Notes: Cheerio!Kurt/Badboy!Blaine s2 AU.
When someone was summoned by Coach Sylvester, there was no predicting what she wanted. Kurt knew this, but that didn't stop him from running possible scenarios through his head all the way to her office, trying to prepare himself for anything.
He hadn't expected "anything" to be the dark, curly head and defined shoulders of Blaine Anderson, already seated in front of her desk when he arrived. Kurt stopped in the doorway, both of his hands tightening on the strap of his satchel, and stared.
Everyone knew who Blaine was. That was what happened when a person transferred less than three months before the end of the school year with stitches above their eye. Kurt had heard it all: that he'd been expelled for fighting, that he'd been held back for the same, that he was in a fight club, that he dismantled cars and sold the parts, that he vandalized, that he burglarized, that he stole, that he set fires, that he knew the taste of human flesh…
Kurt himself had gleefully joined in on the gossip. There had been nothing else to do at the time. Once the cheerios won nationals, Sue stopped caring what they did; the sports seasons were over at that point—or maybe they still went on, but no one paid attention to anything except football, sometimes. In either case all of the jocks always seemed to be roaming the hallways and picking off the weak, not out in the fields or in the locker rooms training. Obviously glee's competition season had ended by then, and aside for nursing home performances they'd had nothing to keep them busy. Since Quinn had had, and given up, her baby, that well of school gossip had run dry. And it wasn't as though anyone that went to McKinley ever thought about schoolwork.
Basically, no one had anything else to occupy their thoughts for the rest of March, April, and May. Kurt didn't believe all of it, but it had been entertaining enough to gossip about with Mercedes, and at least some of it had proved true: within the first week of his transfer, people had spotted him through the glass walls of Figgins' office, hauled in for fighting with Azimio.
He was always in and out for tangling with some meathead or another, and that was just fine with Kurt. Let the Neanderthals fight amongst themselves. The less time they spent united and enforcing the social order, the better.
No one had seen him all of summer; Tina had heard that he'd run away to California to become a porn star. But he'd been there on the first day of school, and not just at McKinley: in the choir room. Apparently he had decided to join the jazz band. Aside from occasionally pulling faces and rolling his eyes, Blaine had remained as silent and in the background as the rest of the band. Kurt had seen him pound on a keyboard, saw a violin, and even beat the drums; seen the flex of arm muscles that were used to being used.
Blaine glanced over his shoulder, and their eyes met. Blaine's face was tight with annoyance, Kurt noted. He hitched his bag higher up his shoulder and refocused on Sylvester. "You wanted to see me, Coach?"
"Have a seat, Porcelain," she said, standing in front of her trophy case and surveying the many towering, first-place trophies within. Kurt sat carefully down in the free seat beside Blaine, after determining that it would be riskier to be obvious about scooting the chair further away. He crossed his legs, folded his hands on his knee, and waited attentively for Sylvester to continue. He could feel Blaine looking at him, and sat up straighter; shoulders square, head held high. If someone could feign fearlessness well enough, it could have the same effect as the real thing.
Sylvester turned away from the trophies and sat down in her own, reclining chair. "I'm sure you recall last week's football game, where Blondie dislocated her shoulder."
Kurt resisted an eye-roll. He remembered Finn's sudden notion that he had himself a sandwich genie, and how he'd gotten Mr. Schue to sanction a week of religious songs to celebrate that fact. Kurt had skipped the assignment—he'd been much more interested in spending the time texting Chandler.
Sylvester made a face. "Not only did my attempt to get football declared unsafe and immediately defunded fail, but the beast reacted like any dimwitted creature would. She's fighting back," her lip curled, "academically. She plans to have Figgins ban anyone from the cheerios who isn't pulling a 2.0. Now," she said, sitting up suddenly and leaning over the desk toward him, "I arranged for a little distraction for Beiste this week," she said, with a glimmer in her eye, and Kurt's eyebrows rose, wondering what sort of hand she could have had in Puck's decision to steal an ATM on Sunday. The rumors had been circling the school all day; Brittany and Santana had been laughing about it at morning practice while Quinn rolled her eyes, and Mercedes and Tina had been eagerly repeating rumors during lunch. Kurt couldn't say he was surprised to hear Sylvester insinuate that she had had a hand in it. He knew what she was capable of.
He wondered if Sylvester had brought Blaine in to perform a hit for her.
"I'm instituting a new policy before she has a chance to regroup," Sylvester went on. For the first time since Kurt had entered the office, her eyes flickered over to Blaine, who was still slouched in his chair with a foul look on his face. "Porcelain, meet your new tutor."
Kurt stared at her for a moment, not comprehending. "What?"
"Tribrows agreed to tutoring over expulsion," Sylvester said. Blaine gave her a baleful look.
"I don't need a tutor," Kurt protested. "We're not even a month into the school year, and I've always had a B average—"
"You failed your last math test," Sylvester cut in. "And you've stopped turning in your science homework."
