives him a reassuring smile.
It’s a relief when the introductions are over, and Blaine listens with much
more interest as Mr. Hummel describes the projects that he hopes to undertake
with the volunteers’ help. He enlists the help of two upperclassmen to create a
plan for making outreaches to hybrid-friendly colleges and universities, both
to stockpile materials and to make connections. “A friendly word from a
guidance counselor can work wonders sometimes,” he explains.
Another few students sign up to develop ways to keep students abreast of
hybrid-related news items. “I know a newsletter comes right to mind,” Mr.
Hummel says, “but I’m definitely open to other suggestions. Be creative!”
Lastly, Mr. Hummel describes a more immediate project — organizing and
cataloging the books on the sagging shelves. “We’ll also need to devise a
system to lend them out,” he finishes, then looks up, right at Blaine. “I
thought this might be a good project for you, Blaine, while you get acclimated
to Dalton and to the HSSC. What do you say?”
“I was — just about to volunteer,” Blaine replies truthfully, flushing a little
under the attention. “I’d be happy to work on that.”
Mr. Hummel beams. “Great! I’ll touch base with you during your first shift so
we can go over the details.”
“Okay,” Blaine says, warm and flustered.
Mr. Hummel outlines a few plans for later in the year, and then they all work
together to fill in a schedule for manning the HSSC — and Blaine, as the newest
and proudest member of the Dalton Academy Warblers, makes sure that none of his
time slots interfere with rehearsals.
His first shift takes place the following Wednesday. For once, he’s excited on
his way to the HSSC instead of nervous, although the twisting in his stomach
feels kind of the same. He arrives to find Mr. Hummel greeting Kieran, one of
the senior volunteers. “Oh, just a minute — Blaine, hey! All ready for your
first day of indentured servitude?”
Blaine grins. “Absolutely, Mr. Hummel.” He drops his bag on the table-desk just
inside the door and gestures toward the bookshelves. “Should I just —?”
“Wait just a second,” Mr. Hummel says. “I’m going to get Kieran set up with the
computer and the phone in the spare office. Sit tight and I’ll be right back
out.”
“Okay,” Blaine agrees. He exchanges friendly nods with Kieran as he disappears
into one of the doors off the short hallway, and then meanders across the room
to look over the books again. They’re in no certain order, he notices upon
closer inspection, some lined up neatly, some balanced across the tops of other
spines, some just stacked in piles. There’s even a half-full carton on the
floor housing a few more that won’t fit on the shelves at all.
He keeps one ear swiveled back toward the hallway, but he still jumps a little
when Mr. Hummel calls his name. “Devising your plan of attack?” he asks, as
Blaine skitters back across the room.
“Starting to,” Blaine replies. He hovers awkwardly for a moment and Mr. Hummel
gestures for him to sit.
“That’s good,” Mr. Hummel says, pulling up another chair and setting a notebook
on the table between them, “because I’d love to hear your ideas about what we
should do to organize our library.”
He looks up at Blaine, waiting, and Blaine’s mind — goes blank. Mr. Hummel’s
gaze, so blue and close, is mesmerizing, but it’s more than just that. He’s
suddenly afraid that he’s going to say the wrong thing and watch a veil of
disappointment slip over those eyes. And then Mr. Hummel will realize that
Blaine really isn’t the right choice to work in the HSSC after all and he’ll be
dismissed before ten minutes are even up. “I, um… I haven’t — well, it’s really
your idea, so I thought maybe you would have ideas about what you want me to
do.”
Blaine feels clumsy and inelegant and every one of his meager fifteen years,
but Mr. Hummel just smiles patiently at him. “I do. But part of my job here is
to help students build their skills and confidence, and that’s not going to
happen if I just order you around. I’d love to hear your ideas.”
“Oh,” Blaine says. He glances down, then back up. “I don’t — I don’t actually
have a plan of attack. I’m sorry — I should have given it more thought, but —”
“Blaine,” Mr. Hummel interrupts him, still wearing the same pleasant, unruffled
expression. “It’s okay. Let’s talk through it together. What do you think we
should do first?”
Blaine glances across the room, eyeing the bookshelves again. “Well,” he says
thoughtfully, and it’s easier when he’s not staring directly into Mr. Hummel’s
eyes, “the books aren't in order, so I think organizing them should be the
first step.”
