Author's Note: Here's my attempt at the Badboy!Klaine genre. This one features Badboy!Kurt and McKinley High as a juvenile correctional facility.
Rated M for language and possible future smut.
Blaine Anderson cursed quietly to himself as he watched his afternoon bus speed away from the entrance to Dalton Academy. As always, he had two options. One: call his father and wait in the school library until the allocated time, receiving no apology when his father turned up over an hour late. Or two: walk five minutes to the nearest community bus stop to get home. This would be taking a route that many Dalton students feared to tread as it passed the infamous McKinley reform school.
The teachers of Dalton often used McKinley as a scapegoat for punishment when misbehaviour presented itself in class, as in 'Do that again next time and I'll make sure you'll be sent to McKinley!' It worked every time. Located on a corner, the school (known by its full name as William McKinley Correctional School for Boys and Girls) was situated next to the only sidewalk available, unless one dared to venture out on to the main road. The outside exercise area of the boys' school backed out onto the sidewalk, surrounded by a black iron fence. In the unfortunate event that any Dalton student were to pass by while the boys had their free time, the boys of McKinley were not hesitant to throw out as many taunts as they could. It just so happened that it would be the afternoon that Blaine decided not to wait around for his father.
Oi, we've got a Dalton faggot passing through!
Can't afford to pay for a ride home, rich boy?
Blaine kept his head down and walked straight ahead as the jeers and obscenities continued. Only briefly did he turn his head to one side to see where they were coming from. Through the iron bars, he glimpsed a group of boys hanging around the steps leading up to the school building, watching him. All of them wore variations of the same standard McKinley uniform: a navy blue hooded zip sweatshirt, a white t-shirt and navy track pants. A Mohawk hairstyle caught his attention briefly, before its owner shouted, 'Nice blazer, dipshit' and the group around him burst into laughter. Blaine quickly tore his eyes away, not before hearing 'Hey, where the fuck is Hummel? I'm sure he'd want to see this one.' As the iron fence ended, replaced by the brick wall of a residential home, Blaine exhaled in relief.
The following day, Blaine had remained after class to discuss the results of his Literature essay, and once again was late for his afternoon bus. After calling his father and receiving the usual spiel from his secretary ('He's in a meeting, try calling back an hour later'), Blaine trudged down to the second bus stop, his satchel almost at breaking point from the heavy load of recommended reading. As he rounded the corner, he prayed that he would receive respite from all that had occurred the day before, but he had no such luck.
Hey, it's him! He's back!
Lost your way again, dickhead?
It's the short one from yesterday – Hummel, come take a look!
He increased his stride but in doing so, heard a loud rip from the bottom of his satchel. To his horror, the contents spilled out onto the sidewalk - Keats, Whitman et. al. – and he quickly bent down to retrieve them as ridicule rang loud and clear in his ears. Only when he reached forward to claim the last text did he feel a presence standing a few feet away from him, and he directed his eyes upwards.
Standing directly behind the iron bars, looking down at him was a tall, slender boy with the palest skin that Blaine had ever seen. Unlike the other boys, whose uniforms were oversized to emphasise some sort of thug-esque look, his was neat and well-fitted. His sweatshirt was unzipped, and despite the boy's lean chest, Blaine could see defined muscles through his white cotton t-shirt.
'You should fuck that one, Hummel, he's pretty!' yelled one of the students, and they laughed again. The boy, who Blaine could only name as Hummel, ignored them and fixed his piercing blue eyes down on to Blaine.
'See something you like, honey?' His voice was smooth but came with a hint of mockery. Blaine realised he had been staring at the other boy with his mouth slightly open. He looked away and quickly picked up his satchel, grasping at fallen books in his other hand. He heard a female voice yelling from inside the school building and saw the group trudging back inside, giving glances back to the fence. Blaine straightened up as the other boy remarked: 'You have pretty eyelashes.'
'Porcelain!' A woman with blonde hair and a dark tracksuit yelled out to him from the top of the stairs that led inside the school.
'On my way,' he replied in a singsong voice. He continued staring at Blaine as he backed away from the fence, giving a sly smile as he turned around and strode towards the direction of the school building. Seeing the woman trying to catch a glimpse of him, Blaine moved down the sidewalk until both she and McKinley were out of sight. His heart was beating more forcefully than usual, and he knew it was not the taunts and jeers that had caused it.
On Friday afternoon, Blaine didn't miss the bus; the bus missed him. Questioning his sanity as he muttered under his breath, he was surprised to hear silence instead of the usual loud obscenities as he approached McKinley on his route. A bigger surprise awaited him as he turned the corner – to find the pale-skinned boy leaning against the fence on the outside sidewalk.
