Camp Brotherhood

Week 1, Tuesday

With the absence of the nature walk, Blaine is far less dedicated to the 6am wake up time. Once everyone is awoken by his mouth trumpet, we are all informed that we can sleep for a maximum of two more hours. Then, it's go time. There are sighs of relief and Jeff cussing Blaine out for waking us at all. But, a few minutes having passed, all is still again. Almost all.

   I, unfortunately, am the type of person who can not simply go back to sleep. While my entire cabin snores, I stare at the planks holding up the mattress—and bones— above me. I do not sleep. When I am awoken, I stay awake.

   As I lie there, contemplating getting dressed, I hear a voice mumble to itself. "Huh?" I reply, noncommittally. My logic is that if he was talking to me, he'd repeat himself. If he wasn't, I can close my eyes and pretend I made the sound in my sleep.

   Blaine's face pops into view. "Oh, Kurt, you're awake. Good morning." He smiles brightly. Evidently, Blaine and I suffer from a similar condition. "I was just wondering if the mess hall will serve me now." Or he's just hungry. "I know it's an hour early, but the early bird gets the worm, right?" He's peering cheerily at me, upside down, from his top bunk.

   "I don't know. You could ask." I offer.

   "Good idea, Kurt. Let's go." Before I can register it, Blaine is up and crawling to the ladder of his bed.

   "Woah, wait," isn't 'let's' a contraction of 'let us'? Like both of us? "Me? You want—'let us'— I'm coming?"

   Stopping mid ladder, he smirks at me. "What else have you got to do?" He hops off the ladder and grabs his Sperrys, already fully dressed. "Nothing." He supplies, when I only stare back at him. "You've got nothing else to do, Kurt. Come on." Dropping my own shoes on my bed, he relays the invitation casually to me, like we've done this every year together at Camp Brotherhood. He barely gives me enough time to tie my laces, before pulling me by the arm as he races outside. Too late, I realize I could've pretended to be asleep.

   Stepping out of the cabin, still in my pajamas, the grass is wet with dew. It's been untouched, all other campers still in their cabins, sleeping or dressing for the day. Meanwhile, my day has already begun and it's with Blaine Anderson: the Dreamsicle with the dark curly bed head and indescribably hot morning voice. And even though he keeps his beautiful morning voice to himself as we hurry to the mess hall, upon arrival it rings loud and clear.

   "I fucking knew it!" The few families who currently dine glance up at us. Yet, Blaine has no apologies. "Breakfast does not start at seven. That's just what they tell us." Blaine conspires, grabbing a bowl and making a beeline for the cereal. "That's what they've always told us."

   "Who?" I dare ask, following him with a bowl of my own.

   "The big brother of Camp Brotherhood. The Wes of years past." He alludes. But, for a moment, he drops his passionate conspirateur voice to say, "you should try the fruit loops. Something about it here; they just always taste better. Seriously, Kurt, fruit loops." I take his suggestion, filling my bowl. "And try mixing your fruit punch with the lemonade sometime. I mean, not now. Get your coffee fix. But, like, at lunch.

   "See, now, I don't understand why we can't eat at six." Once we've staked out at table, he's back at it. "Hell, even five. Anytime but seven. Why seven? I always thought the mess hall opened at seven. But, clearly, not." Something, somewhere, heard my complaints about Blaine yesterday. My silly, misguided complaints. So, to prove me wrong, they have aligned the stars for this moment, in which this god among men has sat me down to discuss the blasphemy of breakfast over a bowl of fruit loops. Maybe, there is a god after all. How else would I end up here, with Blaine, like this? His hair is tousled from sleep, his voice becoming less gruff with every sprouting idea, his eyes so close and vibrant. I start to notice hints of green in them as they dart animatedly with his rant, until they fall to brown again, aligning with mine.