“That sounds good,” Mr. Hummel says, jotting a few things on the notepad. “How
do you think we should organize them? What would be most useful for you, as a
student, if you were to come in to look for something?”
“By subject,” Blaine responds immediately, and Mr. Hummel nods, takes more
notes. “I think there are too many to just put them in alphabetical order. But
alphabetize them within each subject.”
Mr. Hummel looks up at him with a grin. “I agree. I’m glad to know we’re on the
same page. See? You’ve got great ideas — you just need to give yourself time to
think of them.”
Blaine flushes at the praise and swivels his ears away in the hopes that it
doesn’t look like he’s listening to it so closely. “I guess I’ll, um, work on
that first then. Are there any boxes around that I could use? I don’t want to
mess up the whole room with piles of books.”
With a chuckle, Mr. Hummel shuts the notebook. “You’re always so conscientious,
Blaine. But don’t worry about that — if we need to make stacks of books, we’ll
make stacks of books. I think we do have a few boxes around — I’ll see if I can
find them. If you need more, we can try the administrative offices. Why don’t
you get started in the meantime? And think about what our next steps should be
after you’re done sorting.”
“Yes, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine says, climbing to his feet, smiling because he can’t
help it, his face still hot. “I’m — I’m really excited about this. And just…
glad to be working here.”
“I’m glad you’re here too,” Mr. Hummel replies, and Blaine knows that of course
he would say that, but he practically floats to the bookshelves all the same.
*
Over the next few weeks, Blaine gradually realizes that he’s kind of — happy.
Or at least bordering on it. Almost all the time. He falls asleep more easily
and has fewer bad dreams. The counseling that Mr. Hummel had recommended helps,
of course, but it’s more than that. He’s surprised to find that he just likes
being at Dalton.
Rehearsals with the Warblers are intense but fun. Blaine can read music just
fine, by virtue of the piano lessons he’d started almost before he was old
enough to remember them. It’s easy enough to translate it over to his own
voice, but he has to get used to singing in a group, singing harmonies, singing
while doing choreography (mostly step-touch choreography, but still). Wes
wastes no time in beginning the indoctrination of the new members of the group;
he sets up meetings with each of them to discuss the Warblers’ history, code of
conduct, and potential song selections for the year’s competitions… and then he
distributes thick binders that contain the same information.
Blaine learns — a lot, in that hour in the cafeteria over steaming cups of warm
milk, and it goes far beyond the storied past of the choir. He learns that Wes
is only the eighth student in Warblers' history to be chosen as head of the
Warbler Council as a junior, and the first hybrid. He learns that the Council
operates independently, with very little oversight from the Warblers’ faculty
advisor.
Who is Mr. Hummel. That might be the most interesting thing that Blaine learns.
“But,” he asks tentatively, “Mr. Hummel isn’t technically faculty, is he?”
“It’s true that he’s not a teacher,” Wes agrees, “but an exception was made
because he was a member of a show choir national champion when he himself was
in high school.”
Blaine’s ears twitch forward with interest. “Really? Mr. Hummel sings?”
Wes nods. “You’ll probably hear him at the annual holiday concert. He sang with
us last year. He’s a countertenor, so his range is truly impressive.”
Instantly, Blaine wants to know more, like what did he sing, and what did he
wear, and did anyone take video? He makes a mental note to check YouTube later
— or not, because that’s creepy — and tries to sound the proper amounts
impressed and disinterested as he says, “Wow. Then I hope he does.” Blaine
takes a sip of his steamer. Pauses. Then asks, “Why hasn’t he been at any of
our rehearsals?”
“It’s tradition for the Warblers to be a self-sustaining organization under the
guidance of the Council,” Wes says immediately, with a little edge to his voice
like Blaine you should know this already, and oops, maybe he should after the
intense review of the past forty-five minutes. “Our faculty advisor is only
involved in cases of extreme emergency or discord. He will also accompany us to
competitions, where an adult coach or advisor is required. Haven’t you been
paying attention, Blaine?”
“Of course,” Blaine mutters. “It’s just — it’s a lot of information to take in
all at once.”
“I understand. Don’t worry,” Wes reassures him stiffly. “It’ll all be a lot
more clear after the second time you read through the binder. Let’s move on to
this year’s competition schedule, shall we?”
