(AN: This fic is pretty old – like over a year old. So please take some of the characterizations with a grain of salt, because I was basically running from two or three episodes of Glee ever. But I was just so convinced that Kurt and Michael NEEDED to meet, lol.)

Michael was of varying opinions on the whole situation.

At first it had sounded like crap. Show choir? Glee club? It was a pale comparison at best and a waste of stage space at worst. He didn't understand how this strange, involuntary partnership was going to help either side, and he definitely didn't trust a friend of Bert Handley's (although maybe it was a friend of a friend of Bert Handley's. But even so). But then Shaun - he was pretty sure it was Shaun, at any rate – had started giving him some crap about there maybe being a few more fairies arriving in the forest, and Michael's outlook had improved a little. Surely a high school glee club would stand second only to a high school theater department when it came to that sort of thing – and God knew Camp O could use some fresh blood no matter which way they swung. He'd been a little discouraged when he'd heard about the "matching up" that was being done based on "skill level and performance range" – who was making that crap decision, Glen? Bert? – but he'd tried to stay positive. It was probably his last summer here, and he wasn't going to let some show choir – oh God, show choir? – kids ruin it.

Then he met Scrawny White Boy, and he realized that skill level and performance range his ass, they'd been paired up because they were both obviously homo, and Michael resigned himself to hating these three miserable days after all.

There were six of them, all from BFE Ohio, one of them absolutely gorgeous and one of them only a little less so but in a raging douchebag kind of way. There was some diva Ellen-Fritzi hybrid girl, some diva Dee-Jenna hybrid girl, a quieter Asian chick he figured he could probably learn to like, and Scrawny White Boy. Scrawny White Boy who was wearing a polo with a popped collar and sunglasses that were probably worth more than Michael's car, Scrawny White Boy whom he'd caught humming that damn Beyonce song at least once already, Scrawny White Boy who was going to take the bottom bunk and like it, if Michael had anything to say about it.

Scrawny White Boy whom Michael was sure had been right ahead of him in the lunch line not two seconds ago, and had now mysteriously vanished.

Tray in hand, Michael scoured the mess hall, but there was no sign of him – there were only a couple of faces at Camp O he didn't recognize, and they were either new kids (and were too young to be Scrawny White Boy) or they were not scrawny, white, or a boy (his eyes landed on Dee sitting with Black Diva Chick but none of the other Ohioans were in sight). He finally found Scrawny White Boy (he really had to come up with something shorter than that, but S-W-B took just as much effort to say) sitting outside on a low stone bench, unwrapping tinfoil from some kind of wrap that reeked of what could only be hummus.

"There you are," Michael said, rolling his eyes and sitting down next to him.

"I abhor cafeterias," he said. "At school Mr. Schue usually lets me eat lunch in the music room. He trusts me not to make a mess."

Michael watched him take a meticulous bite, and dug his fork into his own mac 'n' cheese a bit more sloppily than usual out of spite. "I can see why."

He adjusted his sunglasses, perching them on top of his head so he could peer at Michael more closely. "It's Kurt, by the way. I can tell by the way you're staring at my face that you've forgotten it already."

"Damn," said Michael, "I was just getting used to calling you Swhibo in my head."

Kurt blinked. "What?"

"Never mind."

"And you're Michael," he said, twisting the cap off his water bottle. "I actually paid attention."

"Well sorry if I'm not quite used to this whole thing yet," Michael grumbled. "Geez, you should be lucky they put the two fags together and didn't stick you with someone like Fritzi, she'd've done worse than just forget your name."

Anyone but Swhibo – Kurt – would have done a spit take. To his credit he restrained himself. "What – makes – you – think – "

"Oh, honey. Honestly?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow, but Michael was an old pro at this, and just raised one back. Their eyes remained locked for a good minute but Michael didn't give, and finally Kurt sighed and took another bite of his hummus wrap. When he'd finished chewing and managed to swallow, he sighed again. "I just didn't think it was so..."

"Blindingly obvious? Tattooed on your face in rainbow colors? Look, there is this thing called gaydar, but mine coulda been broken and I still would have...geez, never mind," he said at the look on Kurt's face. "Forget I said anything."

"Done," said Kurt, peeling a new sheet of foil off of half a grapefruit and taking a goddamn grapefruit spoon from his lunchbag to eat it with. Michael just shook his head and ate the rest of his macaroni, and then started in on his chicken patty sandwich, wiping off as much of the excess condiments as he could from the inside.

"...At least it's nice out here," Kurt said after a bit. "I was worried it'd be all...woodsy, being a summer camp and all, lots of bug bites and things, but the mosquitos aren't even that bad. I love the scenery."

Michael thought back to the one absolutely gorgeous Ohioan, and the one that was only a little less so but in a raging douchebag kind of way. "Do your hot shirtless jock Gleetard friends count as scenery? Because if they do, I'm gonna enjoy it too."

"...Absolutely," Kurt managed, in a small conspiratorial voice. But then he frowned again. "But only if you share, too. Last I checked this was meant to be an equal partnership."

"Swhibo, have you met Vlad?"