He had wanted to stop then and there and turn around, as he had always done whenever he sensed danger. But he persisted, ambling down the sidewalk slowly as he felt his heart rate begin to increase. As he edged closer, he noticed that the boy was not in uniform but instead was dressed in black skinny jeans, calf-high black boots with buckles and a cream jacket. He was also twirling what looked like a wooden drumstick in his right hand. Holding his breath as he walked past, Blaine heard said object clatter to the ground. Seeing that he had a firm grip on the drumstick before, Blaine thought it unusual that the other boy had let it drop directly in front of his path.
'If you don't mind picking that up.' It was more of a demand than a request.
Hesitating, Blaine reached over and retrieved the drumstick – as he had been taught at Dalton that helping others was the polite thing to do - before handing it out for the other boy to take. The other boy looked at him curiously before reaching out his slender hand, slowly and gently pulling it away from him. Blaine stood, opening his mouth to say something, anything to break the silence. But words failed him, and he made a move to turn away.
'So what's your name?' This time, it sounded more of a request, and Blaine couldn't say no to a request.
'Blaine Anderson.' He knew he shouldn't have given out his last name, but again, it was the polite thing to do, as was his next choice of words. 'And yours?'
A look of bewilderment flashed in the eyes of the other boy, but it vanished so quickly that Blaine thought he had imagined it. 'Kurt Hummel.'
He could sense that the air was clear for a conversation. 'So how come you're-'
'Out?' Kurt began to twirl the drumstick in his fingers again. 'I get day release every two weeks.' He curled his lip in attempt of a smile. 'I'm not all bad.'
Blaine noticed he was staring at Kurt again, and averted his eyes to distract himself. 'Where did you get that?' he asked, motioning to the drumstick in Kurt's hand.
'I…borrowed it,' Kurt replied, placing heavy emphasis on the word borrowed. 'From Finn Hudson. Need to remind him and the others every now and again that I have the upper hand.' He stopped to admire the object at arm's length. 'Otherwise they walk all over you.'
Blaine nodded in understanding. 'Do you play?'
'The drums? No. They put everyone with any shred of a musical disposition in the one class. Our teaching instructor is obsessed with Journey and that's all we ever get to do. Then again, he is known for being a conceited prick.'
'So, what do you play?' Blaine asked, ignoring the fact that Kurt had called just his teacher a conceited prick.
'I don't. I sing.'
Kurt scoffed. 'No. I don't give them that pleasure.'
Blaine didn't know what to say after that, though he did now know that he and Kurt had singing in common. Unlike Kurt, singing with others gave Blaine a lot of pleasure. Being a part of the Warblers was one of the perks of attending Dalton Academy.
'I'm curious…' said Kurt, stepping around so that his body was facing Blaine's. '…as to why you've walked by here again. For the third time this week.' His eyes danced as he looked at Blaine, resuming to twirl the drumstick with his fingers again. 'I'm beginning to think that you came here on purpose.'
Blaine swallowed, and he blurted out his answer without thinking. 'I had to stay back and I missed the bus and the nearest one is around here.'
Kurt stopped, holding the drumstick still before placing it in the pocket of his jacket. 'Good. You see, I've always had a thing for Dalton boys.' He reached to clasp at an iron bar of the fence between them and edged himself closer. Being only inches away, Blaine braced himself for the stench of cigarette smoke that he would imagine would come from hanging around with a group of delinquents, but it never came. Instead, his senses were greeted with vanilla and the faint scent of cinnamon spice. 'They make them exactly how I like them – dapper and straight.'
Blaine knew he should have said something to correct him, but for his own safety he found it best to keep his mouth shut as Kurt leaned in even closer. Too close. 'And you're no exception.'
He was saved the trouble as a car drove by, stopping further down by the sidewalk and sounding its horn. Kurt drew back from him and looked behind Blaine to the rear of the car.
'That would be my ride,' Kurt said, pushing himself off the fence. 'See you around, Dalton boy.'
Blaine tried not to watch as the car pulled away from the kerb. Instead, his attention was caught by a small satchel propped up against the fence. He looked around; Kurt would have noticed by now that his satchel was missing. Blaine wondered whether it was bad manners to open it, but curiosity got the better of him. It was empty save for a plastic folder containing printed sheets. Blaine looked closely, and noticed the one thing they all had in common: they were musical lyrics. From Etta James to Liza Minnelli, the range included songs from various Broadway musicals. With the threat of study for tests over the weekend at the back of his mind, Blaine picked up the satchel and swung it over his other shoulder. He would return it, but in the meantime, Kurt Hummel would just have to wait.