Although Blaine’s relationship with Wes remains friendly but aloof, he thinks
he’s actually starting to strike up friendships with some of the other
Warblers. It starts with a quiet, round-faced catboy named Trent with wide
brown-furred ears, another freshman who Blaine vaguely remembers exchanging
pleasantries with the day of auditions. They’re in the same algebra class, and
they end up comparing notes one day after practice. They sit next to each other
at lunch a few days later and have a side conversation about the Buckeyes’
chances against the rest of the Big 10. They practice their choreography next
to each other at rehearsal so that they can figure out how they’re supposed to
hold their tails. And it occurs to Blaine suddenly that he’s making a friend.
He’s not sure he’s had a real friend since his playground days, when no one
cared who had ears and a tail.
There are others too: Nick and Jeff, an inseparable pair even though Jeff is a
hybrid and Nick is not, and Thad, a sophomore catboy with a ropelike tail who
takes a sudden, almost alarming interest in becoming friends with Blaine after
about half a dozen rehearsals.
The whole group is cordial, and they tend to stick together, even outside of
school and practice. Blaine eschews the first few invitations they extend, but
Wes stops him on the way out of the dining hall one Saturday morning, and
invites him to attend a field hockey scrimmage that afternoon. Dalton, Blaine
learns, shares its athletic fields with its sister school, Crawford County Day,
and the students often attend each other’s sporting events. Blaine tries to beg
off, claiming homework, but Wes and the others with him — including the senior
members of the Council — very politely won’t hear of it.
Which is how Blaine finds himself amidst a crowd of boys, most of them teeming
with energy because they get to spend the afternoon awkwardly mingling and
flirting with the girls on the sidelines while they watch other girls run
around the field in shorts. Blaine doesn’t echo their enthusiasm, of course,
but he doesn’t volunteer the news that he’s gay either. He doesn’t think it’s
going to be a problem, but he can still hear it, pussy fag, in the hall, in his
ears, in the dark. The testosterone is high as the Dalton students troop out to
the field, and Blaine almost feels bad for the girls, until he sees how excited
they are for the event too.
Blaine hangs back on the bleachers, mostly keeping to himself in the middle of
rings of chattering groups of boys, but occasionally dropping a few works into
conversations here and there. Some of the other Dalton boys don’t leave the
bleachers either, and Blaine’s not sure if that means that they’re gay too, or
if they have girlfriends elsewhere, or if they’re shy, or something else
entirely.
It’s a nice day out: sunny and comfortable with just the slightest cool edge to
the wind. Blaine can scent drying leaves in the air, and the afternoon sun
soaks into the fur on his ears and warms his skin underneath. Suddenly, to his
surprise, he realizes that he’s purring: it’s ragged, and so quiet that even
the boys sitting closest to him probably can’t hear it, but it’s there,
vibrating in his chest and his throat. He’s so startled at first that it stops
for a minute, but then Blaine assesses himself, his comfort, the fresh air and
the peace and the ease, and he lets it start up again. He's not sure he can
remember the last time he'd spontaneously started purring.
All in all, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Working at the HSSC makes Blaine happy too, and as much as he tries to deny it,
part of that is because of Mr. Hummel, and not just because he’s still got a
ridiculous crush that he tries to tamp down every time he feels it rearing its
ugly, completely inappropriate head. After a month and a half, Mr. Hummel means
more to Blaine than just a silly schoolboy fantasy. His steady confidence in
Blaine is a buoy, and Blaine can feel himself opening like a slow-blooming
flower under Mr. Hummel’s watchful attention.
The library project isn’t even that complicated, but with each step that Blaine
proposes and completes, he feels more self-assured, more like himself and less
like nervous, public school Blaine. He sorts through the books, organizes and
labels them, and catalogs them all on spreadsheets. It’s his idea to track the
conditions of the books, and Mr. Hummel praises him for it. Blaine drafts a
policy for students who wants to check out books, and Mr. Hummel revises it.
They talk about it, heads leaning towards each other as they bend over the
pages on the table; the scent of Mr. Hummel’s cologne flooding Blaine’s nose,
and he has to tamp down on his not-a-crush really, really hard.
