dazzleboxes

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 10.5/10]

dazzlebug — Fri, 28 Feb 2014 23:31:27 GMT

Day 100: Tuesday 25th December, 2012
Stoke the Fires, Start the Engines (Hawaii)

“Crystal Skull, Raiders, Jurassic Park… Anything but 50 First Dates.”

“Hmm. Harrison Ford or Sam Neill. Tough one.”

“I honestly don’t care. You pick.”

The moment he’d stepped off the plane at Kahului Airport, the island’s warm air wrapping around him in a welcoming embrace, Kurt had finally begun to breathe freely again. Here in Hawaii, the oxygen was somehow far more plentiful than in had been ‘on the mainland,’ as he’d heard numerous locals referring to it—and when he walked out of the Banana Wind gift shop, he took in a deep lungful of fresh night air.

He drove their rental car back to the hotel at a leisurely speed; his stomach was still full almost to bursting from dinner at Mama’s Fish House, a casual yet high-end restaurant in Paia where it seemed that everything on the menu had been caught by a local. Now that he had a little time and space to himself, he felt ready to begin processing everything that had passed between him and Blaine over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

All that he could really remember, however, were flashes: the warm squeeze of Blaine’s palm at odds with his cold fingertips as they walked back inside the Tap Root; the strange, unfamiliar sound of his own laugh when Blaine had made a joke about The Cannery, back home in Brunswick; the burn in his cheeks when, in their hastily procured hotel room, Kurt had studied the expressions playing across Blaine’s face as he watched Kurt’s video diaries.

And the talk, that long overdue talk; hours and hours of speaking until their throats were hoarse and their mouths parched, touching and kissing for bottomless minutes in between just to let their voices rest. Spurts of sharp anger that leapt into the air yet fizzled faster than they had come—barbed fireworks that still lingered in the recesses of Kurt’s mind. Long ribbons of apologies and explanations begun with start-and-stop words but soon unfurling, honesty being pulled from them both at long last until everything was laid bare—their secrets, their lies, and their deepest fears.

Then that morning, his heart safely in Blaine’s hand and Blaine’s hand in his, they had said goodbye to their friends and started walking, the first step feeling to Kurt as if it encompassed all sixteen thousand miles they’d traveled together, and so many more besides.

Living in the aftermath was slightly odd, and very wonderful, but it wasn’t until there was an ocean separating them from their most recent history that Kurt could shake off the remnants of the convulsive agony that had had him practically begging a bartender for a Band-Aid. He had come so close—too close—to losing Blaine forever, and he was acutely aware that for a moment, he had.

This was why, after dinner, Kurt had dropped Blaine back at their hotel overlooking Kaanapali Beach and driven into town to pick up something for Blaine, something that Kurt hoped would cement his apologies and promises in a way that, to him, words hadn’t seemed to.

When he arrived at the beach where he had asked Blaine to meet him, Kurt took a moment to slip off his shoes and look out at the shoreline. Blaine was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, silhouetted against the water, the breeze rippling the back of his t-shirt. Even from the back he looked peaceful, and Kurt approached slowly, the soft white sand beneath and between his toes muffling his steps.

“Hey,” Kurt said quietly as he dropped onto the sand next to Blaine and leaned his head on Blaine’s shoulder. He set down his shoes and the paper bag he was carrying in favor of wrapping his arms around Blaine’s waist, and smiled when Blaine shifted to loop an arm around his shoulders. “What are you thinking about?”

“Fifty states in a hundred days,” Blaine replied, his tone conveying a certain amount of disbelief. “We really did it.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t?” Kurt asked.

“Well, the buzz word was ‘ambitious’ when we were telling people about it,” Blaine said. “But we made it.”

“Look how far we’ve come,” Kurt said, his words an exhalation. “You patched things up with your dad; I came to terms with—with Mom… We’re going to work on a movie together… Everything’s different now.”

“It is,” Blaine agreed. “Especially you and me. Do you…?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you think any of it would have happened if we hadn’t come on this trip?”

Kurt mulled it over for a few moments, casting his mind back to the day that Blaine had come back to Brunswick, taller and broader and more worldly—though it had taken next to no time for them to find their groove again, Kurt now knew that there had been a marked difference in their relationship, even though he’d denied it for so long.

“Yes,” he finally answered, turning his gaze out to the waves lapping gently at the shore. “There might have been less drama, or… Maybe there might have been even more, I don’t know. But it would have happened. It was bound to, one way or another.”

“I think you’re right,” Blaine whispered, inclining his head toward Kurt’s and pressing a kiss into his hair.

“Do you think you would have figured out your dream if we’d stayed in Brunswick?” Kurt asked carefully.

“The only reason I have that dream is because of you,” Blaine said matter-of-factly. “But like you said, it would have happened, one way or another. Don’t get me wrong; I still love film, and I still want to make beautiful things with you like we always talked about, but now it’s…”

“You’re the music, and I’m the pictures,” Kurt finished quietly. “I guess it just… It never really occurred to me that I was worthy of that.”

“There’s a reason I didn’t just turn around and head for Maine, idiot,” Blaine said fondly. “Do you really think I would have gotten on a plane for anyone else?”

“I’m sorry for what I put you through,” Kurt said quickly—the need to apologize didn’t feel like it would ever wane. After the sixth or seventh time Blaine had begun absolving him with kisses and he did the same now, craning his neck and kissing each of Kurt’s lips in turn. The warm pressure of his lips was a catch and release that had Kurt intoxicated all over again within seconds.

“I got something for you,” he blurted when they pulled apart—he’d been waiting, biding his time for the right moment, and it suddenly hit him that there was no better moment than this. He inched away, sitting up straight and reaching for the paper bag emblazoned with the Banana Wind logo. Biting his lip, he pulled out the floating lantern he’d bought, along with a novelty lighter decorated with glazed seashells, and presented the lantern to Blaine.

Blaine studied it for a moment, and then asked, “What’s this?”

“Your birthday and Christmas present,” Kurt said. “What I actually got you is still back in the R.V., so really this is just a placeholder.”

“You got me a floating lantern?” Blaine asked, looking at Kurt with so much warmth and fondness in his eyes that Kurt couldn’t quite hold his gaze, or else he’d never be able to get out the speech he’d been preparing all day.

Gently, he took the lantern back and set about unfolding it. “I heard they do this on Magic Island every year,” he began. “Thousands of people show up and light these lanterns. Some people do it to remember people who have passed away, and some pray for their future, and then they float them out on the water. It's—it's silly, but...”

In the moments of fruitless silence that overtook him, Kurt fixated on the lantern’s smooth, waxed paper folds, as if he was constructing something far more substantial. And then Blaine’s hand found his knee; it was a simple touch, but a tether nonetheless.

“Last night, there was one thing that I didn’t tell you about,” Kurt said, hands faltering on the lantern. “I actually thought about it just before I fell asleep, and it’s been playing on my mind ever since.”

“Okay…” Blaine said, shaking his head a little.

“You never asked about what happened in South Carolina, and I was grateful for that, because even after my big drama moment in Santa Fe, I didn’t want to talk about it,” Kurt admitted. “I was sitting by the fountain thinking about Mom, and this psych professor came over to me… He looked like every stereotypical movie professor, you know? Tweed jacket, mustache, briefcase… The whole nine yards. Anyway, we got to talking, and it turned out that Mom was one of his students.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Tell me the rest?”

Taking a deep breath, Kurt reached for Blaine’s hand and linked their fingers. “He asked me to toss a coin into the fountain and make a wish, and I know you’re not supposed to tell people your wishes because then they won’t come true, but I’m swearing to you right now that I will make this wish come true.”

“What did you wish for?” Blaine asked.

“I wished to be what you need me to be,” Kurt said, looking deep into Blaine’s eyes and willing him to believe. “Blaine, what we have—what I have with you, it’s…” he trailed off, searching for a way to convey what he had no idea how to put into words. “It’s beyond anything. I’ve never believed in not having control over what happens to me, but you happened, and I didn’t have any control over that at all. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and you still are, and I knew as soon as that plane took off that I was doomed because you’re it. You’re the end of the movie.”

Blaine blinked at him for a moment before turning his gaze skyward and letting out a gruff sigh. Slowly, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes and then, faster than Kurt could register, closed the gap between them and captured Kurt’s lips with his own. It was another of those kisses that made Kurt feel like he was drowning in Blaine, seventeen years old all over again with his hands shaking almost uncontrollably as they tangled themselves in Blaine’s hair and held on for dear life. How could he have ever even attempted to walk away from this?

Breathing heavily as he pulled away, Blaine said, “Kurt, you are exactly who I need you to be. Because you’re it for me, too, you know. Ever since we met.”

Though Kurt’s eyes still felt raw from all the emotional purging he’d done over the past forty-eight hours, they once more filled with tears and he pitched forward to bury his face in the hollow of Blaine’s neck, fingers twisting into his shirt and clutching tightly.

The sound of paper crumpling was what made him pull back, sniffing harshly and laughing at Blaine’s amused smile. “Shut up,” Kurt chided him, picking up the lantern and straightening it out where it had become creased. As he passed it to Blaine and handed him the lighter, he said, “Make a wish.”

Blaine turned the lighter over and over between his fingers, watching Kurt with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, then got to his feet, holding the lantern aloft. In the next instant the lantern was lit, the faint lines etched into the paper suddenly fully distinguishable—all around the outside of the lantern were sophisticated drawings of birds and fish, musical notes and swirls, flowers and flames.

“Get up here,” Blaine said, and Kurt got to his feet, taking the side of the lantern that Blaine wasn’t holding. They held it between them, taking the time to study the drawings in all their intricacy.

“What are you wishing for?” Kurt asked, quickly adding, “Don’t tell me if it won’t come true.”

Sighing a little, Blaine answered, “I wish this trip didn’t have to end. I wish we could just stay here.”

“Well, we’ve got three days,” Kurt pointed out. “And maybe one day we can come back.”

“One day,” Blaine said wistfully. “What about you? What’s your wish?”

Kurt waved a hand dismissively and shook his head. “I’ve wished for enough. Besides, it’s your birthday.”

“It’s also Christmas,” Blaine said, stepping closer so that they had to raise the lantern over their heads. It was beginning to strain against them as more and more hot air filled it, and Kurt briefly wondered what it would be like to just float away into the atmosphere, Blaine by his side and the trappings of himself and the world left far behind. “Come on. There’s gotta be something.”

Kurt looked up at the lantern, at the drawing nearest his fingers—a couple in a close embrace. “I wish you could’ve been my first,” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth almost before he’d had to time to think them or realize that they were unequivocally true. “We should have been each other’s firsts.”

Smiling up at him, Blaine raised his eyebrows and pushed the lantern out of Kurt’s grip and into the air. They watched it rise together, swaying this way and that, following the breeze on its journey skyward. Blaine’s hand found Kurt’s, and nudged his leg. “Don’t you think it’s more important that we’re each other’s lasts instead?”

“You’re way too smooth for your own good, Anderson,” Kurt replied.

Blaine hummed as his knuckles drifted back and forth over Kurt's leg, and even though there were thousands of miles between them and Brunswick, the distance didn’t matter; it was another of those moments from Kurt’s back deck, the kind that made Kurt wish life had a pause button—but only for a fleeting handful of seconds. This time, he was looking ahead, seeing a life laid out before them. It was filled to brimming with the promise of breakfasts spent kissing crumbs from fingertips, long nights devoted to burying themselves between smooth skin and soft sheets, a DVD library that they’d look upon fondly because it would contain every single movie they’d watched this trip. They’d sift through screenplays until Blaine found the right story to tell through his music, and they’d hop on and off planes holding hands until Kurt found the right location in which to tell it.

“Well, I’m not that smooth…” Blaine said, interrupting his thoughts. At Kurt’s raised eyebrow, he shifted from one foot to the other and said, “I’d like to know what this present is. The one that’s back in the R.V.”

“Oh, it’s… It’s nothing,” Kurt said. “Just a DVD.”

“What DVD?” Blaine pressed.

“Our movie,” Kurt answered quietly. “I got you The Lion King.”

“Kurt…”

“Because that’s what started it all, right? That’s where we began; that’s where you changed my life, so I thought…”

“No such thing as history,” Blaine murmured, reaching up and cupping his jaw with a little shake of his head. “Who’s the smooth one now?”

Kurt didn’t have space to reply; Blaine twisted his hand into the collar of Kurt’s shirt and gently pulled himself closer. Kurt met his kiss in the middle and sighed into it, letting his hand move along the roughness of Blaine’s stubble. Blaine moved to tug him down onto the sand but Kurt stopped him, wanting to give him one last placeholder present, the one inspired by a story he’d been thinking about ever since Santa Fe.

Pulling his iPod from his pocket, he said, “Dad once told me about the night he and Mom got engaged. After he asked her, she blindfolded him and walked him over to their tape deck, told him to pick out a tape, and the first song that came on was going to be their song.”

“And what was it?” Blaine asked, looking down at the iPod.

“Car Wash,” Kurt said with a chuckle. “He said they did the jitterbug until they fell over laughing.”

“Is this going where I think it’s going?”

“I was just thinking, even with all the songs we’ve listened to and sung along to and danced to… There isn’t really one that’s ours.”

“Are you forgetting Anything Could Happen? It was playing the first time you kissed me,” Blaine reminded him; Kurt closed his eyes, for that song was now forever tainted by harsh but deserved words and bitterest shame.

“Yeah, but…” he trailed off—the thought was surely still as fresh in Blaine’s mind as it was in his own, and this was one moment that he knew could be perfect, however it turned out. “That was April deciding for us. I want us to have one that… That we can dance like idiots to if we have to.”

Silently, he unwound the ear buds that he kept wrapped around the iPod, put one into his own ear and gave the other to Blaine. The trembling was back again, everything feeling a little too full, like he might burst out of his own skin if he didn’t let Blaine hold not just his hand but all of him once more—so he wrapped one arm around Blaine’s waist, hooked his chin over Blaine’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and hit shuffle.

Whatever the song was, it began almost too quietly for Kurt to hear, a gradual building of strumming guitars that he barely recognized. Blaine took his hand, sandwiching the iPod between their skin, and started swaying right there on the sand—he picked up the rhythm straight away, a stark contrast to the cold confines of a cave in Virginia. This was all open air and hope, safe and settled, and as he pulled back to look into Blaine’s eyes, Kurt realized that it couldn’t have been anywhere but here. It couldn’t have been one of many teenage runaway nights, riding their bikes up to Coffin Pond. It couldn’t have been spring break at Hampton Beach, playing cards on the floor of the pavilion until after sunset. It couldn’t even have been being squeezed into one of April’s garden loungers on July fourth, watching the fireworks with Blaine’s breath tickling the back of his neck.

Everything up until now—the flames and heat of Providence; Kurt’s misstep in Philadelphia; their first kiss at land’s end in Key West; ceilings crumbling and falling right in front of them in Gary; a music box containing a train ticket that concealed the worst intentions and fears; Blaine giving him air as they sank into the freezing waters of Lake Calhoun; the moment he saw the ‘I love you’ in Blaine’s eyes one starry night in New Orleans; resisting Blaine with everything, with words and snow and fire until nothing else remained but to leap and hope to be caught…

There was no such thing as history, because without what had come before, there would be nothing of the present or the future that lay beyond it. Kurt now knew this better than most. No Z without Y, no Y without X, back and back and back… It all led here, to this moment where the score died out and left two people looking at each other in simple silence, held in a suspended second with everything frozen save for their racing hearts.

“In the car on the way to the city, in the morning it was foggy on the windscreen,” the singer broke in. “We talked about the day ahead and shouldn’t we just run away instead.”

“We started to believe our dreams and I just kept driving right past the exit,” Blaine sang along, a grin in his voice and his lips brushing Kurt’s ear. “How does that sound?”

Kurt smiled into his shoulder—home, love, future—and told him, “Like the end of the beginning.”

Distance: 17,932 miles

Additional Listening: Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros; This Is The New Year by A Great Big World

*

THE END

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 10.4/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 19 Feb 2014 21:05:56 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

This fic will be updated twice-weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 4pm EST/9pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3. Previous chapters here.

NOTE: The next update will be Wed 26 Feb at the earliest—I need a little extra time to get the ending just right! In the meantime, here's a supersized update that I hope will tide you over until then :)

Day 099: Monday 24th December, 2012
The Boy with the Band-Aid (Alaska)

“No, we already wrote Into the Wild down for Oregon.”

“Okay, what about Insomnia?”

“Looks pretty good. Okay, only one left!”

Blaine had had a new text post open for nearly an hour, typing and deleting over and over again until finally he just wrote, Fuck everything. After hitting ‘Submit,’ he pushed the laptop away and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. It was nearly five a.m., and he was exhausted. But with the torrential downpour of rain battering against the R.V., not to mention the anger thrumming in his veins, there was no way he could sleep. In all his life he’d never experienced such rage—not at Roberto Mancini, not at Kurt in Chicago or Minneapolis, not even at his own father. The only thing keeping him from going postal and trashing the R.V. were the memories of his grandfather that lingered in every square inch of the place—that, and the note full of empty apologies that he held between his fingers, thumb rubbing over the ink almost obsessively until it began to fade beneath his fingerprint.

Blaine was done trying to be fair, trying to see things from Kurt’s perspective as well as his own. He didn’t care that Kurt was scared, that he’d discovered Blaine’s song and run away because he’d thought he was doing what was best. He’d about had his fill, at this point, of what Kurt wanted and needed—he had changed so much of himself for this boy, and for what? To be left when they had a path laid out before them, just because he was too scared to walk it?

“Fuck that,” he muttered, finally crumpling Kurt’s note and tossing it away.

Now that Kurt was gone, there was too much silence. The air was too still. Some of his things still hung in the closets, and he’d left behind his toothbrush in the bathroom, and there was still some leftover lasagna in the refrigerator from the night before. But these were all trace elements of a love obviously now lost to him. For the first time, Blaine imagined, really imagined, what his life would be like without Kurt in it, because Kurt had been right; they wouldn’t recover from this. But that wasn’t the thing that made Blaine angriest of all—no, it was the fact that when he imagined life without Kurt, he saw nothing.

It was Blaine’s phone, vibrating across the table where he’d left it, that pulled him from his imagining. When he picked it up, he saw April smiling up at him from the screen.

After a moment’s hesitation, he answered, “Hey, Flower.”

“Hey,” she said quietly. “Um… Are you okay?”

Blaine snorted derisively. “Who the hell does he think he is?” he spat, under no illusions that April was in the dark. “He keeps me hanging for months, fucks somebody else to try and get me out of his system or whatever the hell that was, and then when he finally gives in like it’s some big chore, he up and fucking leaves the day before my birthday.”

“Jesus, Blaine,” April whispered, and in the background Blaine could hear the sound of a door closing. “What happened?”

“Well, the movies and TV shows lie.”

“Okay…”

“They make chasing someone through an airport look a shit-ton easier than it really is,” Blaine said, his words tailing off into an almost hysterical laugh as he began to pace back and forth. The anger surged up in him anew, and he couldn’t dam it up anymore; he had nowhere left to redirect it… So he let loose. “They wouldn’t let me check in using my ticket to Anchorage, so I had to buy a goddamn ticket to Nebraska just to get through security, and then getting through security took forever, and for what?

“For nothing; it was all for fucking nothing, because I caught up to him and he still left!” Blaine exclaimed, voice rising. “And do you want to know the worst part? I don’t get it. Nothing happened! I was hanging out with some friends, and he was happy when I left, and now he’s just gone. So I guess that’s it. It’s over. What happened on the road trip will stay on the fucking road trip after all.”