Kurt pursed. Well, so what if he'd decided to go out on a few dates that week instead of finishing his homework? Between schoolwork, cheerio practice, glee, and and his first-ever boyfriend, something had to be moved lower down the list of priorities. Anyone in his position would have made the same call. "I'll take care of it," he promised.
"Yes," Sylvester agreed. "Rocky here will make sure of that."
Kurt inhaled and sat up straighter. "Coach, I swear, that isn't necessary. I'll do it without"—Kurt tried to come up with a gentle euphemism for "thug"—"motivation."
"Oh, Porcelain," Sylvester chuckled. "I would never send someone to threaten your kneecaps. I need all of your parts working for those handsprings." She jabbed a finger towards Blaine. "Scrappy has a 4.0."
"It's a 4.4."
Kurt turned his head slowly to look at Blaine, who met his gaze with a steady, challenging stare of his own. "But you're never even in class," Kurt said, before he could think to hide his astonishment. It was true, though—half the time he was nowhere to be found. When he did show up, he sat in the back and didn't pay attention.
Blaine rolled his eyes. "I'm in AP classes. And I finish all my homework before class is even over." He shot Sylvester an irate look. Her eyes narrowed in response. "This school is a joke. Anyone with half a brain can get straight A's."
Kurt's lips thinned and he lifted his chin.
"You can work out the particulars between yourselves," Sylvester said. "As long as I see results. Now get the hell out, I have plotting to do."
"So what sort of exchange were you thinking?" Blaine asked as they left Sylvester's office. They'd been in there long enough that the initial wave of students leaving the school had passed, and the hall was empty save for the stragglers and the people who had after-school activities. Blaine had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket and wasn't carrying any kind of bag. Kurt had been observing him out of corner of his eye, still having trouble believing that Blaine Anderson was supposed to tutor him, and it took a minute to process what Blaine had said.
"What?" Kurt asked.
"I'll tell you right now, I'm not interested in sexual favors."
"What?!" Kurt exclaimed with an unattractive squawk. He stopped dead; Blaine continued on for another couple paces before he realized and stopped as well, turning around.
Blaine arched an at him. Kurt was getting sick of his cool disdain. "I heard that was the deal Artie and Brittany worked out."
"What are you talking about?" Kurt demanded.
"Payment for me to do your homework for you," Blaine said, sounding impatient.
"You're supposed to tutor me."
Blaine let out a mirthless snort. "Yeah, right," he said. "That's why Coach Sylvester rounded up all of the students with the highest GPAs and assigned each of them to a cheerio. Because she wants them all to take time away from practice to learn their ABCs." Blaine licked his lips. "So—payment. You're a 'Hummel Tires and Lube' Hummel, right?"
"I'm not giving you anything," Kurt said, before Blaine could demand that he let him use the garage as a chop shop, or something.
Blaine crossed his arms. "Look, maybe the rest of them can be cowed into doing you cheerios' work by the strength of Sylvester's glare alone, but not me. Unless you want me to hand your English teacher a book report on the latest Vogue, you'd better make an offer."
Kurt narrowed his eyes, affronted. "I earn what I get," he informed him. "No one does my work for me."
Blaine's eyebrows rose, mild surprise overtaking his usual sour expression. Kurt crossed his arms. "Cheerio practice starts at four. An hour after school each day ought to do it." He spun on his heel and started toward the library without another word.
There was a pause, and then he heard the click of Blaine's boots and he strode to catch up with him. "Wait."
"What?" Kurt bit out, feeling peeved.
"I'm not spending any more time in this hell hole than I have to," Blaine informed him. "You can study just as well at a coffee shop."
Kurt was more apprehensive about the safety of the beat up old Chevy than he was about getting into a car with Blaine. So far he'd insinuated that Kurt was a moron and made some other insulting assumptions about him, but he hadn't behaved like a violent thug.
Kurt could handle insulting.
Blaine grabbed a duffle bag off of the front seat and crammed it in the back, and Kurt slid into the passenger seat carefully. He held his bag on his lap, although he noted that the floor was surprisingly clear of fast-food wrappers and other trash. Blaine fished his keys out of his back pocket and stuck them in the ignition. The CD player lit up as the engine roared to life, picking up where Blaine had presumably left off that morning: "—ime to start the countdown, I'm gonna burn it down, down, down…"
Kurt's eyebrows shot up. He looked over at Blaine, who met his eyes with a pointed, arched eyebrow. He spun the dial for the volume up.
Well, Kurt couldn't ignore such a blatant challenge. "You listen to P!nk. You?"
"No one does 'bitter' like female pop artists." Blaine plucked a pair of sunglasses out of the cup holder, slid them on, and put the car in gear. Kurt wondered if he looked half as incredulous as he felt.
"Don't stereotype me," Blaine said, smirk suddenly cheeky, and peeled out of the parking lot with the bass thumping, "do do do do dodo do, do do do do dodo doo…"