*
If Blaine had thought that Warblers' rehearsals were strenuous before, it's
nothing compared to the weeks leading up to Sectionals. Practices increase from
one per week to two, then three. Blaine's pretty sure the entire choir could
perform the three numbers they have planned if they were all collectively
knocked unconscious.
He's nervous boarding the bus, and he feels kind of silly about it. He's all
background vocals, and he's pretty sure he sleep-walked his choreography the
night before. But what if he sees the audience and blanks? What if he flubs his
steps and sings off key and hits everyone with his tail and is single-handedly
responsible for the Warblers' lowest competition ranking in seventeen years?
Blaine flumps down into a seat, next to Trent and across from Nick and Jeff. He
knows that he's probably not going to screw up that badly, but still, he thinks
he'll feel better once the competition is all over and he actually doesn't.
He's quiet and withdrawn during the drive, and when Mr. Hummel turns around to
give them all a quick pep talk, all Blaine can do is offer a watery smile in
response.
He feels sick waiting in the audience, and he feels sick waiting in the wings,
and the moment that they're in silent, still formation on the darkened stage is
probably the worst. But then the lights come up and the performance starts and
something unexpected happens.
Blaine... loves it.
All the anxiety rolls itself into a ball and explodes in a burst of energy, and
the excitement of the crowd is infectious, and Blaine can't stop grinning as he
spins and step-touches his way through their opening number. He finishes the
set flushed and breathing heavy and beaming out at the audience. Everything is
kind of a blur in front of his eyes, but somehow he does see it when Mr. Hummel
jumps immediately to his feet in the third row, applauding enthusiastically,
then shooting them a discreet thumbs-up.
And he meets Blaine's gaze, for just a moment, and his smile deepens. Blaine
swears it.
*
The Warblers’ Holiday Spectacular is held on the last evening before the campus
is closed for the long break that lasts until after New Year’s. They’re all
warming up backstage, immaculate in freshly pressed uniforms and, by turns,
Santa hats and reindeer antlers affixed to headbands. Blaine is shocked that so
much whimsy is allowed. He’s alternating between bouncing on his toes and
running scales when Mr. Hummel turns up, and Blaine drops back to his heels,
falls silent, and gulps.
Mr. Hummel greets the Council members first, and Blaine is glad, because it
gives him the chance to both stare unnoticed and fix his slack jaw. He’s never
seen Mr. Hummel really dressed up — not that he doesn’t look fantastic every
day — and it’s a sight to behold: perfectly tailored trousers, a crisp white
shirt, a waistcoat in rich red, and a festive ascot. His hair is surprisingly
less immaculate than usual, a fact that Blaine understands much more when he
sees Wes pass Mr.Hummel a hat of his own — specifically, a top hat with a sprig
of holly affixed to the band. Mr. Hummel laughs and dons it.
When Mr. Hummel turns to away from Wes, Blaine quickly begins stretching and
vocalizing again, focusing on some distant spot on the wall. Out of the corner
of his eye, he watches Mr. Hummel make his way across the backstage area,
greeting and checking in with various Warblers as he goes. “Hey, Mr. Hummel!”
Blaine calls out when he gets close enough, aiming for a this-is-my-perfectly-
normal-tone-of-voice tone of voice.
“Hi, Blaine,” Mr. Hummel responds. He gestures to the reindeer antlers Blaine
is wearing with a grin. “You look like you’re all ready to go. Which one are
you? Not Rudolph any more, I hope.”
Blaine chuckles, and suddenly the plastic headband digging into scalp doesn’t
bother him nearly as much as it had before. “Oh no, I feel much better now,
thank you. Maybe Prancer? I’ve got my step-touch down pat.” He demonstrates,
one step, two, and finishes with a snap and a spin on the ball of one foot,
tucking his tail up tight against his back so it doesn’t sail away from his
body.
Mr. Hummel laughs and gives him a few appreciative claps. “Oh, you’re
definitely ready,” he says, and then pauses, still smiling. Sounding more
serious, he adds, “It’s wonderful to see you so happy, Blaine.”
“I — oh,” Blaine stammers, suddenly flustered, ducking his head. He doesn’t
know how to respond and finally settles on, “Thank you. It’s nice to — be
happy.”
There’s a fleeting touch to one of his shoulders, and then a squeeze, and
Blaine jumps, only looking back up in time to see Mr. Hummel pulling his hand
away. “Break a leg out there,” he says.