There was a long silence after his tirade, Blaine’s rapid, uneven breathing the only sound.

“Blaine, what the fuck is going on?” April finally asked, and Blaine sighed.

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” he said, waving his free hand before letting it drop limply to his side. “Kurt just took off, says I shouldn’t let him hold me back from my dream and that he was getting in the way.”

“Motherfucker,” April said. “That fucking idiot; I can’t even believe him sometimes.”

“That about sums it up, yeah. And—actually, no, this is the worst part: it is just like him to take off right before a storm hits. Everything out of SeaTac is delayed and I can’t do anything so I’m just sitting here like an idiot,” Blaine said. “Is he with you?”

“His flight gets in at six,” she said, “and I’m the asshole who said I’d go pick him up. To be honest, I’m tempted to fucking leave him there.”

“Don’t do that,” Blaine said automatically—even with his blood boiling, he couldn’t quite hold himself in check. Sighing again, he said, “You’re his best friend. He’s gonna need you.”

After a pause, she asked, “And what about you?”

“What do you mean, what about me? Game’s over, I might as well go home,” Blaine said.

“Excuse me? No,” April said. “No, that is not the Blaine Anderson I know—“

“April.”

“You two fucking love each other, okay? And it’s more than that; this has been going on for years and I’ve seen it, fucking everyone has—“

“April.”

“—and I did not spend the past three fucking months sending you…”

Blaine stopped in his tracks as she trailed off, muttering swears under her breath. “Sending me what?” he asked slowly, repeating the question more loudly when she just continued muttering. “Sending me what, April?”

“Ugh. Well, I was going to tell you anyway, and if it really is game over, you might as well know now,” April said, resignation clear in her tone. “You’ve been getting messages on your blog, right? Both of you have. Though I guess neither of you knew that you both had blogs. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that I’m F. I was the one sending you the songs.”

“You’re F,” Blaine repeated weakly. “F for… F for Flower. Fuck, how did I not see that?”

“Because you and Kurt have a habit of not seeing what’s right in front of your dumbass faces,” April said.

Blaine dropped heavily onto the couch, his exhaustion finally getting the better of him. He barely even had the energy to be surprised at the revelation that she’d been acting as puppet master for months. Who even knew what songs she’d been sending to Kurt? Had all of this been because of her? Would anything have happened between them without her? And, knowing that, would he have even wanted it to?

Pinching between his eyes, he said, “April, I’m so fucking tired. I’m tired of putting myself out there, tired of waiting and being patient, and I’m tired of chasing after him when he’s given me no reason to. I mean, honestly, what am I even still doing here? I should have just cut my losses and turned the fucking R.V. around as soon as I got back.”

“Was it worth it?” she asked. “All the putting yourself out there, all the chasing. Did it make you happy?”

Blaine bit down on the inside of his cheek, exhaling slowly and wishing he hadn’t picked up the phone.

Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “You love him. That’s what you’re still doing there.”

“I wish I didn’t,” he said quietly. “I wish that none of this had ever happened.”

She scoffed at that. “No, you don’t. So what are you going to do now?”

Casting his gaze around the interior of the R.V., inescapable traces of Kurt everywhere, Blaine closed his eyes against it all and thought for a moment. “Maybe I should go back to Maine. See if we can talk this all out when he gets back.”

“Talking about your feelings? What a world,” she deadpanned.

“Well, what would you suggest?”

“You’ve still got that ticket to Anchorage, right?”

“No,” Blaine said. “I mean—yes, I do. But I’m not chasing after him anymore. If he wants me, he can come fucking apologize.”

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous!” she exclaimed exasperatedly. “Maybe if both of you had just stopped being such guys about this whole thing and actually, you know, talked to each other from the start, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

“Yes, April, I get it. Okay? We’ve both been dumb as shit,” Blaine said. “So… You’re telling me to come to Anchorage.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” she said gently. “I’m just saying that you already have the ticket, and I don’t think this is over until it’s over. And…”

“And what?” he prompted.

“And I have one last song for you,” she said almost timidly, as if she was expecting Blaine to bite her head off. “Sweet Disposition, by The Temper Trap. Do you know it?”

He laughed humorlessly, threw up a hand and said, “It’s my favorite song.”

“Do me a favor and go listen to it? And then… Then do whatever you need to do,” April said. “And I’ll be here for you whatever happens. You know that.”

“I know,” Blaine said. “But no more songs, okay? You’re way too good at the puppet master thing.”

“Just making sure you guys finally saw each other,” she said.

“Hey—how did you even find my blog, anyway?” he asked as the thought occurred to him.

“Googling your name isn’t exactly difficult, honey,” she said.

Managing a small smile, he said, “Thanks, Flower.”

It wasn’t until they hung up and Blaine slumped against the back of the couch that he made the connection between April’s parting words and what Carole had said the day he and Kurt had left Maine: “You’ll figure it out, sweetheart. Just see him, alright?”

Blaine trudged into the bedroom, fighting off a yawn and blinking to try and keep himself awake. Way too much had happened over the past few hours for him to process, too much to even leave space to care that Kurt had found his song. He brushed the scraps of paper off the bed sheets and watched them flutter to the ground, hating the fact that his anger was slowly dissipating and leaving behind a terrible, scarring ache—he missed Kurt, and what he hated the most was that if he’d known their last kiss was going to be their last, he wouldn’t ever have stopped.

He collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling until it blurred—Philadelphia, shell-shocked, Kurt curling into him and falling asleep. The rain was hammering dully on the roof and windows—West Virginia, torpidly frantic, Kurt’s fingers twisting inside him. The leftover taste of his single cocktail was turning stale in his mouth—Portland, disbelief, Kurt promising him the world. He took in a deep breath just so that he could sigh—Bowdoin, comfort, Kurt’s morning double-spritz of cologne never changing from one day to the next. The sheets grew warmer beneath his cheek as he turned his head to look at the clock on the nightstand—everywhere after Florida, everything at once, Kurt, Kurt, Kurt.

Growing tired of turning his phone over and over in his hands, he held it over his face and scrolled to his Top 40 playlist, an ever-changing selection of songs to which he couldn’t add without taking away. Sweet Disposition was the oldest song on there, and had held the top spot ever since he’d discovered it.

He hit play—sweet disposition—his eyes drifted closed—never too soon—and as he let the song lull him into the cold embrace of a lonely sleep—oh, reckless abandon—he thought of Kurt—like no one’s watching you—and wondered if he was doing the same, somewhere up in the sky.

I swear to god when I get ahold of him, Blaine thought as he pushed his way outside and a blast of frigid night air assaulted him. First, he leaves. Then, April reads me the riot act. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’m so dumb that I decide to follow him, and then I get to spend the entire flight sitting next to a crying baby. On Christmas fucking Eve.

These were all trials for which he could shift at least a little of the blame—particularly the storm over Seattle that had delayed all outbound flights until late evening. He’d awoken to it around noon, the rain shot through with snowflakes and hailstones which pelted the roof and sides of the R.V. until he’d wanted nothing more than to bury his head beneath his pillow and go back to sleep. Instead, Blaine had yielded to the tugging in his gut.

The one thing for which he couldn’t shift the blame, however, was his utter failure to pack anything appropriate for Alaska. His mind had been scattered, fissures in his own self-trust distracting him from the task at hand, and somehow he’d made it all the way to the departure lounge before realizing that he’d packed for warm weather. Which was why he was standing outside Ted Stevens International Airport in Anchorage, dressed only in jeans and a button-down, freezing his ass off and cursing under his breath. He yielded three cabs to other harried-looking passengers before deciding that, in this particular instance, manners were for squares and jumped into the next one that came along.

“The Tap Root on Spenard Road, please,” he told the driver, raising his voice over the country music playing through the crackling radio. The driver grunted in the affirmative, and Blaine couldn’t exactly blame him. It was Christmas Eve, after all; he probably had a family to be getting home to.

The ten-minute journey passed at a crawl, but finally they were pulling up outside an unassuming, one-story building with red siding and the name of the bar in contemporary, swooping text to the right of the door. Blaine paid his fare, retrieved his suitcase from the trunk, and took a deep breath.

The second Blaine stepped inside, he saw Kurt sitting at a small, round table by the deliberately weathered bar, watching April and the rest of the band up on stage. There was a slump to his shoulders and despite his immaculate outfit, his hair was almost on end, standing in fifty different directions and lacking its usual coiffed perfection. It staggered Blaine, that lack of posture, and he hadn't even been able to keep track of such a gradual change because he'd been too close until now, but that was how Kurt used to hold himself. It had been less than twenty-four hours, and it was like looking at a different person entirely.

A soft guitar intro filled the bar, and Kurt shifted uncomfortably, his body language matching Blaine's inner turmoil. As Blaine approached Kurt’s table, April's haunting, breathy voice floated through the speakers, “Fall forward in the atmosphere; it’s a heavy load to bear.”

Bending down to speak into Kurt’s ear with his heart louder than his words, Blaine asked, “Is she on her own tonight?”

Kurt started and looked up at Blaine through wide, panicked eyes. “Mostly,” he answered, his voice thin and rasping.

Blaine gestured to the empty chair next to him and, after a moment of clear trepidation, Kurt nodded. As he was taking his seat, he asked, “How’s she doing?”

“Some upbeat stuff, but mostly ballads. Seems to be that kind of crowd,” he commented, glancing around as if to ensure he was looking anywhere but at Blaine. “I requested My Love by Sia about an hour ago. She was flawless, as usual.”

“The Twilight soundtrack? Really, Kurt?” Blaine asked, attempting to overcome the tense awkwardness with the good-natured ribbing that had formed one of the foundations of their relationship for years.

Kurt looked at him sharply for a second before seeming to give in to the tug of a wry answering grin. “Just because they’re bad movies doesn’t mean the song is any less beautiful.”

“It is beautiful,” Blaine conceded, “and at least Eclipse was the best one of the series.”

“Probably had something to do with David Slade.”

“Probably.”

They fell silent, Kurt picking at the label on his beer bottle and Blaine fiddling with his suitcase handle, trying not to watch him. He didn’t want to be the first one to break, not this time. Not when, after getting over the initial shock, Kurt looked utterly unsurprised to see him.

“Where are you? I am already gone,” April sang, Marcie and Liam’s backing vocals rounding out their lilting three-part harmony; when Blaine looked up at the stage, April was watching him with kind eyes that slipped closed as she repeated the lyric, obviously singing it for them and all that was broken between them.

At length, the better part of the label shredded, Kurt stilled his hands and turned toward Blaine. Without meeting his eyes, he asked, “Why are you here?”

Blaine’s dulled anger flared back to life, and he crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching out and shaking him. “You know exactly why I’m here, Kurt. I’m here because this isn’t finished, not by a long shot.”

Kurt shook his head, blinking rapidly. “I wanted to…”

“Wanted to what, Kurt? Wanted to set me free so that I could go off and live my dreams without you?” Blaine hissed, voice low so as not to cause a scene. He still had some manners. “Newsflash. I don’t need you to rescue me, and I’m not your fucking holiday pet. I’m not someone you can keep around while I’m fun and then kick to the curb whenever it’s fucking convenient.”

“That is not what this is,” Kurt spat. The anger clear in his tone gave Blaine a perverse sort of satisfaction.

“That’s exactly what this is,” he countered, leaning forward over the table. “This is you suddenly having to stay the course with another person, and that terrifies you. But why wouldn’t it? Especially after all you went through with Max, and all those boys that turned out not to measure up after you half-fell for them, and let’s not forget how my leaving for a year was all about you.”

“Don’t—“

“You owe me a fucking explanation, Kurt Hummel,” Blaine interrupted, fixing him with a hard look.

“I know. I...” Kurt trailed off quietly, shaking his head. His eyes were trained on the bottle in front of him and he pulled out his Saint Christopher from beneath his shirt, running his fingers along the chain and capturing the silver disc between his thumb and forefinger. “All of this, it’s… It’s too much all at once. You, and this trip, and L.A.—something’s going to give sooner or later, right? Because I can’t possibly have all of it.”

“Why not?” Blaine asked slowly.

“Because no one gets everything they want,” Kurt said, finally looking up. His eyes were close to brimming over, and the sight of it stung. “Who the hell am I that I get to be with the boy I somehow managed to fall in love with at six years old, let alone get to take him with me to do something that’s my dream?”

“Kurt—“

“But that’s exactly it, Blaine—my dream. Your dream is up on that stage,” he barreled on, gesturing to the band. “And I can’t take that away from you. I won’t.”

“So why didn’t you even think about New York?” Blaine asked. “Better yet, why didn’t you even give me a chance and talk to me about it before making me chase you all the way to fucking Alaska?”

“I’m sorry—“

“And how dare you ever say that you’re afraid I’d leave you. You remember that, on Santa Monica Pier? How you said that you didn’t trust me?”

“Of course I do—“

“I mean, you do get that by trying to make this about me, you’ve actually made it all about you, right?”

“Blaine, I’m sorry!” Kurt exclaimed, earning them a few dirty looks from nearby patrons. In a lower, yet somehow even less controlled voice, he said, “I’m sorry, I am. I told you not to follow me; I never wanted this.”

“Of course I followed you, you fucking idiot. You took what we were finally starting to build together, and you threw it away just to prove yourself right. And I needed you to know exactly how much you fucked up. ‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it this time, Kurt, because you know something?” Blaine said, his hands shaking and his voice becoming more and more unsteady. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I wanted to be the score to your movie. That’s kind of how I’ve started to think of us lately—me the music, and you the pictures. But… Maybe I should just be a deleted scene. Maybe that’s all I was ever going to be. And if you want to leave me on the cutting room floor, then leave me there. I don’t want to chase you anymore.”

A beat of silence passed and then Kurt’s hand shot out to grab Blaine’s wrist. “I wanted to come back to you as soon as the plane took off,” he said in a near whisper, looking at him with wild, desperate eyes and tears slowly rolling down his face. “Please, B. Please tell me how to fix this, how to fix us.”

Gently, Blaine pulled out of Kurt’s grip. He wasn’t angry anymore—he was sad, and resigned, and exhausted by the last three and a half months. He sighed and got to his feet as April’s song finished; the crowd loudly applauded her, and after thanking them, she offered him a tentative smile from the stage.

And then she started to play a completely stripped-down, acoustic version of Anything Could Happen. She probably thought she was helping—a puppet master’s encore—rather than playing out the tearing asunder of something that could have defined the rest of their days. Kurt gazed up at him with the look of a heartbroken man—Blaine knew it from when he had awoken that afternoon after a fitful sleep and caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. But even with their song playing, a hushed affirmation to which they should have been listening with soft smiles and even softer words, Blaine hadn’t the wherewithal to tell him that all this could be mended—not with jagged edges pressing between his ribs and a desolate future wrapped tightly around his chest.

Standing up straight, he blinked back tears and took a deep, shuddering breath. “It shouldn’t be this difficult, Kurt. Maybe we’re too broken to fix. I might be here, I might have chased you all the way here, but I—I… I’m worth more than that.”

“Blaine, please,” Kurt begged, hiccupping over a sob, “please stay with me.”

He bent down, cupped Kurt’s face with both hands, and kissed his cheek. He lingered there a moment, pressing his forehead to Kurt’s temple and willing himself not to cry even as a tear slipped free and disappeared into Kurt’s skin. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“But since we found out, since we found out that anything could happen…”

Screwing his eyes tightly shut, he let Kurt go. He turned his back on the interior of the Taproot and started walking, pulling his suitcase along behind him as he wound his way through tables of patrons who paid him no mind, and even when he heard Kurt calling his name around a strangled choke, he kept moving.

It was freezing outside, the empty streets silent as snow began to fall, and his ragged breaths came out in thick plumes of white that he walked through as if beginning to traverse the foggy future he saw before him. He’d had everything, and now he was leaving behind only footprints that would soon disappear.

The more Blaine tried to blink back his sorrow, the stronger it hit him. He made it as far as the gas station across the parking lot and stopped, hanging onto one of the roof pillars as he doubled over and swallowed convulsively. It hurt, cold and deep in his gut, radiating outward until he was freezing with it, his hands shaking against the concrete. His head was swimming, entrenched in flashbulb memories of sun-chapped smiles and snow-bitten touches, and he was shattering. How could it end like this? How could it end at all?

His only instinct was telling him to go back, to grab Kurt’s hand and never let it go, but where would he be taken if he did that? What would—

“You’re not a deleted scene.”

Blaine started, jumping so quickly that he managed to hit his head on the pillar. Pain exploded behind his eyes and he swayed on his feet, and then there were strong hands gripping his arms to keep him upright. He raised a hand to cradle his head and squinted up at Kurt, who somehow looked more wrecked than Blaine felt, impossibly enough.

“Are you okay?” Kurt asked in a small voice, his stormy blue eyes looking at Blaine with concern.

“Peachy,” Blaine managed, his heart pounding double time. “Today really can’t get any worse, can it?”

“Never say never,” Kurt murmured, slowly pulling Blaine’s hand away and examining his head in the dim light of the streetlamps. His fingers gently combed through Blaine’s curls and it took everything Blaine had not to close his eyes and give himself over to it.

“You came after me,” he said.

“And I’m glad I did,” Kurt replied, “seeing as you’re going around giving yourself concussions now.”

“Well, if you hadn’t appeared out of nowhere to tell me—“ Blaine paused. “What did you say before?”

Kurt’s hands fell away and he wrapped his arms around his middle. “You’re not a deleted scene, Blaine.”

Blaine shook his head, suppressing the urge to wince at the dull throbbing. “I can’t trust that. How am I supposed to trust that?”

Kurt looked up, blinking and inhaling deeply. “You don’t have to,” he said. “I’m not asking you to, and I don’t deserve your trust. I don’t deserve you. But I had to come after you, I had to try.”

“Kurt…”

“I don’t want it to end this way, Blaine. I don’t want it to end at all.”

“You haven’t exactly…” Blaine trailed off, gesturing around them.

“I know,” Kurt said. “That’s why… Here—“

Blaine watched as he reached into his chest pocket and produced a Band-Aid; he quickly pulled off the backing, cautiously reaching forward to stick it onto the front of Blaine’s shirt, right over his heart. He left his hand there and, with his eyes fixed on it, said, “I’m not crossing my heart. That’s pretty worthless at this point, and if you swear on a promise, you have to swear on something you believe in. You’re the only thing I believe in anymore.”

“What are you promising?” Blaine asked slowly.

“Back in Vegas, you said that I just had to be with you. That we’d figure out the rest later,” Kurt said. “But I’m not promising that, because promises have to be specific. So I’m promising to be with you, to follow you wherever you want to go, to never judge you when you eat an entire loaf of sourdough in one sitting, and to love you with everything I have.”

Blaine wanted to smile, wanted to breathe out the relief that suddenly flooded his system—that sensation of being wanted, feeling special, and knowing that he needed no more than this was dizzying. Stalling for precious seconds, he asked, “Where the hell did you get a Band-Aid?”

“There was a first aid kit at the bar,” Kurt said. “I had to give them my last twenty dollars for it, so if you don’t take me back I’m pretty screwed, because I don’t have cash for an airport cab.”

“You paid twenty dollars for a Band-Aid,” Blaine said flatly.

“I guess I sort of… Volunteered the money? But I was desperate! It was either that or cut myself, and you know how I feel about blood. Plus, then I would have needed the Band-Aid…”

“Some cabs take credit cards these days.”

“I can’t believe you’re bringing in logic to ruin my perfect scene,” Kurt said, humor gradually fading from his tone. He swallowed, and said quietly, “This is our movie moment.”

Blaine shook his head. “Movies end.”

