Try Me Out.

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.