Blaine feels gawky, and awkward, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
In desperation, he clasps them behind his back. “Thank you. Um, you too.”
“I’ll see you out there,” Mr. Hummel says, stepping away as Wes starts rounding
the Warblers up for their entrance.
*
The concert goes off without a hitch. They sound fantastic on the traditional
carols like “O Tannenbaum” and “Silent Night.” They have more fun with “We Need
a Little Christmas” and get the audience singing along with some more upbeat,
familiar numbers. Blaine is having an awesome time: all the fun of performance
without the stress of competition, the camaraderie, not just of the Warblers,
but of everyone in the room having fun together.
All of it is wonderful, but the best part is hearing Mr. Hummel sing.
It’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” with simple background vocals
from the senior members of the choir. As much as Blaine wishes he were singing
along, he’s almost happier to be listening, his eyes luminous, his ears angled
to catch every note, his heart aching with the lyrics and the clarity of Mr.
Hummel’s voice.
Okay, okay. This is a crush. It's okay though. It doesn't have to mean
anything.
*
Spending almost two weeks at home for the holidays is... interminable. Cooper
flies in for a whirlwind less-than-seventy-two hours, and other than that it's
Blaine and his parents and their stilted conversation, or Blaine by himself in
their huge, empty house. He exchanges some texts and emails with his new
friends, but they're busy with their families.
It's actually a relief to go back to school, even though most of January is
lost to frantic studying for midterms, and frantic rehearsals for Regionals,
which the Warblers lose soundly to Vocal Adrenaline. It's disappointing,
especially for the seniors, but as soon as they board the bus for a subdued
ride back to Dalton, Blaine already can't wait to start the competition cycle
again the next year. He's definitely been bitten by the performance bug — not
that it matters much in the long term, for a hybrid.
*
By the time March rolls around, Blaine has love and relationships on the brain,
but not because he'd had a Valentine of his own. Instead of going on dates,
he's watching the news intently — everyone is, especially at Dalton, because
the entire state of Ohio is suddenly buzzing about the possibility of full
marriage rights for hybrids.
The lawsuit is officially filed on Valentine’s Day, on behalf of three couples
in Cleveland: two hybrid-hybrid couples and one human-hybrid. A human-hybrid
couple, an actual couple that loves each other so much that they want to spend
the rest of their lives together. Not just illicit sex, not just a joke, but
marriage. Blaine knows that couples like that exist, but they’re few and far
between in small town Ohio. He looks at them curiously, examining the images on
the computer and TV screens. They stand together, clutching each other’s hands
and arms, united and defiant, proud despite what they must know people are
saying about them. It makes something in his chest ache.
The HSSC is suddenly abuzz with activity, and subscription to their email
newsletter triples. There’s a host of information to push out: what’s already
happened and what happens next, the process of taking a lawsuit from complaint
to trial, and how they can help — because there are already plans in the works.
Mr. Hummel is full of excitement about what they can do, about harnessing the
power of the students. They’re not going to protest — Mr. Hummel doesn’t want
to put any minors in danger — but, he says, they’re going to make their voices
heard. They’re going to take to social media and get all the students who are
over eighteen to sign petitions and they’re going to write letters, letters to
the court and the judge and the editors of all the newspapers in the state. And
Blaine’s waiting patiently to find out who’s going to be heading up all that
writing, because he definitely wants to participate, when Mr. Hummel looks at
him and smiles. “Blaine, now that the library’s up and running, you’ve got some
bandwidth, right? How would you like to organize the letter-writing campaign?”
Blaine startles a little as the words sink in. “Me?”
Mr. Hummel chuckles. “Yes, you.”
“But I’m — only a freshman,” Blaine sputters. “I mean… surely someone else —”
He gestures around at the other volunteers who, for their parts, aren’t looking
at him like he’s being completely embarrassing. They really are going to make
great teachers and therapists and counselors some day.
“Blaine,” Mr. Hummel says patiently, “I know how deeply you care about this
issue. You’re a natural leader, and I think you’re a perfect fit for this.”
The assessment is something that Blaine very much wants to question — a natural
leader? — but he’s already blurted out enough in front of the rest of the
group. “I… would love to. Thank you, Mr. Hummel.”