“I don’t want ours to,” Kurt said quickly, his fingertips curling into Blaine’s shirt.

“Couldn’t you have realized that, I don’t know… Yesterday?”

“April kinda… Beat it out of me. Literally.”

“You know, you call me the nomad, but you’re the one who runs…”

“Maybe I just had some running to get out of my system.”

“But you’re done now?” Blaine asked, looking up at him and silently imploring him to say yes.

“No,” Kurt said, and Blaine’s heart fell until he added, “It’s who I am. Remember what I said, back in Providence? About not settling? The difference now is that… That I found someone I’d like to run with. And he makes me not care about where I’m running to.”

“Why not?” Blaine asked.

“Because…” Kurt said, stepping closer and reaching up to cup Blaine’s cheek; Blaine leaned into the touch and met Kurt’s eyes. “Because he makes everything else go away. I’ve loved him for nearly seventeen years, and one day I’d like to be able to say that I’ve loved him my whole life.”

Blaine studied him for a moment—the dark circles underneath his eyes; the wrinkled front of his shirt; the slump in his shoulders under the weight of his penance—and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the snowflakes falling. Falling with them—slowly, gradually, steadily—was easy, because it was right. He stepped forward and crushed his lips against Kurt’s, swallowing Kurt’s surprised squeak and humming against his tongue. Kurt tensed momentarily, but then seemed to melt back into his former self, standing straight and winding his arms around Blaine’s neck as a gust of icy wind swept past.

A clock struck midnight somewhere in the distance and, breathing heavily as he pulled back, Kurt dusted a kiss to the left of Blaine’s mouth. “Happy birthday, B,” he whispered breathlessly.

“Merry Christmas, Kurt,” Blaine replied, wrapping his arms around Kurt’s waist.

“Tell me something you want,” Kurt said.

“What, you didn’t get me anything?” Blaine asked, and finally, Kurt smiled. “There is something, actually.”

“Hit me.”

“I want you to never do that to me again.”

“I promise,” Kurt said quickly, nodding with wide eyes. “What else? What else do you want?”

Considering, for a moment, not only the question but the choice before him, Blaine realized that it wasn’t a matter of caving, or of going with the flow anymore. With the exception of Wyoming, he’d been sitting back and letting things happen for far too long.

“Just you,” he said, with utter conviction. “I just want you to stay with me. For good.”

Kurt closed his eyes and smiled, letting his head fall back for a second. The world was lit as if from below by the white carpeting the ground; it covered the black and gray and made everything seem brand new. They weren’t so far from the bar that Blaine couldn’t hear the music; as Kurt looked down at him and took his hand to pull him away from the pillar, he could just hear April winding up their song with the words, “I know it’s gonna be, I know it’s gonna be.”

“Come on,” Kurt said, reaching for Blaine’s suitcase. “You’re shivering; let’s get inside.”

“I’m not cold,” Blaine protested, and tugged on his hand. “There’s one other thing.”

“What is it?” Kurt asked slowly.

“What happens on the road trip stays on the road trip,” Blaine said. “When we get to L.A., we both get a fresh start.”

“You’re sure? About all of it?” Kurt asked.

“Who says any of it has to be permanent? So we go to L.A. and make a movie about killer tomatoes,” Blaine said. Kurt chuckled and bit his lip. “Then maybe we end up in New York for the next thing, or Europe, or Australia. Maybe even the Steve side of Montana if we’re really lucky.”

“My own personal lumberjack? Ugh, L.A., what was I thinking?”

“My point is—“

“That we’ll be together,” Kurt said softly, “so who cares where the train takes us?”

“Exactly,” Blaine said.

For the moment, they didn’t need any more words—that much was clear in the way Kurt simply took Blaine’s suitcase and laced their fingers together. They walked back to the bar in silence, save for returning the Christmas wishes of the two punky girls smoking outside. Though it was cold, and though it had been the longest day of Blaine’s life, the air seemed abundant where before it had been so very thin.

“I’m so sorry, B,” Kurt said outside the door. “I’m sorry to have done that to you.”

“For now, just… Just be with me, okay?” Blaine said, his fingers curled around the door handle.

“Okay,” Kurt said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile, and after one last quick kiss, Blaine followed him into the warmth.

Distance: 15,815 miles

*

Next: Hawaii

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 10.3/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 16 Feb 2014 21:00:01 GMT

Day 097: Saturday 22nd December, 2012
One for the Road (Washington)

“So is it really possible to just be ‘whelmed’ in Europe?”

“What are you talking about?”

“…Honestly, Blaine. Anyone who doesn’t get 10 Things I Hate About You references deserves to be paddled. And not in the fun way.”

“B, I’m pretty sure I won’t lose my mind in the few hours you’re forcing us to spend apart so that you can go hang out with my ex-boyfriend,” Kurt deadpanned, holding up the pair of the rubber gloves he was about to don and adding, “That is, unless you want to stay and help clean up. I still maintain that you cheated.”

“You can’t cheat at beer pong,” Blaine said.

Kurt snorted derisively. “Getting naked wasn’t exactly part of the game.”

“It got warm,” Blaine said innocently. “You were welcome to remove clothing as well.”

“Still. Tipping the water bottle over yourself was a little much. This isn’t Flashdance.”

“Well, you were winning. You know what that does to me.”

“Ha! So you’re admitting it!” Kurt crowed triumphantly, and Blaine at least had the decency to look shamefaced.

“It’s not like you’re totally innocent,” he said, moving closer and backing Kurt against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Kurt said, squarely meeting Blaine’s gaze, chin up and finger raised. “Choose your next words very carefully. Remember, I’m the one cleaning up this thing so we can have her tidy for the drive home.”

“Excited?” Blaine asked, leaning into him and setting his arms atop Kurt’s shoulders.

Kurt considered the question for a moment. “Ready, I think. It’s been… A little insane, to say the least. I think I’m just ready to start everything. With you.”

“See, now you’re making me want to stay and take you back to bed,” Blaine said.

“Always an option,” Kurt agreed wistfully, fingers dancing along Blaine’s hip. “But no. Go have fun with Brad the Great Deflowerer.”

Blaine tipped his head back and laughed, the sound filling the kitchen. “And you’re sure it’s not weird?”

Though it shouldn’t have been, considering that Blaine had been friends with Brad even after he and Kurt broke up, it was a little weird.

Kurt had thought of Brad Jefferson as a stereotypical jock right up until senior year, when he’d surprised the hell out of Kurt and everyone else by joining Brunswick High’s Gay-Straight Alliance and coming out shortly thereafter. On more than one occasion, Kurt had turned to say something to Blaine during a meeting and found a pair of pale gray eyes watching him from beneath stray strands of ash blond hair, shy half-smiles tinged with a faint blush when Brad looked away.

It had gone that way until one Saturday in December. Kurt had been standing by his mailbox at an ungodly hour for a weekend, cradling a mug of coffee in his freezing hands and still blinking sleep from his eyes while he waited to see if his early admissions letter would arrive. Brad lived on Kurt’s street and, despite the early hour, Kurt didn’t think anything of it when he saw Brad driving by—he’d heard plenty of the guys on the football team bemoaning extra weekend practices, after all. But Brad had come back ten minutes later, pulling into the driveway behind Burt’s truck and looking like he was dreading whatever was about to happen. Kurt watched him curiously as he got out of the car holding a rose wrapped in plastic, his shirt buttoned all the way up and, from the looks of it, hastily pressed.

“Hi,” he’d said after a moment of awkward silence had passed between them. “I, um. I saw you out here and I thought—um. Well, I—I’ve seen you at the GSA meetings and I thought maybe we could… This is for you.”

Kurt accepted the rose, and Brad almost jumped out of his skin when their fingers brushed. “Thank you,” he’d said, smelling the rose and meeting Brad’s eyes. “I’ve never gotten a rose before.”

“Do you wanna go out some time?” Brad had asked—in the exact same moment that Kurt’s eyes began to water and he started sneezing.

As it happened, ‘some time’ turned out to be right then, a profusely apologetic Brad following Burt’s truck as Kurt was taken to the hospital to be treated for a severe allergic reaction. Burt had been highly amused by the whole thing, telling all the nurses that the red-faced teenager trailing them was his son’s date. Kurt didn’t quite recover from the embarrassment until the following Friday at dinner with Brad, texting Blaine under the table halfway through the starter to call off their pre-planned bailout.

Brad was sweet, cute, and funny in an off-beat, slightly awkward way. He was the first boy to make Kurt’s heart race and follow through, kissing him goodnight on his doorstep with the porch light flickering overhead. They’d explored everything together, and amicably parted ways when Brad got accepted to the University of Washington and it was clear that love wasn’t on the cards.

So, yeah, a little weird—but Kurt just nodded and said, “I’m sure. Now go, I have things to do.”

“Okay,” Blaine said, grinning and pressing a quick kiss to Kurt’s mouth before casually tossing over his shoulder, “Love you!”

“Love you, too!” Kurt called after him, and once the door to the R.V. had closed with a soft click and he had watched Blaine walk away, his curls cast golden under the yellow lights of the campground, Kurt closed all of the blinds against the night outside the windows and got to work.

It was a few hours before Kurt finally took a break, and if he’d known there would be so much to do, he might not have bet their match on it. Both of them had gotten into pretty good habits their first year at Bowdoin when they’d roomed together in the dorms, but by the time he’d finished getting all of the water marks off the shower door, he was sweating and cursing Blaine for distracting him into losing. His only saving grace throughout cleaning the kitchen and tidying the living area was his music—a playlist of songs that wrapped him up in memories from their journey so far: Blaine at The Cannery, singing Break Me Out and cementing Kurt’s conviction that, yes, he would go on the road trip; equalizers and flashing lights, Victim pumping out of the speakers behind him and driving him toward Blaine; Anything Could Happen, the first song F had ever sent him, scoring a kiss that felt like coming home after the longest day Kurt had ever lived.

He collapsed onto the couch, pulling off his gloves and setting them aside in favor of Blaine’s laptop, wanting to see if he could finally beat the level of Candy Crush he’d been stuck on for the past week and a half. But when he opened the lid, his stomach lurched and his heart stopped—open on the screen was his blog.

“Fuck,” he whispered, mind in overdrive. There was so much on there that he wasn’t ready for Blaine to see, that he didn’t even know if he wanted Blaine to see. “Shit, shit, fuck.”

Upon closer inspection, however, he realized that it wasn’t his blog at all—there were no video diaries, only text entries and pictures. He was halfway through scanning the most recent entry before he realized to whom the blog actually belonged.

I’m going to miss the road, and all the incredible things Kurt and I have seen together, Kurt read, eyes wide, and I might have finally figured out that music and composing are what I want the most, but going to L.A. is the right thing to do—for both of us.

Kurt slammed the laptop closed with far more force than necessary and shot to his feet. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides as he paced around the living room, thoughts racing. He was still uneasy at the idea of Blaine giving up a chance to join the band and make the music he wanted to. Why did he have to see that blog entry now? He turned back toward the laptop, worrying his lip as he considered.

Since when does Blaine have a blog? he wondered briefly, before coming to the conclusion that these private spaces were probably a mutually exclusive secret, kept since before the beginning of the trip.

“So much for no more secrets,” he muttered to himself, his mind wandering back to Santa Monica Pier. At the time it hadn’t even occurred to him to tell Blaine about it, what with so many more important things to say, but now he wondered why Blaine hadn’t told him.

He needed to know more, he needed to know everything; as if unable to help it, Kurt sat back down, opened the laptop, and started poring over the entries. The more recent ones were happy, and filled with Blaine’s lighthearted humor; they had Kurt smiling, tension draining from his limbs as he settled back into the couch. He noted with no small measure of surprise that F had been sending songs to Blaine as well, and Kurt wondered if he’d heard these songs but been told lies about where they came from, just as he had lied to Blaine.

All too soon he was on edge again; reading their story not only in reverse, but also through Blaine’s eyes, was odd and discomfiting, as if he were watching houses being unbuilt, deconstructed into their component parts right before his eyes. The further back Kurt read, the more Blaine talked about movies—it wasn’t who he was anymore; somewhere along the way, he’d truly found himself.

He got as far back as Florida and stopped, his heart sinking heavily into his stomach.

What happens now? he thought. Do I come clean and tell him everything? Get him to sit down and talk to me about it properly instead of announcing it like he needs it to be some big gesture?

The territory was uncharted, and yet again Kurt found himself standing on shaky ground, wondering if he needed to start cupping his hands beneath Blaine’s once more, just in case.

Kurt fought off the familiar world-weariness threatening to settle over him and resolved to talk to Blaine about it whenever he returned—he could easily distract himself with tidying the bedroom and packing for their flight to Anchorage the next day. Ear buds firmly in place, he set about putting things away and pulling out the warmest things he owned, setting them down by his open suitcase. Within a matter of minutes he was humming again, his troubles put away to be addressed later.

He smiled when he found one of Blaine’s pens in the pocket of his own jacket—he must have left it in there one of the times he’d borrowed it. The image of Blaine wrapped up in his jacket finally let him shake off his lingering unease… Until he opened the drawer of Blaine’s bedside cabinet to put the pen away.

Inside the drawer were dozens of scraps of paper covered in words and musical notes. Some of them only contained a line or two; others held entire verses. With shaking hands, Kurt sat down heavily and began laying them out. Certain phrases here and there jumped out at him: And I have given less than you deserve; wait up, I’m coming home; my love will clothe your bones. Kurt swallowed thickly, his eyes stinging as Blaine’s lyrics ricocheted around his mind. This was Blaine, the poetry of him finally in motion and on track to what he was so clearly meant to do—Kurt saw that, now, and he was about to keep Blaine from it. If Cooper hadn’t offered the movie to them, they would without question have gone to New York, where Blaine would have gotten a jump start. Instead Blaine was following Kurt to California and accepting a job that wasn’t his dream, wasn’t what he was meant to do.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Kurt took a few deep breaths and swallowed convulsively, fighting down the acrid taste of bile rising in his throat. He cast his eyes around the room, and suddenly it was like he was back home, running his hands along the uneven mantle over the fireplace. One last look. One for the road.

It shouldn’t be this way. I can’t take this away from him, Kurt thought. He ran his fingers over the scraps of paper and traced circles around the line, I have given less than you deserve.

“But what have I given you?” he murmured, eyes fixed on that one line. How could Blaine ever think it was true? On the contrary, Blaine had given him too much… And Kurt had given nothing. He took a deep breath, buried his face in his hands, and considered. It felt too big, pressing in on him from all sides and leaching air from the room. He wondered again just when everything had gotten so important, so full of weight and responsibility.

He sat up, and his eyes landed on his suitcase. He reached out, picking through the contents just to give his hands something to do, and the thought occurred to him, This is what I can give you.

It was with an eerie sense of calm that Kurt retrieved his flight ticket from the folder in the glove compartment, called a cab to the airport, and scribbled out a note: You deserve the chance to live your dream, and you’ll miss out on it if you follow me to California. Please don’t do that, Blaine. Not for me. I love you, and I’m sorry. He read it over and over again, looking between it and the scraps of paper littered across the bed, sheets pulled tight as if he and Blaine had never been there in the first place. Maybe that would have been best, if this was how it had to end… And hadn’t that always been the doubt chip-chip-chipping away at his resolve? That this would end, that they couldn’t possibly see it through without wrecking each other?

The cab arrived just as Kurt was looking at SeaTac live departures on the laptop, checking to see if there were any flights back to Maine. The earliest wasn’t until mid-afternoon, and now that he’d made his decision he needed to be gone as soon as possible, so instead he brought up the details of an earlier flight to Anchorage—April and the band were heading straight back to Brunswick on Christmas Day, after all, so perhaps he could hitch a ride with them.

Standing at the door to the R.V. with his suitcase in hand, Kurt took a long last look, whispered, “Goodbye,” and left.

He was calm for the entire journey to the airport, even when he realized that he’d left flight details open on the laptop and Blaine’s song fragments strewn across the bed. He was calm all the way through the process of rebooking his flight and paying the transfer fee, even when his credit card was declined and he had to pay with most of the cash he had on him. He was calm for the ten minutes he waited to board with the other sleepy-eyed passengers on his 3:30am flight, even when April responded to his text by calling him and yelling at him until he simply told her, “My flight gets in at six, so we’ll talk about it then.”

It wasn’t until he’d handed over his boarding pass and turned toward the concourse that it all caught up with him—he hadn’t been calm; he’d been numb—and all it took was one word.

“Kurt!”

He wheeled around at the pained, confused dropping of his name across the gate lounge, and of course it was Blaine. The expression on his face was pure frustrated torture—I can’t do this to you anymore—and it felt like one of those awful, clichéd movie moments, the ones where the music had been building to a crescendo and suddenly just died into silence the moment the two leads saw one another again. Like everything could be solved inside the quiet simplicity of eyes meeting across a crowded space.

The music in Kurt’s left ear, however, didn’t die. It peaked in a shatter of glass and the words, It feels like I am just too close to love you, laid down over a pounding dub-step bass—not his usual fare, but nonetheless apropos. Eyes filling with unexpected and unwelcome tears, he found himself shaking his head. Imperceptibly to begin with, but harder until the hope in Blaine’s eyes darkened into something that made Kurt’s gut heat up into a molten lead and solidify into a knot so heavy, it felt like settings roots down into the worn carpet of Gate 14.

He ignored the screaming of his every cell, the memory in his muscles to move toward Blaine and push him into a future that wasn’t Kurt’s to decide. Blaine took one step forward, Kurt one step back. Another—I’m sorry—and then another—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—and then the fire in Blaine’s expression was but an afterthought, an image burning behind Kurt’s eyelids as he sprinted down the concourse.

Distance: 14,369 miles

Additional Listening: Where I Stood by Missy Higgins

*

Next: Alaska

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 10.2/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 12 Feb 2014 20:36:40 GMT

Day 095: Thursday 20th December, 2012
Freefall (Oregon)

“It was filmed in so many places I feel like we have to watch it.”

“It does keep coming up, doesn’t it?”

“Alright. Oregon: Into The Wild.”

“Seriously, whose idea was it to do this in a hundred days?” Blaine grumbled to his reflection as he struggled with his bow tie—he could usually tie them in his sleep, but all of his attempts so far had been in vain.

“Let me,” Kurt said, moving in front of him and batting his hands away. He was already impeccably dressed, his skinny black tie knotted just so at his throat and his hair swept artfully up and away from his face. He quickly set to work, his long fingers deftly undoing Blaine’s crooked effort. “You don’t usually get worked up like this. We haven’t even gone past ‘fashionably late’ yet.”

“You can’t get an R.V. from Crater Lake to Portland in four hours,” Blaine muttered, fists flexing at his sides. “We should have left earlier; fuck what ‘Kathy Bates’ had to say.”

“But I’ll bet that’s not why you’re nervous,” Kurt said lightly, pulling one end of the simple tie over the other and forming the beginnings of the bow. “So what’s up?”

“Why did he have to make me the guest of honor? I barely even did anything.”

“You gave him the idea.”

“What if he wants me to make a speech?”

“Blaine, come on. It’s just Artie.”

“I know, but… I’ve never been guest of honor at anything before,” Blaine said. “And the wedding doesn’t count; you were right next to me.”

“And I’ll be right next to you for this,” Kurt replied smoothly, and pulled the knot taut. Stepping back, he turned to look at Blaine’s reflection in the mirror and nudged his shoulder. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“I’m nervous, too. I’ve never been the arm candy before.”

Rolling his eyes, Blaine said, “It’s not some big red carpet thing.”