As if on fucking cue – speak of the Devil and he will appear, Michael thought morosely – a soft guitar strain floated to their ears from somewhere unseen. The notes plunked out a little awkwardly before the guitarist found his rhythm, but then they started coming pretty strongly, and Michael could hear a painfully familiar voice beginning to sing – was that a Beatles song? He was having a hard time making it out from this far away.

"Come on," he hissed to Kurt, and when all the stupid Scrawny White Boy did was make a confused face at him, Michael grabbed his wrist and tugged him along, his grapefruit spoon clattering to the ground after them. They snuck alongside the outside of the mess hall in the direction of the music, and Michael poked his head around to see Vlad, sitting on one of the same exact benches, foot propped up on the bench surface next to him, playing his guitar. Sitting on the arm of the bench with his feet up on the bench itself was that hot jock Gleetard, and just as Kurt managed to poke his head around too, they were both singing. The glee guy's voice was high, but not as high as Vlad's, and they fit together in a way that was almost painfully amazing.

Here comes the sun, doo-n-do-do
Here comes the sun,
I said it's all right

Kurt squeaked a little as Michael's hand dug a bit too hard into his shoulder, but he didn't let up, and Kurt was clinging just as hard to the bottom hem of his shirt.

They kept singing on through the song, stopping every once in a while to comment on each other's voices, readjust, backtrack a little. By the time they seemed to be solidly set in how things were going, the song seemed to be flowing a little too well, and that's when Michael noticed it – there was a weird sort of beat plugged into the background, something that definitely wasn't coming from Vlad or the glee guy or the guitar. He looked around for a possible source and found it almost instantly – and then just as instantly wished he hadn't. Off just past the outskirts of the mess hall was the usually-deserted basketball court, and hanging out over there with a ball bouncing between his wide hands and the concrete was that other glee guy. His hair was the worst travesty Michael had seen since Jill had spiked Fritzi's AquaNet with peroxide, but as he currently fit to a T the earlier description of hot shirtless jock Gleetard friend, Michael found himself enjoying the scenery almost more than he'd bargained for. Soon the basketball stopped thumping, but the douchey glee kid was taking steps toward the other two, and by the time he'd leaned over the back of the bench on his elbows he'd started to sing along too, little darlin', his lower voice rounding them out enough that Michael was sure this should not be allowed to exist in the world. They got to the end of the song and exchanged some high fives – oh dear lord was that a nipple ring

"Okay so you know that Andy Samberg song 'Jizz In My Pants' from the internet, right?" he babbled.

Kurt swallowed audibly. "I just ate a grape."

-xxx-

"I just don't understand what that was supposed to accomplish," Rachel said, on the plane ride home. "I don't feel like my talents have been augmented or respected, let alone improved. Ellen was nice but she was quite the pushover."

"Wish I'd'a got a chance to push 'er over," said Puck with a sleazy grin. "No, I get stuck with that wacko kid that doesn't even know what a football is. I swear if I hear the words 'Stephen Sondheim' one more time - "

"You just said them," Mercedes retorted, rolling her eyes. "Besides, I woulda switched with you in a heartbeat if it meant I got to get away from my 'partner.'" (Complete with air quotes.) "I don't care if you did put the Dee in 'diva,' ain't nobody gonna out-Mercedes Mercedes."

"I dunno," said Finn, reclining his chair, "I kinda liked Vlad... We were just – kinda the same person, is all. It was almost creepy. I don't think either one of us helped either one of us because we were just so much on the same level. I think we're gonna email and stuff, though...at least for a little while."

"Exactly," said Rachel. "Working with someone who can't help me is just like working with someone who's going to hurt me. My career can't handle that at this point, especially if I could have spent this weekend at a modern dance seminar."

"Oh, c'mon, Rachel," said Mr. Schuester, only halfway interested in their conversation as he looked over some notes. "Surely you've learned something from this experience, even if it didn't actually pertain to your work with Glee. It's about having the experience itself. That's what helps you learn and grow."

"I hate c-c-camp," said Tina. "M-making friendship bracelets, going outside...I'm a g-geek, I don't like going outside." She crossed her arms and slumped against the back of her seat, drawing as far away from the back of Finn's in front of her as possible. "And I m-m-miss Artie. Stupid f-family vacations."

"I'm a little scared of who they'da stuck him with," said Mercedes. "Probably tried to make him tapdance. I'da been set to bust somebody."

Their section of the flight fell silent for a few moments, for which the plane's other passengers were probably very grateful. Mr. Schuester shuffled some papers around, and Tina started playing her DS, the game beeping quietly and blending in with the plane's white noise.

Then Puck spoke up. "You been awfully quiet, princess," he said across the aisle.

Kurt tried not to smile too smugly as he turned to face Puck, switching his legs over to cross the other way. His cell phone in his pocket had exactly one new number in the contacts, and he'd set it to vibrate, just in case. He'd give the number to Mercedes later – she'd definitely want it – but for the next couple of days Kurt fully intended to keep his new friend all to himself.

"If you must know," he said, "I had a wonderful time."