“Great!” Mr. Hummel exclaims. “Why don’t you put together a plan, and we’ll
discuss it at your next shift? Okay, newsletter group, let’s discuss what’s
going out next.”
Blaine’s learned enough from the library project that he comes to his next
shift with ideas: he’ll research the newspapers that they should write to,
compile address lists including the court, draft letters for people to use as a
framework if they aren’t sure where to start. They’ll set up scheduled times
when students and faculty can drop in and help, whether it’s for five minutes
or an hour. The HSSC will stock all the supplies, the envelopes and the stamps,
and will be responsible for mailing out the finished letters. “And,” Blaine
adds, flushed with excitement and enthusiasm, “I think we should mail the
letters out in one big batch, or deliver them, but take pictures of them first
to post on social media or put in the newsletter. Oh! Speaking of the
newsletter, we should have paper copies available for people who come in to
write.”
Mr. Hummel is positively beaming at him when he finishes outlining his ideas.
“Blaine, this is fantastic. I knew you were just the right person for this. I’m
so proud of you.”
After a weeks of planning and promotion and a month of scheduled letter-writing
events, two a week, there are over five hundred letters to seal into their
envelopes and sort into boxes. The letters to the editor have been submitted as
they were completed, and the one that were published are taped up on the wall.
Blaine looks up from the envelope he’s moistening with a plastic bottle that
feeds into a sponge at all of it, all that they’ve done, and he can’t help a
grin.
“It’s amazing, what you’ve managed to accomplish,” Mr. Hummel says from across
the table, clearly catching his expression. “You did a fantastic thing here,
Blaine. You should be very proud.” It’s just the two of them working on this
last step. Mr. Hummel hadn’t seemed to mind — he’d just asked, amused, if no
one else had wanted to join in on the fun of sealing shut hundreds of
envelopes. Blaine’s reply was a guilty I guess not, because the truth was that
he hadn’t tried very hard to find volunteers. Kieran had originally offered to
help, after overhearing a conversation between Blaine and Mr. Hummel, but he
was swamped with a senior project and had to back out. As for everyone else,
well — Blaine just hadn’t really gotten around to asking. Really.
Blaine presses the envelope shut, smiling even bigger even though he tries to
keep it in check. “I just can’t believe how enthusiastic everyone was. I never
thought we’d get over five hundred letters written.”
“Because of you, Blaine,” Mr. Hummel presses him. “They were enthusiastic
because you were enthusiastic. You’re the one who got everyone in here.”
“You helped,” Blaine protests, his face hot from the praise.
“With ideas,” Mr. Hummel says. “And even most of those were yours. You’re the
one who went out and got people here. This campaign was successful because of
you. Thank you.”
His voice is serious, and he tilts his head, waiting until Blaine looks up from
the letter he’s folding, and their eyes meet. Blaine lets his shoulders slump
in defeat. He smiles shyly. “You’re welcome.”
Mr. Hummel nods, and they both go back to work. For a few moments, there’s just
rustling paper and the muffled thumps of letters dropping into boxes, until
Blaine clears his throat and says, “I should be thanking you too, Mr. Hummel.
We wouldn’t have been able to do all of this without you bringing the idea to
life.”
“It’s too important not to.” Mr. Hummel finishes up one bundle of letters and
reaches for another. “Especially for us here at the HSSC.”
Blaine mulls that over for a moment. “Mr. Hummel, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he replies easily, glancing across the table. “What is it?”
“Why do you…” Blaine pauses, because the word he wants to use is care, but that
sounds so callous. He tries to retrieve it and come at the question from a
different angle. “I mean, you’ve done so much, and not just with the planning.
I feel like half of the staff and faculty letters came from you. I mean, you’re
— you’re —”
“Human?” Mr. Hummel supplies, smiling.
Blaine colors a little at being so transparent. “Well… yeah.”
Mr. Hummel grabs another letter to fold, as he says, thoughtfully, “Blaine, no
person should be denied the right to marry another person who they love. All
the bans on hybrid marriage were rushed hastily into law when most people
didn’t even understand how hybrid physiology really worked. They thought you
were just glorified house pets, but we know now that’s not true. Hybrids are
people. You have the full mental capacity of any human being, and the ability
to love and consent to marriage. It’s wrong to deny that.” Mr. Hummel seals
shut the envelope that he’s working on, but he doesn’t reach for another,
looking Blaine full in the face as he goes on, his eyes blazing. “Look at
history! It wasn’t that long ago that white people couldn’t marry black people,
that equal marriage rights were denied for gay and lesbian couples. That was
wrong, and this is wrong too.”