“Exactly,” Kurt said, quiet but triumphant, and Blaine smiled despite the butterflies in his stomach.

In truth, Blaine was nervous not just because they were about to attend the first and only public screening of Artie’s documentary—the idea for which Blaine had given him in a series of emails back around spring break—but also because Artie had always taken on the role of big brother with Blaine, and had the uncanny ability to known when he was agonizing over a decision yet to be made. The decision he now faced between New York and Los Angeles was consuming almost every waking moment as he weighed the pros and cons, envisioned possible futures, and tried not to think about what would happen if he decided on New York. When he’d told Kurt back in Vegas that they’d figure out the rest later, he hadn’t exactly counted on the rest showing up to knock on a moving door.

“Come on,” Kurt murmured, taking his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “We’re about to be very unfashionably late.”

After casting one final glance at himself in the mirror—with no dress code, they’d decided to simply go all out and wear the same suits they’d worn to Toby and Andrew’s wedding—Blaine nodded silently and let Kurt lead him out of the R.V.

It was a chilly evening, and the breeze made Blaine grateful for the parking spot they’d been able to claim right outside the Alberta Rose Theatre. The small sign above and to the left of the door read, DECEMBER SHOWS: 20th – KIDS THAT I ONCE KNEW, and for a moment, a swell of pride quelled Blaine’s nerves.

If Blaine had had the time to pause and really take stock of the sight before him, he might have thought it odd that there was no pang of jealousy giving a rough edge to the happiness he felt for his friend. But as it stood, all he knew was Kurt tugging him inside the theater and whispering, “I love you, I love you,” before all but pushing him through a set of double doors bearing a poster for Artie’s film.

The lights were low inside the small theater, two clusters of hanging white globes providing the only illumination save for the single spotlight trained on Artie, seated in his wheelchair at center-stage. As Blaine gazed at the rows of seats stretching away from them in a gradual incline, he saw that the theater was packed to capacity, and pride twisted in his chest.

“Speak of the devil, yo!” Artie’s voice rang out around the small theater—packed to capacity, Blaine saw as he gazed around. “Ladies and gentlemen, Blaine Anderson!”

There was applause, and Blaine’s face grew hot as an usher appeared at his side and directed him and Kurt down to the only two open seats remaining, right in the front row. At the sudden attention, he had a wild urge to laugh or give a thumbs-up or do a dance—the only thing that kept him in check was Kurt’s grip on his elbow.

Once they were seated and the applause had died down, Artie continued, “Now that we’re all here, I’d like to officially introduce Kids That I Once Knew, and thank everyone who played a part in getting us here at the Alberta Rose.

“As I was saying before, the idea for this film can be traced back to this guy right here,” he said, pointing at Blaine with a smile. “We were emailing over spring break this year, commiserating about how hard it was going to be to find work after graduation, and he said, ‘At least we know what we wanna do. How many people do you know that have no idea? Because I know a lot.’ So, Blaine, without you I’d probably be up here introducing another Star Wars-themed Christmas special.”

The audience laughed, a few people cat-calling from the back, and Blaine grinned up at his friend, nerves dissipating in the wake of Artie’s easy, self-deprecating humor. Blaine had missed him.

“Well, now that I’ve test-driven my Oscar acceptance speech,” Artie continued, pausing for more laughter, “Thank you all for coming; enjoy the karaoke afterward, and I present to you all a labor of blood, sweat, tears, and love: Kids That I Once Knew.”

With that, Artie nodded to the back of the theater and wheeled himself to the side of the stage, out of the way of the giant projector screen that had been erected. The lights dimmed, and the film began.

Artie had scored the opening with a soft, haunting piano piece that had a false brightness to it, and it flowed perfectly beneath slow motion B-roll shots of students studying in libraries, sitting in lectures, and walking around campus laden with textbooks. The introduction was short, as was Artie’s style; he hadn’t wasted any time grandstanding, simply provided enough to get his sparse opening credits out of the way.

“Do you know what you’re doing after college?” Artie asked on screen, holding out a small mic to a girl holding a thick stack of books that looked like they weighed more than she did.

“Um, I don’t—I don’t really know… I’m majoring in art history,” she offered, the camera zooming in for a close-up of her troubled expression.

That was the way in which the first series of clips progressed—Artie asking students about their plans after college, and the majority unable to give a firm answer. He’d even spoken to one of the college professors, who told him, “So many kids go to college not knowing what they want to do, and even those who do figure it out while they’re here… I see too many of them graduating and ending up at Starbucks. We’re not preparing them, giving them the tools they need to get jobs that they want. The system is broken.”

Blaine grew increasingly uncomfortable as the documentary wore on, Artie revisiting a few of the same students at the beginning of the summer and then again in the fall to see how they were faring out in the ‘real world.’

“We all think that we’re gonna do better than our parents did, you know?” one guy said as Artie interviewed him in a café. He was wearing a Best Buy uniform, and had earlier been shown graduating with a bachelor’s degree in business. “We tell ourselves that we’re not gonna repeat the same mistakes and wind up in dead-end jobs going nowhere. But when you’re left with so little direction and so few opportunities are out there, what can you do except try to survive and hope that ‘better’ is somewhere around the corner?”

Blaine paused at that, his attention faltering, because right there was the heart of his dilemma: what he thought he should do versus what he wanted to do. They were tangled around one another in such a mess that he could no longer find the end of either thread. What he thought he should do—move to L.A. and work on the movie—meant getting most of what he wanted: a place to be with Kurt; his lifelong passion kick-started into a career; a shitty first apartment and a Saturday trip to IKEA to spend too much money on a couch and bedroom set. But what he wanted was the music, for it to flow out of him in a constant way, rather than in the pockets of down time he got between turns at driving. Kurt had ignited his inspiration in Vegas and had been unwittingly feeding it ever since, unleashing a song that Blaine hadn’t known he’d been waiting to write. Universes existed in his head, too, and he wanted the time to explore them until he knew them inside out.

Forced, however, with so many students who had graduated only to be let down by the real world, or who were left with degrees they were unable to use, Blaine felt selfish for even considering it.

The documentary was just under an hour but it was as if Blaine had merely blinked and it was coming to an end, snatches of dialogue from jaded and disillusioned ex-students playing over the song from which Artie had taken the documentary’s title: Dead Hearts by Stars.

“They were kids that I once knew; now they’re all dead hearts to you,” the singers lamented, the final shot a closing door that faded to black, ready for the credits to roll.

As the lights came back up, Blaine swallowed around the lump in his throat and joined in the applause, rising to his feet along with Kurt and those around them. He didn’t want to become a ‘dead heart;’ didn’t want to lay to waste all he’d been working for his entire life on a maybe; didn’t want to diminish into the perpetual cycle of work, sleep, work, sleep to support a dream that perhaps he’d realize but more than likely would be put on the backburner.

Kurt’s eyes were shining with warmth and love as he turned to Blaine and hugged him fiercely. Blaine slowly raised his arms to hug him back, pulling him close and breathing him in, and was struck with a sudden clarity, the threads untangling with no more than a simple embrace and the memory of flickering firelight. He still wanted to create beautiful things with Kurt, and though he wanted the music, who was to say that he couldn’t do both? For so long he’d been convincing himself that all of this was transitory, their journey compounding his thoughts into days and miles and drive time rather than the lifetime at his feet.

“Artie!” Kurt exclaimed, cutting through Blaine’s thoughts and bending down to hug Artie as he approached. “You’ve definitely come a long way since Star Wars-themed Christmas specials.”

“Well, we thought about featuring some aspiring Jedi, but they’ve always got Comic Con,” Artie joked, and looked up at Blaine. “What’d you think, little bro?”

“It was incredible, Artie. Really,” Blaine said, holding Artie’s damnably inquisitive gaze. “Honestly, I’d never have thought something like that could come out of an email whining about college.”

“All you, my man,” Artie said. Smiling slyly up at them with one eyebrow raised, he added, “And I hear congratulations are in order.”

“We know, it was a long time coming,” Kurt said. “When were you betting on it happening?”

“Actually, I was the last hold-out,” Artie said. “I figured you’d be at least twenty-five before one of you cracked. You really had your heads buried.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, man,” Blaine said with a laugh, and punched his shoulder for good measure.

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” Artie said, holding up his hands before taking a long look at Blaine—too long, and way too inquisitive for his liking. “Since we’re on the subject, what do you have planned for after the road trip?”

“Old habits die hard,” Blaine said, stalling for time. He only hesitated for a moment, but it was enough; he could see the shift in Artie’s expression, the drawing back of his shoulders that only ever meant he was getting ready to hand out life advice. Though the decision was new and he’d barely had time to try it on for size, Blaine announced, “Coop’s asked Kurt and I to come out to L.A. and work on a movie his company’s producing, so we’re set.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Kurt’s posture become ramrod straight, and when Blaine looked at him, a smile was spreading across his face like rays of sunlight breaking through clouds.

“That’s great, man,” Artie said, surprise evident in his tone. “God, that’s fantastic. I don’t know many others who fell almost straight into a job, especially film students.”

“I’d be stupid not to take it,” Blaine said, “and L.A. is great, so why not?”

“Sounds like you’re both following your hearts,” Artie said.

Snaking his arm around Kurt’s waist, Blaine answered simply, “We are.”

“I’m really happy for you. You deserve it,” Artie told them sincerely, his eyes sliding past Blaine as someone called his name from the other side of the theater. “Come on. There’s a few people I want you to meet.”

Over the course of the next hour, Artie introduced them to more people than Blaine could keep track of, including a group of five girls engaged in a heated debate over which versions of the Lord of the Rings movies were better: the theatrical or the extended. Unable to help getting sucked in when he heard one of the girls saying, “The theatrical versions are better because they’re shorter,” he lost Kurt to the crowd, but looked for him every so often. He noticed that Kurt was standing straighter, smiling more easily, gesturing more freely while he spoke to people whose names Blaine had already forgotten—he looked happy.

Eventually, when most of the girls had agreed to disagree and two had been whisked away by significant others, Blaine caught Kurt’s eye from across the theater. He was sitting near the back, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up, and tie loosened. He was looking right at Blaine, smiling softly as his fingers circled around and around the rim of his glass. Blaine climbed the shallow incline without a second thought, gravitating toward Kurt like he was being physically reeled in.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, coming to rest against the back of the seat in front of Kurt’s.

“All of us in the A.V. club were pushing so hard to get out of Maine, and look at us now. You, me, Artie,” Kurt said, and took a sip of his drink, flicking his eyes toward the guy up on stage, half-drunk and murdering Moves Like Jagger. “We made it.”

“Well, Artie was always going to make it. He was gone before the ink on his diploma was dry,” Blaine said.

“He had something to prove,” Kurt said quietly. “Everyone was telling him his wheelchair would always hold him back.”

Blaine nodded, glancing back to the front row; Artie was surrounded by a group of guys and girls, a cute blonde sitting in his lap and idly running her fingers through his hair.

“If New York is where you want to be, I’ll go with you,” Kurt blurted, catching Blaine off-guard like he always did.

He turned to look at Kurt in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

Kurt sat up straighter in his seat, set his drink on the floor, and cleared his throat. “I said that I’ll go with you to New York. If you’ll have me.”

Blaine blinked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Kurt, of course I would, but… I want to work on this movie, and I want to be with you, wherever you are.”

“I don’t want you to do this for me, though. I want it to be what’s right for you,” Kurt said, wrapping his fingers around Blaine’s arm.

“You’re what’s right for me. And you’re… You’re one reason. Just not the whole reason,” Blaine said. “I’m doing this for me; I feel like… L.A. is where I’m supposed to be right now. And I meant what I said to Artie; I’d be stupid to turn down an opportunity like that. First A.D. on my first time out? Come on, Kurt. Even if it turns out to be a movie about killer tomatoes from outer space, that’s a dream gig.”

“Oh god, I hope it’s not killer tomatoes,” Kurt said, scrunching his nose before shaking his head and asking, “You’re really sure?”

“What, you need me to convince you? Should I sing you that love song, now?”

“Only if you let me sing it with you. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

Kurt looked as if he was expecting Blaine to roll his eyes and tell him of course they were, they always had been and always would be. Instead, Blaine bent down, wrapped his fingers around Kurt’s tie, and pulled him up for a crushing kiss. His lips tingled with the taste of Tequila Sunrise that lingered on Kurt’s tongue and at the corners of his mouth.

“Let’s do it, then,” Kurt said breathlessly, gazing up at him with a playful smirk.

“You wouldn’t rather… Get out of here?”

“And pass up the opportunity to serenade each other? It’s like you’re a different person. Are you feeling okay?”

Blaine intercepted Kurt’s hand on its way to his forehead, threading their fingers together and gesturing toward the stage. “After you, good sir.”

It was a heady feeling, being able to take a step back and see exactly how moments like this would play out on a big screen—which angles would be used to capture the happiness in Kurt’s eyes; exactly which second the lights would catch in the spokes of Artie’s wheelchair, drawing Blaine’s attention so that he caught Artie’s wink; the knowing little glances he and Kurt would exchange as they sang to each other up on the stage. Their song sheet was one that spoke of a new level of love and commitment, of seeing changes in one another that finally cemented what they should have been long ago, and of a relationship that was no longer a fleeting or finite thing. They were in it, now, and as he sang the words, “But I’d be yours if you’d be mine,” Blaine wanted to laugh at how scared they’d both been. If he’d known this was waiting for them, he’d have taken Kurt to Dairy Frost when they were fourteen, blushing as he tentatively reached for Kurt’s hand over the weathered and worn Formica. He would have slow-danced unironically with him at prom to I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing instead of quietly judging everyone else while nursing a cup of the cliché spiked punch. He wouldn’t be living with the regrets of so much time wasted and so many missed opportunities.

But then, he thought, watching Kurt alight as his voice soared over his verse, doesn’t it just make all this taste that much sweeter? Doesn’t it mean that we’ve earned it?

By the end of the song, Kurt had an arm wrapped tightly around Blaine’s waist, and they looked steadily at each other while moving up a key and singing, “So love the one you hold, and I’ll be your gold, to have and to hold—a lover of the light.”

No more nerves, no more fear, and no more heartache—all of that was over. Kurt pressed his lips to the corner of Blaine’s mouth and, standing on the stage of an old theater in Portland, Blaine came home.

Distance: 14,206 miles

*

Next: Washington

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 10.1/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 09 Feb 2014 20:41:54 GMT

Day 090: Saturday 15th December, 2012
Turning Tides (California)

“Stop right there, mister.”

“Okay…”

“If you get your way in Vegas, I get mine in California. And I vote Fight Club.”

“Birds flying high, you know how I feel.”

April (7:54am) – Just saw the news! Took you guys long enough ;)

“It’s been a long time coming, I know…”

“Sun in the sky, you know how I feel.”

Marcie (9:12am) – Never has one of those relationship status updates been a more welcome sight. Finally!

“Yes, Blaine and I are official.”

“Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel.”

Finn (11:33am) – Congrats, little brother.

“I love him, and he loves me…”

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me…”

Dad (1:40pm) – About time, boys. Be happy.

“And we’re happy.”

“And I’m feeling—“

“I don’t understand,” Kurt said as they drew closer to the neon-lit archway beckoning them onto Santa Monica Pier.

“What?”

“I don’t get it. Why isn’t it cold?”

“Sweetheart, this is cold,” Blaine said, wrapping an arm around his waist and shooting him an easy smile.

“We come from Brunswick,” Kurt said. “It’s December. This is not cold.”

“Okay, you win,” Blaine said, chuckling and pulling him in closer, away from the crowds milling around the sidewalk, some leaving the pier and some headed down the same incline. After a moment, he asked, “Isn’t it kind of strange suddenly being around this many people all at once?”

“Sort of,” Kurt said, casting his eyes around the pier and half-attempting to separate the snowbirds and tourists from the locals.

“Does it feel good, though? Getting out of the R.V. for a few days?”

Kurt considered the question at length and took a deep, measured breath. Yeah, freedom is mine, and you know how I feel…

They were staying at Cooper’s ostentatious, palatial home on Georgina Avenue while he was in New York on business. While Kurt was happy about the simple prospect of staying still, it was the rest of it that left him almost ill at ease.

Wilfully falling into love with Blaine had, after choking down that jagged pill of fear, been about as easy as falling into bed with him. Aside from Kurt’s feelings finally being out in the open, nothing had really changed between them. Kurt still spent his days quietly awed of how far they had come, all the things they had done together, and what they were building. Blaine still peppered their days with affectionate glances, kisses that made Kurt’s breath hitch in his chest, and touches that were somehow both assured and tentative. They still drove, and flirted, and bantered, and moved with arcane knowledge around one another. Nothing was different, yet everything was.

They were happy, but still the ground moved beneath them. He felt over-saturated; filled up and wrung out over and over. He couldn’t settle inside the love until things were certain, until what happens on the road trip stays on the road trip was a distant, laughable memory.

And the crux of the matter: they were doing all of it under the laser-focused gazes of everyone they knew.

“Well, I don’t intend on setting foot back inside until we have to,” he finally answered; leaving it all between the messy sheets and lived-in surroundings of the R.V. was a balm.

“Aw, sweetheart, you don’t like my digs? I’m wounded,” Blaine declared, palm to his heart and a comical look of shock on his face.

Kurt smiled back weakly but didn’t hold Blaine’s gaze, focusing instead on the sea of faces and bodies around them as they turned into Pacific Park, lights flashing brightly under the dark sky and music playing from somewhere by the Ferris wheel.

“Hey,” Blaine murmured. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, I just…” Kurt trailed off, shaking his head before finally meeting Blaine’s eyes and saying, “We went public.”

“We did,” Blaine said cautiously. “Should we not have?”

Kurt paused, thinking back to the video diary he’d filmed that morning; an answer to all of the questions and messages he’d received in response to his cryptic, one-line text entry the previous night. Smiling as Feeling Good played from the living area, Blaine oblivious while he did the dishes from their overindulgent breakfast in bed, Kurt had let it chase away the uncertainties niggling and churning in the back of his mind, every last what if haunting him with a renewed ferocity that he fought off with everything he had.

“No, I’m glad we did,” he said. “It’s just… You saw the texts.”

“I did.”

“All of the texts. There were a lot of texts. And April won’t stop poking me on Facebook. I mean, who even pokes on Facebook anymore?”

“It’s a lot of pressure,” Blaine said, looking for the first time like he was feeling it, too.

“Oh, thank god,” he groaned, unable to suppress the urge to turn and kiss him; he barely even cared that they were surrounded by people. Blaine’s lips still tasted of the lemon sorbet they’d shared after dinner, feeding each other with sundae spoons at the bar in Cooper’s kitchen.

When he pulled away, Blaine asked, “Did you think you were the only one feeling it?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Kurt trailed off, running his fingers over the front of the thick cable knit cardigan Blaine wore, the one he’d nabbed from Kurt’s side of the closet like it was nothing. “Do you understand why I fought against it all for so long?”

“Of course I do,” Blaine said. “I was scared, too.”

Kurt shook his head, eyebrows knitting together. “But you always seemed so sure…”

“Come on,” Blaine said quietly, taking his hand and pulling him over to an empty bench opposite the ticket booth. When Kurt sat down, his hand clasped between both of Blaine’s own, the wood was still warm from its last occupants. “I was sure of how I felt, that much is true. But sure of what you’d do? Honestly, I’ve never been less sure.”

“So how did you… In Wyoming, you just—“

“I was sick of biting my tongue every time I wanted to say it. I was still terrified of ruining us and what we had, but I couldn’t keep pretending. And that fucking song…”

“That fucking song,” Kurt echoed, shaking his head.

“What about you?” Blaine asked.

“I’ve never been so scared in all my life. Still am, a little bit.”

“Why?”

“It was always more than just—just putting us and our friendship in jeopardy. It was…” Kurt paused, averting his eyes and forcing himself to confront his instinct to run with his need to talk. “I was scared that you’d just leave again.”

Blaine’s grip on his hands tightened. “Kurt, I wouldn’t—“

“Because I honestly think that I’d lose it if you did,” he interrupted, words flowing irrepressibly now that he’d started. “It took me this long to trust you again, Blaine, and now there’s all these people who want to know everything and all I want to know is that… That I’ll still have something to tell them when we get home.”

A moment passed where Blaine did nothing more than stare at him, a muscle working in his jaw. “You’ve needed to say that to me for a while, haven’t you?” At Kurt’s sheepish nod, he shifted closer and said, “Kurt, I’m not… I’m not going home. Home’s been right in front of me for nearly seventeen years. It just took me a while to figure it out.”

Kurt shook his head in near disbelief, his breath leaving his body in a shaky release that had been building up ever since Blaine had returned from London. His eyes stung and he blinked rapidly, and even as he looked away, Blaine ducked into his eyeline.

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna fix this,” he said, his tone solemn. “I’ve got you, remember?”

And there it was: I’ve got you. Three more little words in addition to the three that had had Kurt tongue-tied for so long, three more little words that encapsulated how much Blaine had done for him.

“You do, don’t you?” he said, more a slightly awed statement than a question.

Blaine rolled his eyes and tucked two fingers beneath Kurt’s chin, gently guiding his gaze upward. Looking at him with an expression so painfully earnest and full of tenderness that Kurt thought he might unravel, he said, “Always.”

“I love you,” Kurt whispered on a punch of breath, pitching forward to wrap his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and pull him close. Blaine’s fingers had still been tucked beneath his chin and his arm was caught between them; his laugh was muffled against Kurt’s shoulder until they broke apart.

“I love you, too,” Blaine said, reaching down for Kurt’s hand and linking their fingers. “Now, come on. We’ve got a first date to finish.”

Kurt wanted to roll his eyes and poke fun at the idea that this was a first date as they got in line for tickets, but as he considered the notion, he realized that it was exactly how they had spent their day—albeit a little closer than most first dates, given that they’d made out in the back of Cooper’s home movie theater for most of Fight Club.

Nevertheless, after they’d bought enough tickets to get them on each ride at least once, he said, “I’m not sure this qualifies as a first date.”

“Dinner and a movie; it totally qualifies,” Blaine replied, swinging their joined hands between them as they set off toward the Ferris wheel.

“Ah, but we did it backwards,” Kurt said.

“What haven’t we done backwards?” Blaine pointed out, and Kurt smiled despite himself. “You know, I never realize how much I miss California until I come back.”

“You finally got me here.”

“And I can finally go on the Ferris wheel.”

“You—what?” Kurt asked, perplexed. “You’ve visited Coop about a million times and you’ve never been here?”

“Of course I have,” Blaine said. “But I was saving the Ferris wheel for you.”

OneRepublic’s Secrets was playing as they joined the back of the short line beneath the giant wheel and Kurt smiled to himself, thinking back to all the years they’d spent going to the annual bazaar at St John’s in Brunswick. They would hold hands until they got to the top of the wheel, where they would each tell a secret. At twelve, it had been, “I ate the last cupcake, the one you were saving.” At fifteen, it had been, “I kinda have a crush on Drake.” At twenty-one, Kurt had said, “I missed you,” instead of, “Holding your hand feels strange and different and I can’t figure out why.”

Once they were seated and the guardrail was settled across their laps, Kurt shifted close to Blaine and was reaching for his hand when Blaine’s cell rang, blaring at top volume.

“I thought I’d set it to vibrate,” Blaine said apologetically as he pulled it out. His brow furrowed as he looked at the screen. “It’s Coop. Do you mind if I…”

Kurt waved him off with a smile, turning his attention to the views out over the bay as they rose into the air, hundreds of lights sparkling over the water. He rested his head on Blaine’s shoulder and sighed contentedly, tuning out everything save for his newfound sense of peace. It all seemed to be falling into place—finally, finally, finally—and that torn seam of their fabric was already re-sewn, the stitches doubled and trebled by the last three months; not mended by a long goodbye but by a belated hello.

“Yes, Coop, we got the video message. I still don’t get why you can’t just text me like a normal person…”

He felt Blaine’s fingers threading through his own as they inched higher, and considered what he would say when they got to the top. He’d already given away all of his secrets—aside from his cornbread recipe, of course; that would go with him to the grave. Maybe, if Blaine hadn’t come clean in Wyoming and Kurt hadn’t done the same in Arizona, they would have had matching confessions at the top. Maybe, if Blaine had never gone to London and nothing had changed between them, Kurt would be confessing that he was the one moving around the magnets on the fridge and Leona was not, in fact, haunted. Maybe, if their almost-kiss hadn’t been interrupted and they’d both been brave much sooner, Kurt’s secret would be that he was happy about marriage equality in Maine for more than one reason.

“No, that’s—that’s amazing, Coop! Okay, I’ll… Yeah. Yeah, I’ll talk to Kurt and let you know.”

At the sound of his name, Kurt sat upright in his seat. He looked at Blaine, neon colors playing across his face as he offered Kurt a tight smile and hung up.

“What’s your secret?” he asked, squeezing Kurt’s hand.

“I don’t have any left.”

“Looks like we need a new tradition, then.”

“What did Coop say?” Kurt prompted after a moment of silence had passed, Blaine glancing down at the park from their vantage point at the top of the wheel.

“That movie he’s just optioned, it…” Blaine trailed off, pulling his hand from Kurt’s and scratching at the back of his neck. “He wants us both to come out here to work on it. First assistant director and director of photography.”

“I—what?” Kurt spluttered. “But we just graduated.”

“I guess when he said fresh talent, he meant the crew as well as the cast.”

This is it, Kurt thought immediately, his mind suddenly awash in a new kind of hope. He needed a plan, something concrete that didn't ebb and flow like the neverending stream of white lines disappearing beneath the R.V. He needed the certainty, to know that there was something more for them after they returned to Maine on the same itchy feet with which they’d left. This is what we’ve been waiting for.

He looked over at Blaine with wide eyes, reaching for his hand and finding a loose fist into which he burrowed his fingers, needing a grounding touch to keep from letting the heady drama of Cooper’s announcement get to him.

“But you’re going to New York,” Kurt said quietly, stomach dropping in a way that had nothing to do with the Ferris wheel’s soft lurch downward. “I mean… Would you think about it?”

“Do you want to do it?”

No more secrets. “Yes.”

“What if…” Blaine shifted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment. “What if I told that I don’t know which one I want more?”

“I’d say that’s okay.”

“What if I told you that I’m scared I’ll fail, whichever one I pick?”

“I’d say that’s okay, too. We can’t stop each other from failing, but we can pick each other up when we do. You’ve got me, and I’ve got you, right?”

Blaine smiled at that. “I think I want to, but… It’s big. Can you give me some time?”

“Of course, silly,” Kurt said, leaning over and pressing his forehead to Blaine’s temple. For longer than he cared to remember, he had been picking the lock of his own joy, slowly feeling for the tumblers and gradually letting them click into place. Blaine was the only man who had ever given him joy without that oft-expected bite of sorrow—he could have all the time he wanted.

They were quiet for a while after that, Blaine obviously deep in thought about the choice before him. They didn’t speak again until after Kurt had ducked out of the line for the West Coaster, leaving Blaine holding their tickets with a puzzled expression, to examine a rack of key chains more closely. He selected one carefully, not even caring about the inflated price as he paid, and took it back to Blaine, pressing it into his palm.

Blaine examined it closely, eyes trained on the heavy pewter outline of the United States, one heart punched into New York and the other into California, a dotted line connecting them.

“Whatever you decide,” Kurt said simply.

He yelped as Blaine wrapped an arm around his waist and dipped him, crushing their lips together in a kiss that Kurt felt in his toes.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, and as Blaine straightened, pulled them back upright and silently stepped away with a small smile, all Kurt could dazedly think was, I am Jack's heart, grown three sizes bigger.

Distance: 13,157 miles

*

Next: Oregon

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 9.5/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 05 Feb 2014 20:20:19 GMT

Day 088: Thursday 13th December, 2012
Pillow Talk (Nevada)

“I don’t get why you’re fighting me on this, Kurt. It’s Oceans Eleven, I mean…”

“Okay, okay. I get it. We’re not killing your George Clooney boner any time soon. So fine.”

“Excellent. Onto Califor—“

If Blaine’s life were a movie, their time in Vegas would be the montage scene.

He could see it laid out before him as clear as crystal, so perfectly formed in his mind that he knew every shot, every transition, every angle. The quiet, strumming introduction of King and Lionheart by Of Monsters And Men would undercut the meeting of their lips by the campfire, Kurt dropping his extinguished poi to the ground and linking their fingers, neither of them heeding the wolf whistles and catcalls of their audience.

“And we won’t run, and we won’t run, and we won’t run,” would be the words that accompanied their hustle back to the R.V., the fires stoked and the engines starting. Fades into smiles across the space of the cab; Blaine’s hand riding the air outside the window as they sped west along I-40; a panoramic shot of the hotel room on the Las Vegas Expressway that he’d booked on a whim. Standard stock shots of the lights and sights of Vegas itself; Kurt running down the strip with Blaine’s hand tangled up in his, looking for all the world that he was the happiest he’d ever been.

The song’s quiet heart but perfect sentiment would help the juxtaposing flow of slow, soul-deep kisses in dark corners of casinos against their fast entrances and exits to each and every gaudy attraction they could find. The cameras would capture them splitting their sides laughing as they took stupid photos of one another at Tussaud’s; Kurt complaining about the smell of elephant poop inside the Adventuredome at Circus Circus; sitting in the mezzanine at Showgirls and loosely holding hands over the armrest; getting tossed out of the Neon Museum for ditching the guided tour in favor of a too-heated make out behind the dead Stardust sign. And as it faded into the hushed interlude, darkened shots of hands knotted in sheets, in hair, tangling together with a tight squeeze of release; the gentle caress of Kurt’s fingers against Blaine’s cheek, bringing him drifting downward and back to the earth.

One last series of shots would accompany the song’s wind to its close: fast kisses, laughing kisses, desperate kisses; Kurt smiling softly at him from the bathtub through the open bathroom door; splitting a bottle of too-expensive champagne down in the bar before returning to their room.

Everything about it would be disgustingly cheesy, and Blaine would love every perfect second—because perfect was exactly what the last three days had been. It made him miss film-making in a new way, one that had him scribbling stray thoughts and notes onto scraps of paper, humming the riffs and hooks floating through his mind, and wanting more than anything to fulfil his and Kurt’s dreams of creating beautiful things together.

“We must be the only two people ever to come to Vegas and not gamble a cent,” he mused to a sleepy Kurt, who had only just awoken from the doze he’d fallen into after they’d come back to the hotel room. They’d been almost drunk and rutting against one another before the door had even closed behind them, and somehow they’d managed to make it to the bed, a trail of clothes left in their wake. Now they lay beneath soft sheets and blankets with all of the lights off, but the drapes drawn back from the windows in the hope that they would see the Geminid meteors streaking by over the mountains.

“The house always wins,” Kurt replied sleepily. “And besides, I kind of already gambled a lot the other night.”

“Nah,” Blaine said, scooting down and turning onto his side. “I was a sure thing.”

“Exactly,” Kurt said, looking at him through one eye. “The house always wins.”

The pause that befell their conversation was comfortable, knowing, the kind of pause that didn’t need to be filled with awkward glances or tentative touches—so much was out in the open, now. The walls had crumbled, leaving no rubble but a foundation upon which they could build whatever they wanted, and even without the champagne, Blaine was giddy with it.

“So,” he said at length. “We’ve had two days in Vegas, done every tacky tourist thing we could think of, you’ve fucked me every which way to Sunday—and it’s only Thursday—and now we’re here.”

“That about sums it up,” Kurt replied, tracing Blaine’s lips and then leaning in to kiss each one in turn.

“There isn’t anything left that we haven’t done?” Blaine asked.

“Not that I can think of.”

“No fantasies about going to that drive-thru chapel?”

Kurt’s bark of laughter was music. “Sure, let’s do it. I think I have a condom in my wallet from graduation that could be my something old.”

“And we have blue M&Ms,” Blaine supplied.

“Oh! Maybe you’ll let me borrow that tie of yours that I’m never allowed to borrow.”

“And I can wear the scarf you bought yesterday.”

“Ah, Nevada,” Kurt sighed almost wistfully. “If only.”

“If only,” Blaine echoed, and Kurt looked at him with a soft, tender smile.

“What, are we playing Relationship Chicken now?” he asked after a moment.

“Well, we both clean up,” Blaine joked, and scooted forward under the covers, sliding his thigh between Kurt’s.

“Mmm, you in that suit at Toby and Andrew’s wedding…” Kurt trailed off, shuffling up into the contact.

“Yeah?”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

His face warming, Blaine turned his face into the pillow for a second—and then something occurred to him, and he had to look back up.

“It’s rude to stare,” Kurt said after a few moments had passed.

“You said ‘relationship,’” Blaine murmured, grinning at him.

“Shut up,” Kurt muttered, dropping his eyes, but his own smile betrayed him.

“So… Are we boyfriends now?” Blaine teased, ducking into his eyeline.

Kurt surprised him with a firm kiss and even more with his answer: “That’s completely the wrong word for what you are to me. But if we’re using conventional terms… Yeah.”

“Because you love me, and I love you,” Blaine murmured, leaning forward and whispering against his lips, “and we’re totally fucking screwed.”

“That about sums it up,” Kurt repeated in a dazed tone, and pulled Blaine in for another of those desperate kisses that had marked the passage of so many moments over the past two days. It was dizzying and disorienting, Kurt claiming his mouth in a way that felt to Blaine like he never wanted to stop, like he was taking as much as he could because he didn’t know if he’d still have it the next day, week, month, year.

Blaine was breathless when he pulled back, shivering as the AC kicked in, and asked, “So you’re sure there’s nothing else you want to do while we’re here?”

Kurt looked thoughtful for a moment, toying with the corner of his pillowcase, and said, “There was this art show last year at The Cosmopolitan that I wish I could have seen. I read an article about it.”

“Go on,” Blaine prompted him after a moment.

Kurt shifted, then, extricating his legs from Blaine’s and turning around to settle his back against Blaine’s chest. “Have you ever noticed that the longer you look up, the more stars you see?” he asked.

“We had this exact conversation in July at Coffin Pond,” Blaine reminded him, slipping one arm beneath his neck and the other around his waist. “What is it about this art show?”

“It was called Confessions,” Kurt answered at length. “The artist set up little booths where people could anonymously write secrets on slips of paper, and then she would pin them up on the walls. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands.”

“Sounds pretty cool,” Blaine agreed, biding his time—Kurt wouldn’t have brought it up without a reason.

“What would you confess?” Kurt asked softly.

“That my life hasn’t been the same since they stopped making Double Dip Crunch,” he replied blithely, earning himself a sharp pinch to the thigh. He cleared his throat, and as looked out through the window and caught the first of the meteors darting across the night sky, he hooked his chin over Kurt’s shoulder and answered, “I realized that I was in love with my best friend while we were watching meteors together in Louisiana.”

He was expecting Kurt to tense in his arms, the same as he had done every other time Blaine had brought up his feelings; it felt almost too good to be true that, instead, he simply relaxed further into Blaine’s hold, hummed happily, and said, “That’s a good one.”

“What about you?”

“We might be here a while.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Okay, well…” Kurt trailed off, taking a deep breath as if to brace himself. With a small, self-deprecating laugh, he began, “I once walked in on my best friend jerking off and used it as masturbation fodder for a month.”

Prodding him in the ribs, Blaine said, “So I give you this deep confession and you respond with, ‘I used to jerk off to you.’”

“Okay, A) your first one was about cereal, so don’t even. And B) you were fucking hot, so I’m not even a little bit sorry,” Kurt shot back.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Blaine said. “Tell me something real.”

“That’s my line,” Kurt joked. “But okay, um…”

Heavy moments of silence passed, punctuated only by the steady sound of their breathing and the occasional set of footsteps passing by outside the door. After a few moments, Blaine prompted, “It doesn’t have to be something monumental.”

“I just can’t think of anything that you don’t already know about me,” Kurt finally said, his voice quietly surprised. “You were there for so much of it. And I’ve told you about last year, so…

“Blaine, you—“ Kurt continued, stopping short to turn around and face him. His eyes were mostly shrouded in the darkness, but Blaine could feel the weight of them as if his gaze were something tangible. “You know me better than anyone—better than I know myself, sometimes—and I think what… What took me so long was that I was terrified of losing you but also terrified of not losing you, of what all this would mean if I let it in.”

“We were both scared,” Blaine said. “Do you really think I would have let you off the hook in Delaware if I hadn’t been?”

“I know, but… If you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of obsessed with you,” Kurt said, the words stilted and almost clumsy, like he was trying to make sense of them as they were coming out. “And it… It made me feel so unsafe, because I don’t get like this with anyone else. I never thought I was the kind of person who pins their everything on somebody.”

“You don’t—“ Blaine began, but Kurt held a hand up to stop him.

“B, can you… Can you let me try and get this out?”

“Of course.”

Kurt took a deep breath, and continued, “Some of the things I’ve put you through on this trip, and you were so patient with me… Even the idea of getting to have this with you felt too good to be true, like everything would just go to shit if I let myself think it was a possibility, let alone have the reality. And I’m still kind of terrified, honestly, but it’s always going to be you. There’s never going to be anybody else. I’ve been so stupid, and so blind, and I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

Slowly, eyes fixed on Kurt’s the entire time, Blaine gathered up Kurt’s wrists and straddled his hips, pinning him to the bed. Kurt was miles of body and skin underneath him, skin that made Blaine suddenly wish they’d factored in a stop to hit the beach at Goleta when they got to the west coast. He would drag Kurt swimming and then find his old hideaway cove along the cliff wall where he could take his time licking the salt from Kurt’s freckles.

Instead, he entwined their fingers and leaned down with parted lips: close, close, closer, and he was consumed. The door between them was finally open, swinging on its hinges in the wake of a hurricane and Blaine could feel the devastation it had left behind from his scalp down to the soles of his feet. Their lips barely brushed, but Blaine's heart was racing and there was a tugging in his stomach that felt like jolting awake to the sensation of falling. It was panic, pressure, realization. It was hitting the ground running; it was willingly tumbling headfirst into love in a way that he hadn’t yet known.

He kissed Kurt, and everything slowed. He could feel Kurt's eyelashes against the apple of his cheek, a fanfare in his heart and Kurt’s lips soft and pliant beneath his own. He poured every last shred of hope and fear and adoration and regret into Kurt, apologizing in kind for the wasted years, promising to be his and his alone until the end of forever. Their mouths fitted and then broke apart, finding each other again with eyes closed and fingertips cloying to tangle in hair and against skin. Blaine moaned brokenly and Kurt deepened the kiss, pulling him flush, mouth insistent and warm and wet and wanting. He needed nothing except this, except Kurt; he would forgo food and rest and oxygen if it meant he could just do this every moment for the rest of his life, because this was everything and so much more.

“I love you,” was his answer when he pulled back, his voice thick and his eyes more wet than he could stand.

“I love you, too,” Kurt breathed, eyes wide and dark as he blinked up at him. “And my confession is that I realized I was in love with my best friend in a coffee shop in Ohio. While he had a stirrer sticking out of his mouth.”