Blaine feels — well, his chest feels tight, his stomach fluttery, his eyes
full. He’s not sure why it means so much, but it means so much to hear it.
“Thank you,” he chokes out.
He can sense that Mr. Hummel is trying to rein himself in, to compose himself.
“You’re welcome, Blaine. Don’t ever think that there aren’t humans who care, or
who understand. At least as much as we can.”
“What do you mean?” Blaine asks. He goes back to work, folding sharp creases
into the next letter, trying to regain his own composure.
There’s a pause. For a few seconds, Blaine isn’t sure that Mr. Hummel isn’t
going to answer, but when glances surreptitiously across, he sees that Mr.
Hummel just looks like he’s deep in thought. “Even though marriage equality was
granted to gay and lesbian couples when I was very young,” he starts, “it
didn’t mean that being gay was widely accepted — especially in small-town Ohio.
I came out when I was a sophomore, and for two years, I was the only openly gay
student in school. And I paid the price.”
Blaine’s heart pounds. He doesn’t know what to say, but it feels like he should
say something. He settles on, “I’m so sorry.” He tries his best to ignore the
tiny, mutinous corner of his brain that’s rejoicing in the fact that Mr. Hummel
is gay, because he knows that this is about so much more than that, and Mr.
Hummel is in his twenties anyway. (But, the corner repeats, he is!)
“Thank you, Blaine,” Mr. Hummel replies. “It was a long time ago now, and it
did help me become the person I am today, but at the same time, I don’t want
other kids to have to go through the same kind of bullying to find themselves.
Which is why, when my original career plans didn’t work out, I realized pretty
quickly that what I wanted to do instead was help other students who might be
in the same situation. Or —” he gives a rueful smile “—help make the world a
better place so those situations don’t have to happen at all. But I suppose
that’s a pretty lofty goal.”
Blaine smiles back. “Well, I mean…” He gestures at the letters around them, the
boxes. “This is the kind of thing that’s going to help make the world a better
place, right?” It feels strange, to be the one comforting an adult, and
comforting Mr. Hummel of all adults, instead of the other way around.
“I hope so,” Mr. Hummel says, but there’s a dubious undertone to his words. He
goes back to folding letters and stuffing envelopes.
Blaine follows suit, and they work in silence for a time. It feels a little
more fraught than it had before, a bit uneasy. Mr. Hummel seems like he’s
absorbed in his own thoughts, maybe even a bit sad. Blaine squirms a few times
in his seat, sure that he doesn’t have the social graces to smooth the
situation over. Finally, he can’t stand it anymore, and asks, “So, is this —
what you want to be doing, then? Running a student service center?”
Mr. Hummel startles and looks back up, but his face relaxes quickly. “Well,
ideally, I’d like to be the head of all student services, whether it’s here or
at another school. Dalton does have the best opportunities for blended
education in Ohio, but I’d like to the opportunity to bring the services that
we offer for human students and hybrid students together, so we can all learn
from each other and understand each other better. Wherever I end up, I’ll need
to finish my master’s degree first.”
“Are you still in school?” Blaine asks, surprised. Mr. Hummel works full time —
probably more than full time, when it’s all said and done.
“I take classes online,” Mr. Hummel explains. “Evenings, weekends…”
“Wow,” Blaine says. “That must keep you busy.”
Mr. Hummel chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like there’s a lot of humor in it.
“It certainly does. This job practically fell into my lap, though, and it’s
exactly what I was looking for, so I didn’t want to let the opportunity pass me
by.”
“Well, I’m glad you took it,” Blaine blurts out. He blushes furiously, but
hides it by standing to grab one of the boxes and move it to the floor.
“I am too,” Mr. Hummel replies, and they exchange a quick smile when Blaine
straightens back up. Then they get back to work.
*
The end of the school year seems to careen down the tracks at Blaine with no
brakes. There are tests to study for and papers to write, and the Warblers
rehearse and perform an end-of-year recital in lieu of going to Nationals. It’s
fun, but it’s a poor substitute.