The unexpected, lighthearted addition to the end of Kurt’s confession washed over him and put him back together where he had briefly come apart—he laughed, and rolled off Kurt with no grace whatsoever, burying his face in the pillow as his body shook.

When he had caught his breath, he peeked at Kurt through one eye and found him looking back, tenderness crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he reached for Blaine’s hand. His expression was full of warmth, contentment, awe. “This is going to be awesome, right? It’s the start of something really, really great?”

Sobering for a second, Blaine realized where he’d heard the words before—he’d said them to Kurt over three months earlier, sitting out on Kurt’s deck and counting fireflies—and as Kurt curled his fingers into the space above Blaine’s thumb, he replied, “I think maybe we’re already in the middle of something really, really great. But if we’re using conventional terms… Yeah.”

“So what happens next?” Kurt asked.

Drawing himself closer, just like Kurt did every night even if they’d fallen asleep with a gulf between them, he cupped Kurt’s jaw and slid his hand back, his thumb fitting into the groove behind his ear like it was a space made just for him, just to be doing this. “You just have to be with me,” he said. “We can figure the rest out later.”

And as Kurt met his kiss, smiling into it with complete abandon, Blaine could practically hear the strains of Music for a Found Harmonium picking up: they were only just getting started.

Distance: 12,885 miles

*

Next: California

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 9.4/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 02 Feb 2014 20:23:08 GMT

Day 085: Monday 10th December, 2012
Courage (Arizona)

“It’s LGBT, it has Felicity Huffman—“

“Sold, oh my god, sold.”

“Excellent. Write that down: Transamerica for Arizona.”

When Kurt awoke the next morning, his breath stung his raw throat and his eyes still felt full with the bittersweet ache of catharsis. There was also the matter of Blaine sitting on the edge of the bed, gently pushing back Kurt’s hair and looking like he hadn't slept all night.

“Morning,” he said, a smile that looked reluctant tugging at his mouth.

“Morning,” Kurt rasped, shifting under the covers. “What time is it?”

“After seven,” Blaine said. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better than I have in years, actually,” he answered at length. “You?”

“I haven’t slept yet,” Blaine said quietly, his hand dropping and tracing the line of Kurt’s jaw. “There was something I had to do.”

“And it took you nine hours?”

“Eight, actually.”

“You didn’t go out and get lost, did you?”

“No. But I did drink way too much coffee.”

“Well, that’s nothing new,” Kurt said, suppressing a yawn. “I’m guessing I’m awake for a reason?”

“Put on the warmest clothes you own,” Blaine said, his hand falling away, “and meet me by the door in five minutes.”

“What’s going on?” Kurt asked, sitting up and catching Blaine’s wrist as he stood to leave.

“You’ll see,” Blaine sing-songed, his voice cracking and choked with fatigue. With nothing but an exaggerated wink, he ducked out of the bedroom and Kurt was left alone.

He stayed for a moment more, stretching out into the warmth of the bed and listening to the air settle. He felt as if his heart had been cracked open, but instead of it making him want to claw himself back together and patch up his fault lines, it made him want… Blaine. Openly, honestly, and completely—almost as if Blaine had passed some kind of test neither of them were aware had been set.

Kurt glanced down at the front of his pajama shirt, peeled off the Band-Aid, and stuck it directly onto the skin over his heart.

He dressed quickly and simply: thick, charcoal gray jeans, a white shirt and a soft wool sweater, finished off with a black scarf and gloves. He was feeling somehow rebellious, like he needed to be contained—there was lightning in his veins, some kind of kinetic energy thrumming beneath his skin, and the muted colors helped. Avoiding his reflection, because his hair was probably an unmitigated bed-head disaster, he headed out to meet Blaine, who was bundled up in his navy duffel coat and waiting, as promised, by the door.

The R.V. was shrouded in darkness, all of the blinds drawn and the lights switched off. It carried the same atmosphere as their teenage ‘runaway’ nights had, when Kurt would stay over at Blaine’s house and they’d sneak out for a bike ride up to Coffin Pond long after dark.

“Come here,” Blaine murmured. He held out a hand to Kurt, the other holding his scarf.

“You’re starting to freak me out,” Kurt said as he drew closer. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

“Can I blindfold you?”

“I—what?”

Grinning sheepishly, Blaine held up the scarf. “There’s something I want to show you, but I don’t want you to see it ‘til we get there. It’s only a couple minutes’ walk.”

Kurt cast his gaze around the interior of the R.V., the threads drawing together in his mind. “We’re not in Santa Fe anymore, are we?”

Blaine bit his lip and shook his head. “Nope.”

Kurt regarded him coolly for a moment before stepping forward and letting Blaine blindfold him, tucking the lower half of the scarf up over his nose so that he could breathe. And then, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, he let himself be led: down the steps and out the door; along smooth and even ground which gave away nothing when Kurt tipped his head back to try and see around him; down a gradual incline that led to an uneven set of winding steps.

The world around him was silent, barely even any birds singing a dawn song to accompany them, and he was grateful that there seemed to be no one else around as Blaine patiently guided him down the steps, Kurt's arm occasionally flailing for purchase where there was none to be found.

“How much far—“ Kurt began, but stopped short when he felt some sort of fence pressing gently against his lower half. “Blaine?”

“I think it’s about to start,” he replied, dropping Kurt's hand and loosening the blindfold. “Are you ready?”

“I don't even—“

Bright, dawn-pale sky stretched for miles and miles, all the way to the horizon, and Kurt squinted against the sudden harshness. Then, like a blurry long-lens shot suddenly pulled into focus, the land resolved itself into buttes and canyons and giant sprawls of sedimentary rock. His breath punched out in a single, disbelieving huff and a wave of dizziness overtook him, as if every molecule of oxygen had left his body at once.

A sliver of sunlight appeared to the east, and Kurt’s eyes drank in the pink and purple and orange hues that transformed the rock.

“It looks like it’s breathing,” he whispered.

Blaine chuckled behind him, wrapping his arms around Kurt’s waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Pretty amazing, right?”

Kurt turned in his arms, taking in the splinters of green and gold in his eyes for a moment before pressing his forehead against Blaine’s temple and telling him quietly, “You make everything else go away.”

“Nah,” Blaine said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You do, though,” Kurt said, pulling back and meeting his eyes fully. “Everything that happened last night, it… No one’s ever done anything like that for me before, and now this…”

“I figured you needed something good to wake up to. That’s all,” Blaine said with a shrug.

Kurt wanted to tell Blaine that he loved him—the words were on the tip of his tongue, their taste as thick and full as when he’d whispered them to Blaine’s sleeping form in Colorado, but the previous night still weighed heavily on him. He didn’t want to say it when the cracks inside him still simmered with the fury of sleeping giants; he needed some measure of peace to it all.

So instead, he held onto the railing behind him and leaned back, looking over his shoulder at the land of a rising sun. Blaine dropped his head to rest on Kurt’s chest, his eyes drifting closed and a smile playing about his lips when Kurt told him he was missing it.

“We’ve been here for a while, you know. I came up earlier,” he replied tiredly. “And we’ve got tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you drove all night to get here,” Kurt said.

“Well, you took me to Four Corners,” Blaine pointed out.

“Did you stop anywhere?”

“Yeah, at about two-thirty. There was a Denny’s in Holbrook.”

“Kinda glad I wasn’t awake.”

“Mm. You needed to sleep.”

“Thank you. For last night,” Kurt said, resting his head atop Blaine’s. “And for everything else.”

“You’re welcome,” Blaine said around a yawn; Kurt could feel the warm exhalation even through his layers.

Clearing his throat, wanting to offer something, he said, “Blaine, you—you know I’m getting there, right?”

“Hmm?”

“With… With us. You know I’m getting there, don’t you?”

Only silence greeted him, stretching so taut that Kurt thought it might snap back like an elastic band at any moment—until Blaine’s arms went limp, and Kurt realized that he had fallen asleep. He allowed himself a moment to let out a bone-deep sigh before hooking his arms underneath Blaine’s and hauling him to his feet.

“You fell asleep on me,” Kurt told him as he blinked himself awake. “Literally.”

“Did not,” Blaine grumbled, rubbing his eyes and looking at him blearily. “Okay, maybe I did.”

“Come on. Let’s get you back to the R.V., Sleeping Beauty,” Kurt said, taking his hand and leading him away from the fence.

“Is that my Disney character?” Blaine asked.

“I’d actually say Rapunzel. Your hair grows fast enough,” Kurt replied, carding his hand through Blaine’s curls until Blaine was scrunching his nose and batting his hand away.

“If my hair was that long, I’d look like Brian May,” he said, and Kurt laughed. As they reached the top of the steps, Blaine tugged on his sleeve and turned back to the face the sunrise. Quietly, and looking at Kurt with a gaze too intense for his meaning to be missed, he asked, “Do you think we’d fly if we jumped?”

“The wings need a few more tweaks, but… Soon,” Kurt said at length. He didn’t miss the way Blaine’s face lit up, brighter than the sun that had, by now, almost fully cleared the horizon. “Now, come on. There’s a bed with your name on it.”

“Sheets, too. Literally.”

“Reason number seventy-five that your mother will always confuse me.”

“So where did you meet this guy?” Blaine asked as they took a seat on one of the benches behind the campfire, leaning in to speak directly into Kurt’s ear.

“At the store, when I went for Advil,” Kurt replied, resting his head on Blaine’s shoulder and inhaling deeply.

After both having slept most of the day away, Kurt had woken late in the afternoon with images of a dream still flashing in his mind: an empty dance floor littered with debris; a black gymnastic ribbon that had become fire when he’d picked it up; dancing with it until everything was alight; walking through the flames toward a glass door. The handle had almost been within reach when Kurt had awoken, head throbbing and half-abandoned sentiments fizzling on his tongue.

It was at the Market Plaza store that he’d run into Elliott: six feet tall; broad shoulders and muscled arms barely concealed by his regulation green polo; black hair shot through with honey; green eyes subtly outlined in black, and an arresting, sultry smile that, only months previously, would have driven Kurt crazy.

“We got talking,” Kurt continued, “and his best friend’s dad owns the place, so they come up every Monday to hang out, spin, blow off some steam… In the summer they put on shows for the kids.”

He scanned the clearing, taking in the campfire and the rows of benches set up behind it, as if the campfire were some sort of platform from which one could preach. There were five or six couples sprawled across the benches and blankets strewn haphazardly around the campfire, and none of them had paid Kurt and Blaine’s arrival any attention; all of their eyes were transfixed on Elliott, who was halfway through a slow, sensuous fire poi routine set to a Matt Corby song that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in a Sons of Anarchy episode.

The poi he was using were made of steel wool; every weave and reel resulted in a cascade of sparks, and as the sound built and built to a thumping, insane crescendo, Elliott raised his arms up over his head and spun the poi together. Sparks showered down around him, carpeting the ground and eliciting gasps from a couple of the girls.

Kurt and Blaine applauded and cheered along with everyone else, laughing at his theatrical entertainer’s bow. He unwound the poi from his hands and tossed them to the side as they burned out, and his place was taken by a small, curvy blonde in jeans and a leather jacket. She was carrying two five-pronged cathedral fans, and while she worked herself through a few warm-ups, Elliott jogged over.

“Kurt! So glad you came,” he said, slightly out of breath and shooting him an infectious smile before taking a seat and turning his attention to Blaine. “And you must be the boyfriend Kurt was telling me about.”

Blaine threw a look his way that was a mixture of confusion and surprise, and Kurt finally understood what it meant to wish that a chasm would open up beneath his feet. Without meeting either of their gazes, he introduced them and prayed for a change of subject.

“How long have you guys been together?” Elliott asked, glancing between them with an easy openness to his expression, and Kurt cursed his luck.

“You tell him, sweetheart,” Blaine said, and nudged his side.

Kurt sucked in a deep breath to keep from committing murder, forced a smile, and said, “We’ve been best friends since we were little, but things didn’t… Change, I guess, ‘til this trip.”

“Well, I’m happy for you,” Elliott said, adding, “and you guys are from Maine, right? You just got marriage there?”

Kurt bristled even more, mostly at the memory of that walking-on-broken-glass night in Wisconsin, and nodded with a tight smile. “You were right, by the way,” he said, finally finding the wherewithal to redirect the conversation. “That routine was incredible.”

“Ah, it’s all in finding the right music,” Elliott said, waving off the praise and gesturing to the blonde girl. She was warming up with a few basic turns and sweeps, waving the fans up and down in a way that made it look like she had wings. “Now, Dani is something else. She’s an artist.”

“Just like Kurt,” Blaine interjected, and as he wound his arm around Kurt’s waist, Kurt couldn’t help but smile a little, even though it had been a long time since he’d felt like one. The thought stung more than he’d let it in months. “I filmed him for a music video once, and his routines are beautiful.”

“You’re up next, then,” Elliott said.

“What? No, I—I…” Kurt spluttered. “I haven’t spun for a couple years.”

“Not taking no for an answer,” Elliott sing-songed, and got to his feet just as Dani’s fans lit up as brightly as fireworks. “Come over once she’s done and we’ll get you set up.”

“Okay,” Kurt said weakly, and after Elliott had left them to join a couple of his friends sitting closer to where Dani was spinning and twirling, Blaine leaned over and pressed a kiss beneath Kurt’s jaw.

“Boyfriend, huh?” he asked.

“He was about to hit on me,” Kurt said; it wasn’t a lie, but neither was it the truth. “I had to say something.”

He felt more than saw Blaine’s small, knowing smile, heard his murmured, “Okay,” and that same electricity lingering in his bloodstream almost had him jittering with the itch to spin again, to feel every minute shift of the chains as he created his own escape of patterns and heat and light.

“What if I’ve forgotten everything?” he asked.

“I’ll come stand right in front of you, if you want. Pretty good incentive for not fucking up,” Blaine offered, but before Kurt had even rolled his eyes, he added firmly, “Stop second-guessing yourself, and go be an artist. It’s who she taught you to be.”

Struck dumb with the truth of Blaine’s words, Kurt let himself relax into his hold for the rest of Dani’s kinetic light show, and it felt like no time at all that her cathedral fans were snuffing out and Elliott was waving him over. Blaine lightly squeezed his hand, and Kurt left everything behind except the energy that had been bubbling inside him all day.

He flexed his fingers and rolled his wrists as he walked down the aisle separating the rows of benches, loosening up his joints ready to spin. Breathe, he reminded himself as he shook out his shoulders and rolled his neck, striding over to Elliott with purpose. He accepted two poi from a rake-thin teenage boy Elliott introduced as Sean, and turned to Dani to congratulate her on her performance.

“Thank you!” she said, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands together before gesturing to the small but powerful iPod dock standing on a tree stump. “Did you bring music for your routine?”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m woefully under-prepared.”

“Oh, that’s okay! Don’t even worry about it. What kinda stuff do you like?”

“Anything that has a good beat and makes me feel.”

She looked thoughtful for a second, and strode over to the dock, calling back to him, “I have a couple friends in Vancouver, and they sent me a demo EP for this band called The Belle Game. I’m obsessed with this one song, River, right now.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kurt said, having gotten used to improvising to whichever songs the leader of his college fire club had picked each week.

The song began with an almost dream-like quality that sounded like harps over guitars; Dani gave him a cute smile and thumbs-up as she passed by on her way to a seat, and Kurt was suddenly aware of all eyes on him. He shook off the nerves and wrapped the poi handles around his hands, striding with purpose over to the campfire to light them before stepping back and taking a deep breath.

“There’s a place that I’ve found,” were the lyrics that got him started, spinning the poi in a simple butterfly formation. “Full of sins that you’ve drowned. I’ve been your river, I’ve been your river since we were kids.”

The sounds of fire whipped past him on each spin, the old familiar heat wrapping around him; he picked up on the song’s instrumental interlude—a plucking of strings that sounded as chaotic and treacherous as his own heart—and swept himself up into a four-beat weave, relaxing his body and letting himself move from side to side.

“There’s a rhyme and a case for the things you’ve misplaced.”

Corkscrew reels, this time: shortening the chains to spin in front of him and then up and over his head. Easy moves that he could never have forgotten, and he bit back a smile, concentrating on feeling the music and anticipating the change in beat—which exploded into the chorus: “Take a little more, take a little more from me.”

The lightning flowed through Kurt’s arms and out into the poi, consumed by the flames as he leapt onto his toes and into one of his signature variations on a six-petal flower. He pushed the fire away and pulled it back, dancing with it until it felt like an extension of himself and he wielded the control over it for a transitional float, running the poi at vertical parallels.

Kurt’s every nerve was aflame; he was invincible; he was on the edge of the world; he was a superhero. The music was for him, just for him, and he was lightning shattering out of a jar; pure id as he spiraled higher and higher into the stratosphere.

It was as he was performing a simple but modified alternating barrel roll, leaning back with one leg raised into the air, that he caught sight of Blaine—no longer seated but standing at the end of the aisle between the benches. He was transfixed, the weight of his gaze something that would normally have felt heavier than Kurt could bear, but this time only spurred him on—he dipped back as far as he could without losing balance and righted himself with a scissor kick.

“Do you feel me at your side? I’ve been filled with all you denied.”

Kurt almost stopped short but managed to cover with another float, the words catching him off-guard and opening his eyes all at once to the truth of… Of everything, every last word of encouragement spoken to him throughout the course of their road trip: Andrew telling him to make the mistakes first; the tour guide in Virginia thinking they were a couple; Nan leaving no room for argument in informing them that they belonged to one another back in South Carolina; his own father making clear on Thanksgiving what Kurt had still refused to see; even the mysterious F, sending him music to soundtrack what he could no longer deny was a love story.

“Take a little more, take a little more, take a little more from me…”

And then there was Blaine: telling him he’d had a teenage crush on him in Kentucky; a stirrer poking out of his mouth in Ohio; pushing him to sing in Michigan; saving his life in Indiana; kissing air into his lungs underwater in Minnesota; confessing his feelings in Wyoming; making love to him in Colorado; holding him together with a single Band-Aid in New Mexico. For all his faults, he was the best person Kurt had ever known, and love would either tear them apart or give them a lifelong happy ending.

He lost himself—in chasing the sun, in complex, layered butterfly and flower formations, in barrel rolls and windmills and threading the needle—until he was nothing but music and flame, holding a white carnation in his lap and wishing for all the world that Blaine would awake in him a different kind of fire, the fire that had lain dormant until the first brush of lips with the world ending beneath their feet.

What lay just around the corner, or in six months, or in ten years… None of it mattered when Kurt was here and Blaine was—

Standing right in front of him, just out of reach of the poi as they flickered out with the song’s final fade, watching him as if he were something sacred to behold. There was applause and cheering over the perpetual crackle of the campfire, but it fell into the kind of silence that could only be found in the wake of a storm as Kurt’s world narrowed to Blaine. It was that small measure of peace he’d been needing.

Some people fell quickly and easily into love, inhaling it like air and needing only that. Kurt had fumbled and tripped and misstepped his way to the edge of a cliff, and he didn’t know what was waiting at the bottom except Blaine, but it didn’t matter.

Kurt jumped.

“I love you,” he breathed, the extinguished poi hanging limply from his hands.

Blaine froze, his eyes widening and lips parting, a single puff of white the only sign that he was breathing at all. Seconds seemed bottomless, Kurt watching and waiting for something—anything—to let him know that he hadn’t just cast himself into oblivion.

And then Blaine stepped forward and pulled Kurt to him with crushing force, rocked forward onto his tiptoes, pressed his forehead to Kurt’s temple, and whispered, “I love you, too.”

…and Kurt landed.

Distance: 12,617 miles

*

Next: Nevada

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 9.3/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 29 Jan 2014 20:55:05 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

This fic will be updated twice-weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 4pm EST/9pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3. Previous chapters here.

Note: Thank you all for your patience! I'm hoping that absence only made your hearts grow fonder, as the saying goes :) I'd like to note that this chapter carries a pretty heavy angst warning, with discussion of past character death, so please tread carefully.

Day 084: Sunday 9th December, 2012
Tumble, Tumble (New Mexico)

“See you tomorrow, okay?”

“Wait—Blaine! We still haven’t decided what to watch in New Mexico!”

“No other road, no other way, no day but today!”

“Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?” Blaine sang softly, inclining his head toward Kurt and smiling at the snow-blush on his cheeks. “In the lane snow is glistening…”

“A beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight,” Kurt joined in, “walking in a winter wonderland.”

Downtown Santa Fe certainly felt like one with its adobe buildings covered in snow and unlit farolitos lining the sidewalks and rooftops. Kurt’s head rested on Blaine’s shoulder, his hand clutching the crook of Blaine’s elbow, and they were sitting on a bench by the Plaza monument, quietly watching the world go by.

For the first time, it felt like they were a real couple. Boyfriends. An item. In a relationship. A thing. Blaine couldn’t decide whether it was how quickly Kurt seemed to be letting down his barriers, the atmosphere of Santa Fe giving everything the feeling that anything could happen, or a mixture of both. Whatever it was, he was glad for it.

“We should probably get going,” he murmured, checking his watch. “Didn’t you say the chapel closes at five?”

Kurt made a sound in the back of his throat as he stood and held out his hand for Blaine to take. “Since when do I need to make a noise when I stand up?” he grumbled.

“Old man,” Blaine joked, and they set off along the Old Santa Fe Trail. Taking in the adobe storefronts, he caught himself humming again—the same tune he’d had stuck in his head since waking up that morning. It felt somehow familiar, like it was something from childhood or a half-remembered dream—simple and upbeat, and though the words were on the tip of his tongue, they wouldn't reveal themselves. Buoyed up, however, on the good mood that had been blanketing his steps since Colorado, he let the dull frustration of it simply roll off him.

“What is that?” Kurt suddenly asked as they turned onto Water Street.

Blaine’s face warmed, and he explained, “I’ve had it in my head since I woke up and I can’t place it. Do you know it?” He hummed a couple more bars, louder this time. Kurt stopped in his tracks, giving him a look tinged with such sadness that Blaine fell silent.

“Kurt?” he ventured after a moment.

“Don’t know it. Sorry,” he said in a clipped tone, burying his hands in his pockets and taking off again.

What just happened? Blaine thought, standing still for a second before catching up. There was a tension in the set of Kurt’s shoulders that had been decidedly absent the past couple of days, and Blaine tried not to think too much about it, even though he had the sudden feeling that he’d made some awful misstep.

As they set foot inside Loretto Chapel moments later, they stood still, both taking in the neat pews, decorated with greenery and twinkling lights for Christmas, and the ornately designed marble stonework over the altar. Carvings of saints stood sentinel, and the vaulted ceilings at the back of the chapel were intricately painted in a swirling red and gold design. To their right was what they had apparently come to see: the miraculous staircase.

“So what is it with this staircase?” Blaine asked, his voice hushed though the chapel was otherwise empty. He leaned into Kurt and gently nudged his shoulder.

“The story goes that the chapel architect died,” Kurt began, walking toward the staircase and beginning to climb it. Blaine smiled—Kurt had always had a little flair for the dramatic. “And the builders realized that there was no stairway to the loft included in the designs. The Sisters of Loretto prayed to Saint Joseph for divine intervention for nine days straight, and on the tenth day, a man appeared.

“He told the nuns that he’d build them a staircase, but that he’d need complete privacy in order to do it,” Kurt continued from halfway up. “He locked himself in the chapel for three months, and as soon as the staircase was finished, he left. No one knew who he was, and he was never seen or heard from again.”

“And what’s the miracle?” Blaine asked, sliding his hand over the banister—also strung with greenery and lights—and following him up the staircase.

“The construction,” Kurt answered, leaning over the railing of the loft. “No nails, no visible means of support… Apparently, it still has some experts baffled. The Sisters eventually decided that the man was Saint Joseph himself come to answer their prayers.”

Blaine clasped his hands together, forearms resting on the railing as he stood close to Kurt and looked out over the small chapel. “What would we film here?” he asked quietly, trying to see the place through Kurt’s eyes.

Kurt was quiet for a moment, his gaze roving the ceilings and the pews below. “I don’t know,” he said at length. Blaine pursed his lips, concealing his surprise—Kurt was the one who had the universes inside his head, and Blaine was the one who riffed off of them.

“Funeral?” he suggested.

“No,” Kurt said forcefully with a vehement shake of his head, and Blaine scrabbled around for a different idea.

“Nice place for a wedding, maybe,” he murmured quickly, straightening and stretching his arms out in front of him. He framed a shot in a deliberately bad way, knowing that Kurt wouldn’t be able to resist correcting him—which he did after a moment, covering Blaine’s hands with his own and creating a panning shot that began right below them and traveled across the pews right to the altar.

“Native Santa Feans,” he said quietly, his hands lingering on top of Blaine’s.

“Nah,” Blaine said. “Two guys who’ve been in love with each other forever but haven’t seen each other in years. They run into each other here, and finally admit everything.”

“Why here?” Kurt asked.

“This place, it…” Blaine trailed off, dropping his hands and clutching the railing as he looked down. “Do you get the feeling that everything would be better if you just stayed here for a while and figured your shit out?”

“It does have something,” Kurt agreed. “Even more so than where we were yesterday.”

The previous day, they had visited Madrid—“It’s pronounced MAD-rid, not Ma-DRID like in Spain,” Kurt had told him—and found themselves quite taken with the quirky, artsy little town that lay in the Ortiz Mountains, twenty minutes from Santa Fe on the Turquoise Trail. Were it not for the colorful fronts of the shops and matchstick houses, Blaine might have felt like he’d stepped into a Spaghetti Western.

They had spent the entire day wandering the streets of the town, walking in and out of stores and restaurants and visiting the Old Coal Town Museum, finally ending up at the Mine Shaft Tavern and only being able to drink two beers before they were tipsy, the elevation making one drink feel like three.

Blaine nodded, and they paused only a moment longer before both seeming to silently agree that it was time to leave.

It was mostly dark by the time they stepped outside, and it was like walking into a different world—the Christmas lights had burst into life, the farolitos lining the sidewalks and rooftops lit as if by magic. Something about it left them in a companionable kind of quiet as they took it all in, Kurt’s hand finding the crook of Blaine's elbow once again, and they set off down Water Street toward the Blue Corn Cafe.

They were so tipsy on margaritas by the end of their dinner—despite both eating more than their fill of tamales and calabacitas and carne avodava—that Kurt barely put up a fight when Blaine bought him one of the café’s branded t-shirts. He put up even less of a fight when Blaine dragged him to the back of the bus to the campground and spent their fifteen-minute journey lavishing attention on his neck, chasing the scent of Jean Paul Gaultier that always lingered around his pulse point.

Blaine could feel the heat between them as he led Kurt inside the R.V., but it was a slow burn, not a hunger to be immediately sated. Instead they both changed into pajamas and curled up under the covers of the bed, automatically gravitating together in the middle. Blaine set up his laptop to play RENT, and they sang along to all of the songs, and the lingering tension drained out of Kurt by degrees.

Despite every song they sang together, Blaine’s mind kept wandering back to that simple tune with which he’d awoken, the words still on the tip of his tongue. He kept biting back the urge to start humming it, something almost ominous growing in the back of his mind, scant memories beginning to knit themselves into a repeating pattern of motion…

And suddenly, woven before him was a picture of starting clarity: Saturday sleepovers at Kurt’s house; watching The Lion King every single week because it was their movie; heading up to Kurt’s room after he’d watched Kurt standing next to Elizabeth at the sink, their bright voices singing The Dishes Song.

“Scrub, scrub, scrub 'til the dishes are done, dry, dry, dry 'til the bubbles are gone…”

“Shut up,” Kurt whispered harshly, and Blaine could have punched himself in the face, not even realizing that he’d been singing the words out loud.

“I'm—fuck, I’m sorry,” Blaine got out, but Kurt was already reeling away from him, shaking violently, and it was as if Blaine could suddenly see the legion of paper cut scars that lived beneath the surface of his skin. Angel was dying on the screen, Collins holding her close as Mimi and Roger sang of life going on but dying without each other, and Kurt was scrambling out of the bed too quickly for Blaine to catch him, to hold him and kiss him and make him forget. “Kurt, wait!”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Kurt yelled, and he was running now, his feet bare. He wrenched open the door to the R.V., taking off into darkness that almost swallowed him whole as Blaine ran after him.

The gravel was sharp beneath his feet but still he followed, Kurt’s silhouette outlined by the bright white lights that hung from the covered pavilion at the end of the campground. Blood was rushing in his ears and he wanted to stop, lean over and empty the contents of his stomach onto the ground at what he’d done without even realizing, but everything in him was screaming to get to Kurt.

It was like slow motion, watching him stumble up the steps to the pavilion and be brought to his knees, hunched over and barely holding himself up, his body wracked with sobs. The sight made Blaine feel like he was suffocating. Because Kurt didn't cry. Ever.

Just like he had fourteen years earlier, two thousand five hundred miles away under a midnight sky in January, he circled around in front of Kurt and stood there. The soles of his feet stung and tingled against the cold wooden floor, and he hated himself for not knowing what to do. Kurt’s sobs intensified until he sounded like a wounded animal, until he was barely breathing, and Blaine fell to his knees, cupping Kurt’s jaw and forcing his head upward.

“Look at me,” he said. “Sweetheart, look at me. I need you to breathe.”

It had been fourteen years, but Blaine still recognized the unique and wrenching shade of green that flushed Kurt's irises when he cried. It was somewhere between lime and pistachio; the color of sun-bleached grass outlined in phthalo.

“Get away from me,” Kurt ground out, staring him straight in the eyes for a moment of stone-cold resolve before his face crumpled and he managed to get to his feet, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Kurt, I’m sorry, I—I never meant to—“

“Sh-shut up, just shut up, please stop talking, I can’t—“

“Kurt, it’s okay. It’s okay, I understand,” he rambled.

“Don’t say that,” Kurt said, his voice ragged. “Don’t say you understand.”

“I lost someone, too,” Blaine reminded him gently. “Of course I understand.”

“No, you don’t. And just because I finally let you fuck me, don’t think it means you know every fucking thing about me,” Kurt spat, finally looking Blaine in the eye. The words hit Blaine like a slap in the face and he broke the look, his gaze landing on Kurt’s right hand; his thumb was working back and forth over the crease of his index finger.

“That’s not fair,” he said in a small voice, shaking his head and chancing a glance back up.

“Oh, okay, let’s talk about fair,” Kurt said, rounding on him with fire in his eyes. “It’s not fair that she got taken away from me just like that, like she wasn’t my whole world. It’s not fair that all I have of her is a fucking dresser and some stupid song. It’s not fair that I have to carry around this huge, gaping hole in my chest when some days it feels like it’s all I can do just to put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes it feels like I’m bleeding her, Blaine. Do you understand that?”</i>

A split-second was all it took for Blaine to overcome his indecision; he closed the distance between them and wrapped Kurt up in his arms. Kurt struggled against his grip, his half-clenched fists pounding dully against Blaine’s chest, but Blaine only tightened his hold, carding his fingers through the back of Kurt’s hair as Kurt finally went lax against him, still trembling and sobbing.

“I’m here. I’m here; I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, not knowing what else to do. If it had been anyone else, he would have known. Whenever his mom was upset, he would bring her sweet tea and talk to her about tornadoes. After Tom had broken up with his girlfriend of four years, they went out to drink and commiserate. There had even been one occasion in freshman year when April had come looking for Kurt after a particularly nasty altercation with her roommate, and they had ended up making popcorn and watching Broken Flowers, a movie she’d loved so much that it was how Blaine had nicknamed her ‘Flower.’

The Kurt in his arms, however, the Kurt whose knees were buckling underneath the weight of his sorrow and grief and such a fundamental paradigm shift… Blaine didn’t know how to help other than sink to the ground with him.

Kurt took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and looking miserably at the floor. “I’m sorry. For what I said before, and… This,” he said, shaking his head and blinking back more tears. His hand fell to his lap, his thumb rubbing over his index finger again.

“You’re not Catholic,” Blaine blurted.

“What?” Kurt asked.

“The whole guilt thing isn’t hereditary, you know,” Blaine joked weakly, gesturing to his hand and adding, “Plus, you look like my grandma at church.”

Kurt looked down at his hand like he hadn’t even realized what he was doing. “She had a rosary that I used to hold. After,” he explained. He flexed his fingers and sniffed harshly, something in his face shuttering.

“You don’t need to wear the mask around me. You know that, right?” Blaine asked.

Kurt let out a hollow laugh. “Are you my therapist now? You took one psych class, B,” he said, but there was no venom behind the words.

“Come on,” Blaine said, tugging Kurt to his feet. “Come on back to me.”

“I didn’t—“ Kurt began, but stopped and looked at Blaine almost sheepishly. “Okay.”

A chill swept over them both as the breeze picked up, but Blaine didn’t hurry their short walk back to the R.V., even when they were both wincing their way across the gravel. The dim moonlight picked out the tears that were still rolling down Kurt’s face—he wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot—and it wasn’t until they were back inside and passing the bathroom that Blaine realized one small thing that he could do.

He pressed a kiss into Kurt’s hair and nudged him toward the bedroom before ducking into the bathroom and rifling through the cabinets until he found what he needed.

Kurt was sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees when Blaine entered the bedroom; slowly, he climbed onto the bed next to him and waited until Kurt unfolded before peeling open the Band-Aid and sticking it onto the fabric of Kurt’s shirt, right over his heart. Kurt did nothing but blink down at it for five long seconds, and then he pitched forward into Blaine’s arms as his sobs turned frantic again.

Blaine could feel the tears seeping through his thin shirt and onto his chest; it was like Kurt was made of tears, like he'd been saving them all up for this one night where Blaine would finally be able to reach up to him, catch him as he tumbled down, and hold him together. His chest hurt, the tug of being needed spreading throughout him and filling him up in the most impossibly hollow way. And in that moment, Kurt’s fingers tightening into the cotton of his shirt as he cried himself out, Blaine realized that he didn’t need to be some knight in shining armor, riding in to save the day and make everything better. He needed to be the two-hundred-year-old oak tree, the pillar of strength rooted to the earth. He needed to be the anchor, the tether, the reason to come back and endure.

When Kurt had finally fallen asleep, Blaine tucked him under the covers and breathed deeply when Kurt immediately curled into his usual position. Something about his face had changed; the lines in his forehead were gradually easing out. He looked younger; more at peace… Beautiful.

Pulling the door closed behind him in the hope that Kurt would just continue to sleep, he made his way through to the living area with every intention of giving him some space and spending the night on the couch. The magnets on the refrigerator caught his eye, though, and he took in Kurt’s message with a tired smile: “Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion, creation, vacation, mucho masturbation.”

His eyes roved the rest of the magnets, most of them left over from his grandfather’s many road trips, and he let his fingers drift over one in particular, shaped into the outline of Arizona and proudly proclaiming in silver and teal, The Grand Canyon State.

After only the briefest of pauses, he pulled the magnet from the fridge and took it with him to the cab. He scrolled through his iPod until he found the song he was looking for, and as Melissa Etheridge began to softly serenade him, “Come on, baby. Let’s get out of this town…” he started the engine.

He knew exactly where he was going.

Distance: 12,146 miles

*

Next: Arizona

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 9.2/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 15 Jan 2014 20:58:14 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.

This fic will be updated twice-weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 4pm EST/9pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3. Previous chapters here.

Note: There will be no update on Sunday, so I hope this will be enough to tide you over 'til next Wednesday! :)

Day 081: Thursday 6th December, 2012
Hush (Colorado)

“We have to, Blaine! I mean, look at us. Look at what we’re about to do. It has to be somewhere on the list, and I vote Colorado.”

“Okay, okay. Sure. But which one of us is Thelma and which one of us is Louise?”

“Obviously I’m Thelma. It was Louise’s idea to run, after all…”

When Kurt slipped quietly back inside the R.V., he found the living area empty. Sunlight poured in through the blinds covering the window behind the couch, and he tiptoed across the beams spilling onto the floor as if he were walking on broken glass.

“Blaine?” he called out, just as his eyes landed on a note propped up in front of the coffee maker: Went for groceries, back soon. ♥B

He felt himself relax, the mild tension draining from his shoulders as he shucked off his jacket and took his mom’s art journal from the inside pocket. After they had gotten settled at the Cottonwood Camper Park just outside the center of Durango, Kurt had slipped the journal out of his bedside cabinet and taken it with him on his walk into town. He was convinced that he had finally found the drawing he wanted to get as a tattoo—a rootless anchor with a fraying rope—but when he’d arrived on Camino Del Rio and looked up at the unassuming ‘Tattoo & Piercing’ sign over the door of Skin Incorporated, he’d carried on walking.

Instead, he’d ended up spending an hour in Buckley Park, one hand clutching a venti mocha with a triple shot, the other leafing fruitlessly through the journal while he wished more than ever that he could just pick up the phone and talk to her.

What do you do, Mom? When you feel too much? he’d wondered, his eyes lingering on the drawing of him and Blaine as boys. Sometimes I feel like I’d just be waiting for him to break my heart, because I don’t know if I can trust him with it. It’s like he’s holding it and I’m following him around with my hands cupped underneath in case he drops it. I feel too much for him and it scares me shitless, so what do I do?

Sighing as the ache resurfaced, Kurt decided to head for the shower, humming an old Killers song in an attempt to drive all other thoughts from his mind.

The scalding water was almost too hot, but it pounded on his shoulders and back and chased the cold from his skin and bones. When he stepped out ten minutes later to towel off, he smiled at the unmistakable shift in the air that let him know Blaine was back. He heard something fall to the floor and Blaine swore softly; Kurt bit his lip and shook his head as he pulled on the soft pair of yoga pants and dark blue t-shirt he’d brought in with him.

The first thing that Kurt saw when he slipped out of the bathroom was Blaine, sitting on the couch with his laptop playing The Lightning Strike by Snow Patrol, his fingers haphazardly playing a rhythm against his thigh. Sunlight still poured through the window behind him and it cast him in the same auburn halo that had surrounded him thousands of miles ago, before the kiss that had finally changed everything.

There was no describing how important Blaine was to him, for their story hadn’t begun with a dropped pen or eyes meeting across a crowded room or bumping into one another on a busy street and spilling coffee everywhere—it had begun with two young boys who had made each other feel a little less lost. Two young boys who had held each other together through thick and thin. Two young boys who should long have felt like brothers but never did.

Kurt could trace the threads back so far, and that was what had scared him into the tenuous safety of the silence that he used to despise. His heart had sunk at Blaine’s earnest confession, and Kurt had retreated, suddenly feeling unsettled within his own skin. It was a feeling that only got worse the longer Blaine waited, sending him patient smiles and nonchalantly whispered declarations.

He returned one of those smiles as Blaine looked up and caught his eye, his fingers still playing the keys of an invisible piano in time with the song. Silently, Kurt circled around and climbed onto the couch behind him, settling his knees either side of Blaine’s hips and draping his arms around his shoulders.