The HSSC is suddenly a hotbed of activity, because the hybrid marriage equality
case is finally before the court. They publish updates several times per day,
keeping the school up to date on the arguments, the protesters, the press
conferences. And suddenly, it’s time for the decision to come down.
Blaine rushes to the HSSC after his classes are done, and finds it packed with
students, mostly hybrid, but not entirely. He hears someone shouting his name,
and catches sight of Mr. Hummel waving to him from the other side of the room,
where a TV on a cart has been set up for the occasion. Blaine makes his way
through the crowd, returning greetings and showing anxious crossed fingers as
he goes.
“No word yet?” he asks as he reaches Mr. Hummel and the cluster of volunteers
around him.
“Not yet,” Mr. Hummel says, “but it should be any minute.”
Blaine is nervous. He’s extremely nervous, and if things go the wrong way, he
knows he’s going to feel partially responsible, like he didn’t get Dalton to
send enough letters or they didn’t say the right things. He bounces on his toes
and looks at the TV, which is playing a talk show on mute, the world going on
as usual as though this isn’t one of the most important days in Blaine’s young
life. Conversation swirls around Blaine, but he doesn’t really take part in it,
just smiles and nods like he’s paying rapt attention.
The news breaks on social media, so it’s someone in the middle of the room with
their phone out who knows the outcome first. There’s a shout, then a murmur,
and then, finally, cheers. Blaine swivels quickly back to the television, and
there it is in scrolling text across the bottom of the screen: the decision is
in, and the ban is unconstitutional, and hybrids — at least in Ohio — can marry
whoever they want. Clerks in several counties across the state are keeping
their offices open later than usual to grant marriage licenses.
Inexplicably, Blaine feels like crying. He knows that the letters from Dalton
didn’t really have any impact on the decision, and he’s only almost-sixteen and
it’s not like he has anyone to marry even if he were old enough, but it just
means… everything. Or at least a step in the direction of everything, where
legally, he and everyone like him will be recognized as the people that they
are, and maybe someday, everyone will treat hybrids the same as they do anyone
else. And maybe, just maybe, some day, there won’t be any more catboys bleeding
on the pavement and absorbing kick after kick with their bruising ribs.
Everyone is screaming and high-fiving and hugging, but Blaine feels strangely
removed from it all, even though Morgan, a junior HSSC volunteer, grabs him in
an exuberant hug the moment the news becomes clear. Blaine is frozen, separated
by the gravity he’s feeling in the face of everyone’s exuberance. He stays
still, his hands clutched to his face, until the sound of his own name cuts
through the buzzing in his ears. It’s Mr. Hummel, who takes Blaine’s shoulder
in a firm grip and looks carefully into his eyes. “Blaine! Are you okay?”
Blaine nods, and blinks, and suddenly he is crying. Mr. Hummel gives him a
watery smile and shouts, “Congratulations!” over all the noise, then he pulls
Blaine in, and hugs him with strong arms. Blaine clings, unable to do anything
else, sniffling into Mr. Hummel’s shoulder, the scent of him going in deep. It
shocks a sudden purr out of him — happiness or self-comfort, he doesn’t know —
and an unexpected furl of heat and flutters in his stomach. “Congratulations,”
Mr. Hummel says again, low, and Blaine’s ear brushes over his cheek as it
swivels toward Mr. Hummel’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Blaine whispers, briefly tightening his grip — his fingers curling
harder into Mr. Hummel’s shoulder and his arm — before it’s all over, much too
soon. Mr. Hummel pulls back, still gripping Blaine’s shoulders, and he beams
into Blaine’s face at close range, and his face is flushed and his eyes are
bright, and the idea of being close enough to kiss him shakes Blaine like he’s
a mouse in the mouth of a real cat. The room is spinning so fast, so fast, and
then Mr. Hummel lets him go completely and turns to someone else. To hug
someone else.
Blaine knows that he has to do the same, that otherwise it’s going to be
strange. He spins, and catching sight of Thad and Trent near the food table,
hurries away. He’s barely paying attention as they crow and exchange quick,
one-armed hugs. Because he knows now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he
doesn’t have a crush on Mr. Hummel at all. No, instead, he’s completely in
love.
End Notes
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