It was comfortable, but something about it made Kurt need more than he’d been allowing himself since Rock Springs; he ghosted a kiss to the back of Blaine’s neck, peeking over his shoulder and watching the lines of muscle in Blaine’s arm shift as he continued to mimic the piano riff.

Blaine’s arms had held him with tender strength and kept him safe for weeks; Blaine’s fingers had learned how to undo him and put him back together piece by piece; Blaine’s hands now held his heart, flawed and fragile as it was. Kurt found himself mesmerized by the movement, fixated with the sudden question of what else Blaine could do, if Kurt would only let him.

When he shifted around to Blaine’s side, it was almost instantaneous: Blaine set the laptop on the floor before twisting to hook his hands beneath Kurt’s thighs and pull him into his lap. The music still permeated the charged air between them, and Blaine met his kiss midway, tongue sliding against Kurt’s almost tentatively.

“Wait, wait,” Kurt whispered, pulling back and searching Blaine’s eyes with his own. “Blaine, I… I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you. You know that, right?” At Blaine’s nod, he cleared his throat and continued, “And you know that I… The way I feel about you, it’s not—“

“Stop,” Blaine interrupted, gently placing the tips of his fingers over Kurt’s mouth. “We’re not gonna do that right now.”

“Why not?” Kurt asked slowly.

“I didn’t tell you because I was expecting anything. Hoping, sure, but…” Blaine trailed off, and reached up to trace over Kurt’s cheekbones. “You don’t owe me anything, okay?”

Warmth bloomed in his bloodstream, and Kurt nodded mutely.

“Good. So, for now… Let it go,” he continued, dropping his hands to graze along Kurt’s thighs. “Stop thinking so much, and just be with me.”

Kurt pitched forward, falling into a kiss that felt shattering in the wake of Blaine’s words. All at once he was five years younger, fumbling and frenzied and trembling under the weight of the things he wanted. Blaine’s hands were still now and heavy on his thighs; he scooted forward in Blaine’s lap, pressing up into the firm touch and chasing the taste of something sweet that lingered on his tongue.

He reached down for Blaine’s hands and pushed them back, back, back until Blaine was cupping his ass and holding him right where he was, immobile save for the tight figure eights of his hips. Slow kisses contrasted Kurt’s impatient hands as they rushed their way beneath Blaine’s shirt and undershirt, pushing them up over his head to fall down the back of the couch.

Even with the feeling of Blaine growing hard beneath him, Kurt didn’t exactly know how to ask for what he suddenly wanted, and pulled away for a second to catch his breath. Blaine followed, one hand tipping Kurt’s head back; his mouth was warm and wet on Kurt’s throat and trailing to his collarbone.

Opening his eyes and staring blankly up at the ceiling, he breathed, “Do you remember what I said to you in West Virginia?” At Blaine’s questioning hum, he swallowed and added, “You asked me if I topped.”

“And you said exclusively,” he replied.

Before Blaine’s hand could work its way up into his still-damp hair, Kurt peeled it away and brought it to his cheek, pressing a kiss to Blaine’s palm and staring hard into his eyes. “I want you to. This time.”

“You…” Blaine trailed off, eyes wide. “Kurt—“

“Just be with me,” Kurt echoed, adding in a whisper, “like that. Please.”

Blaine looked at him searchingly for a moment, then pulled Kurt’s legs forward, wrapping them around his waist and carrying him to the bedroom. As they passed the laptop, Kurt heard the words, “Now it’s found us, like I have found you. I don’t wanna run; just overwhelm me.” It was what Blaine had always done: overwhelm him in the best possible way.

They shed each other’s clothes quietly, revealing skin inch by inch, keeping eye contact as much as possible as they simply let their fingers retrace maps long since drawn, and this—this felt like something entirely new, entirely different, the intimacy of it staggering. Blaine’s hands shook as they trailed the length of Kurt’s bare arms, fingertips the merest whisper of a sensation across his skin and leaving his hair raised in their wake. Kurt licked his lips with a dry tongue; his eyes slipped closed as he finally let his foundations crumble and gave himself up. It was as easy as falling asleep at the end of a long day; a drift into floating, and Blaine’s mouth was soft on his and his hands were everywhere, a breath of skin on skin.

Blaine stroked him fully hard as they kissed deeply, kisses that were like drowning in Blaine, falling further and harder and faster, and Blaine was breathing raggedly whenever they broke apart, like he was breaking the surface and coming up for air, too.

“I love you,” he whispered, taking his hands away and swallowing Kurt’s soft whine inside another kiss; for a second while he moved to the nightstand, there was nothing but heat as sunlight flooded Kurt’s skin. His head fell back onto the pillow and he took a few centering breaths, because he could barely stand this out-of-control cascade; this bone-deep need and vulnerability; this feeling that if he didn’t have Blaine then he would have nothing. It hurt so beautifully that he wanted to cry.

And then Blaine dropped a condom and a small bottle of lubricant onto the bed, brushed his thumb over Kurt’s lips and caught his eye. With nothing more than a nod, it became simple. It was him and Blaine—just him and Blaine, like always.

Everything in him loosened, uncoiled, and he surged upward to capture Blaine’s mouth, smiling a little against his lips as Blaine slowly moved to slide his thighs apart and settled between them. The shift was immediate, the tension was broken, and soon Kurt felt one of Blaine’s slicked fingers circling him before slowly pushing inside. He gasped at the soft pressure, full but not to bursting, and Blaine paused to look up at him.

Is this right? Kurt could almost hear him thinking, his curious and tentative expression speaking volumes. Is this what you really want, or are you just trying to apologize?

“Okay?” Blaine breathed the word as if Kurt had answered some unspoken benediction, and Kurt wriggled underneath him, bearing down and already wanting more.

He nodded slowly, biting his lip against a grin at the way Blaine’s shoulders slumped in relief. As Kurt watched, Blaine became steady; a second finger soon joined the first, and the trembling was gone as if a plug had been pulled.

Hours seemed to pack themselves into minutes, an incomprehensible but pleasant stretch the only point of Kurt’s focus, Blaine’s eyes dark and half-lidded as he checked and double-checked that what he was doing was still all right. By the time Kurt was panting, three fingers twisting inside him and sweat beading at his temples while Blaine brought him back to full hardness, he was lost to it.

Then Blaine’s mouth was covering his, giving him air to breathe as he pushed inside, inch by inch and mile by mile. The feeling of Blaine inside him and the look in his amber eyes when he pulled back—volumes of love and soft awe—was an ache in Kurt’s soul, a cut that ran so deep he knew he would carry it for the rest of his life.

Blaine started to move, barely at first, but it was a maelstrom of wildfire sensation; it was Kurt’s arching back and his fingers curling into the sheets; it was Blaine’s half-sobs, half-laughs choked into the hollow of his neck. It was push and pull and give and take; it was winding and reaching and burning heat that scorched him from the inside out; it was falling apart over and over and knowing, now, that Blaine would catch him.

It was everything.

Kurt was too close too soon, but he didn’t have it in him to ask Blaine to slow down; his toes were curling and his breath was reduced only to fragmented exhales of Blaine’s name. Chasing the rub against the soft swell of Blaine’s stomach, he hooked his arms around Blaine’s neck and pulled himself up. He pressed his forehead to Blaine’s temple just as he screwed his eyes shut and let go completely, Blaine’s arm sliding underneath him, supporting him and holding onto him like a lifeline.

Blaine followed him over the edge moments later, panting and gasping and whispering, “I love you,” again and again and again. Kurt drifted down, locked on those three words and truly wanting, for the first time, to return them. But everything was already bordering on too intense for him to comprehend; Blaine’s eyes were watery as he pulled back, and Kurt’s entire body felt like putty. He lay back and pulled Blaine down with him, shaking in the thick air that surrounded them.

Then it was sudden emptiness as Blaine slowly pulled out; it was damp, unsteady fingers carding into Kurt’s hair; it was a lazy kiss that bled into another, and then another. It was Kurt’s nerve endings recovering from overload; it was Blaine wrapped around him from head to toe, the pulse in his neck rabbit-quick; it was something unfurling and stretching awake.

And later, much later, when he was absolutely sure that Blaine was asleep, it was letting the words roll onto his tongue, their taste heady and dizzying. It was lying stone-still as he considered. It was looking over at Blaine, arms curled up beneath his pillow and his face peaceful with sleep, and whispering, “I love you, too.”

Distance: 11,882 miles

*

Next: New Mexico

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 9.1/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 12 Jan 2014 20:43:16 GMT

Day 080: Wednesday 5th December, 2012
Four Corners (Utah)

“127 Hours? It’s got James Franco…”

“Have you—I mean, obviously you know what happens. Will you hold my hand?”

“Of course I will, silly.”

Considering that not two days earlier Blaine had put everything on the line, things between him and Kurt were remarkably normal.

Well, as normal as they could be for two people acting as if they were a couple in a real relationship suffering the aftermath of a huge argument—which Blaine loved and hated in equal measure. Neither of them was the victor nor willing to back down; Blaine was biding his time, holding onto his patience and waiting Kurt out, and Kurt was avoiding the issue entirely.

“Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?” Kurt asked they rolled to an idling stop on South Main Street, just around the corner from the Moab Yoga Studio. He was already decked out in his gym gear, his mat rolled up across his lap—quietly breathtaking when Blaine glanced over and took him in.

At length, Blaine shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“I could get directions, walk up and meet you after,” Kurt said, hands twitching in his lap like he wanted to reach out. Blaine wished he would; they’d barely even touched since that night.

“Seriously, go enjoy your class. I’ll be back in time to pick you up,” he replied.

Kurt shot him the ghost of a smile and got out of his seat. As he was passing by, Blaine caught his wrist, rubbed his index finger across Kurt's skin, and looked up at him imploringly. The problem with being patient was that every second of every minute of every hour, he seemed to grow infinitesimally heavier. His heart felt by turns like a bruise inside his chest and then like a treasure of sorts, something he needed to keep safe for the moment Kurt would finally come and claim it, hands open and outstretched. Although he knew that the latter was the truth—that he was now simply the caretaker of his heart because it belonged to Kurt—it didn’t particularly make the waiting any easier.

For one fleeting moment, as Kurt bent at the waist to dust a kiss to Blaine’s lips, he was back in Key West, the land falling away beneath him. Then it was back, and Kurt was gone.

Sighing, Blaine rolled his neck and shoulders and pulled off down the street. At least the drive was appropriately distracting; the openness of the road under the prematurely darkening sky afforded him a view of the mountains up ahead and made him feel, for once, like he was at the very heart of something. The buildings grew sparser the farther he went, giving way to trees and grassy scrubland as the mountains shifted to his right. It grew darker the further he got out of Moab proper, the only lights those of cars in the distance and the R.V. itself.

He took a left along San Jose Road and then a right onto Spanish Valley Drive, passing by small wooden houses and backyards strewn with discarded tires. He pressed further and further into the mostly residential neighborhood until eventually, silhouettes of gravestones passed slowly by.

Once Blaine had parked in the sparsely populated lot at the far end of Sunset Memorial Gardens, he scrubbed a hand over his face, retrieved the small bunch of daisies from the dashboard, and reached into the glove compartment for the small box of his grandfather's ashes that had accompanied them thus far on their road trip.

Arthur Thomas had been born and raised in Moab, where he had been married at eighteen to his high school sweetheart, Rose. When she and Arthur were both twenty-four, she had passed away from what would later become known as cervical cancer. Afterward, with ghosts around every corner and no children to support, Arthur had left Moab for Richmond, Virginia, to begin work with a construction company and start a new life.

In his will, he had asked that a small portion of his ashes be scattered at Rose’s grave—a part of her had remained with him until the day he’d died, and he wanted part of him back with her. Because the R.V. had been left to Blaine and he was on the road trip anyway, it simply made the most sense for him to be the one to carry out his grandfather’s final request.

It took little time for him to locate the plot he was looking for on the map by the entrance, and though the cemetery was mostly dark, there were small lamps set at intervals in the ground that kept him on track.

When Blaine found the grave, he set about brushing leaves and debris from the faded stone, his heart aching—with no siblings or children of her own, Rose’s grave had been all but forgotten. Running his fingers over the worn grooves and depressions of her name, he laid the daisies at the foot of her headstone and got back to his feet.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said with a gentle nod. “I’m—my name’s Blaine. I’m Arthur’s grandson.”

At a loss for what else to say, standing at the grave of a woman he’d never known—that even his mother had never known—and feeling almost like he was being perfidious to the memory of his own grandmother, he buried his hands in his pockets.

“He wanted to… He asked to be brought back to you,” he finally said, drawing the small wooden box out of his pocket and turning it over in his hands. “We weren't expecting it, but you should—you should know that he passed away peacefully, and he wasn’t in any pain.”

The corners of his eyes stung and he tipped his head back, blinking up at the sky. “I guess you know that, though, if you’re up there,” he continued self-consciously, his voice hushed, almost a murmur. “Maybe… Maybe you could tell him that I miss him. Every single day. And… We called the R.V. Leona.”

At that he fell silent, remembering the taste of cider and sugar on Kurt's lips while meteors streaked by. He shook his head, loosening the memories before they had a chance to take hold, and dug his phone out of his pocket. Clutching the wooden box tightly in his other hand, he scrolled through his contacts to Mom, and hit send.

“Hi, honey,” Alice answered brightly after the fourth ring, and just the sound of her voice made Blaine loosen his grip on the box.

“Hey, Mom,” he said. “How’s the weather?”

“Cloudy with a chance of meatballs,” she quipped, and though Blaine rolled his eyes, he couldn’t help but smile a little. “It was sunny this afternoon, but it’s cold. Nothing big to report. How about where you boys are?”

“It’s already dark here, and pretty cold.”

“And where is ‘here?’”

Blaine squared his shoulders and fixed his eyes upon Rose’s headstone. “Mom… I’m in Moab.” After a few seconds had passed with no response, Blaine pulled the phone away from his ear to check that the call was still connected. “Mom?”

“Sorry, honey. I’m here,” she said tremulously. “So you’re in Grandpa’s home town.”

“Yeah. I’m at the cemetery. I thought I’d—well, I… I wanted you to be on the phone with me while I did this. I didn’t wanna do it alone.”

“Alone? Where’s Kurt?”

“A yoga class in town,” Blaine said dismissively, adding, “We just needed a little space, that’s all.”

“You boys aren’t fighting, are you?” she asked.

“No, Mom, we’re not fighting. We just…”

“Blaine, you know I can tell when you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not lying, I just—I don’t… I don’t know what we’re doing anymore,” Blaine said, the words rushing out of him like a breath held for too long. “I came clean with him two days ago, told him everything, and he just… He hasn’t said anything.”

“Oh, honey,” Alice sighed. “He’ll get there.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He will. You did the right thing in telling him.”

“How can you be so sure?” Blaine asked, his voice small as his most deeply seated fears confronted him.

“Because I’ve known Kurt since he was six years old, and I know that he loves you with his whole heart,” Alice said assuredly. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“I feel like we’ve wasted so much time already, though,” Blaine admitted. “There were so many times when I could have—“

“Thinking like that isn’t going to get you anywhere,” she gently interrupted. “And look at how brave you were in telling him. My brave little soldier.”

“Mom,” Blaine whined.

“All I’m saying is that I’m proud of you. And Kurt will come around. Just you wait,” she said. “Now, you’ve got something to do for Grandpa. No more stalling.”

“I wasn’t—“ Blaine began, but cut himself off as he realized that stalling was at least part of what he’d been doing. He held up the small wooden box, examining the intricately carved Celtic knot on the lid, and heaved a deep sigh. A breeze picked up, and he knew that it was time. “Do you think I should say something?”

“Only if you need to, honey,” came the soft reply, tinged with a deep, yet mostly concealed, sadness.

He carefully unlatched the small metal clasp on the front of the box and opened the lid, averting his eyes even in the darkness. He wanted to say something, but he’d said all of his goodbyes on the day of the funeral, Kurt’s fingers in the crook of his elbow smoothing the rough edges. The breeze picked up even more, and as he tipped the box toward the ground by degrees, words from a song he’d heard long ago came back to him: “And when the day arrives, I’ll become the sky. And I’ll become the sea, and the sea will come to kiss me, for I am going home. Nothing can stop me now.”

“That’s beautiful, Blaine. I think Grandpa would have liked that,” Alice murmured after a moment, her voice thick. “You run along now, okay? Go and find Kurt, and tell him to give you a hug from me.”

Blaine nodded, and said, “Okay, Mom. Love you.”

“I love you too, honey.”

He hung up with a heavy heart, pausing as Rose’s name caught his eye once more. He felt oddly sorry that he’d never known the first woman to have captured his grandfather’s heart. They’d had so little time together—but then, as Blaine’s grandfather had himself once said, “I’m lucky that your Grandma turned out to be a love of my life. I’m lucky to have had two of those.”

Leaving the box on top of the headstone, he turned and made his way back to the R.V., feeling a little lighter for having closed the chapter completely, and idly contemplating the words ‘love of my life.’

Later that evening, when he had picked Kurt up from yoga and taken in the flush high in his cheeks, the fluid grace returned to his body after such a noticeable absence, Kurt insisted on taking over driving duty. It took nearly three hours for Blaine to find out where Kurt was taking him, and as they stepped out of the R.V. in the middle of the desert, it dawned on him that his mother might have been right.

“One foot here, and the other here,” Kurt directed him as they stood atop the Four Corners monument. The border of the circle that surrounded the meeting point read, ‘Four states here meet in freedom under God.’ He had one foot in Arizona, the other in New Mexico. “Now, bend over—“

“Bend over?” Blaine asked him, one eyebrow raised.

“Stop being a pervert and just do it,” Kurt said.

“I swear to god if you take a picture of this,” he grumbled as he followed Kurt’s instruction, placing his left hand in Utah and his right in Colorado. “What now?”

“You bask in the fact that you’re in not just two, not just three, but four places at once,” Kurt announced triumphantly, and a few hazy memories of their second night in Montana came back to Blaine. For a moment, he let the knowledge sink in and take root—he’d wanted to be in two places at once, and Kurt had given him four.

He stood, brushing his palms off on his jeans, before turning to Kurt and cupping his jaw with both hands. As he crushed their lips together and let the kiss set his body aflame, Kurt kissing him back with just as much fervor, his mind wandered back to those four words—love of my life.

Instead of saying them aloud, however—there was most definitely such a thing as too much, too soon—he settled for five that he hoped conveyed everything all the same, whispered into Kurt’s ear like a promise and a prayer: “Thank you. I love you.”

Distance: 11,798 miles

Additional Listening: Iridescent by Linkin Park, Walk It Off by Angus & Julia Stone.

*

Next: Colorado

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 8.5/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 08 Jan 2014 20:50:55 GMT

Day 078: Monday 3rd December, 2012
Everything but the Truth (Wyoming)

“Brokeback?”

“Oh, can we? Please? I’m still trying to repress watching it with Dad.”

“Cowboys, Kurt. Do you need to ask? It’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

“Hmm… Are you starting to feel better?”

Kurt arched his back, hissing pleasantly as Blaine’s fingernails scratched over his hipbones. “I’m still fucking sick of driving, and Kathy Bates is still a fucking liar.”

“But are—you starting—to feel better?” Blaine repeated, carefully punctuating his words in time with his rocks back and forth, Kurt buried to the hilt inside him. He looked down at Kurt with eyes that said, I’m accepting none of your bullshit today, Hummel.

“Yes. I’m—fuck—definitely feeling better,” Kurt answered, and finally let it all drain away: the frustration that they had run out of coffee and there were no decent beans to be found anywhere; the anger at the GPS having led them astray and dumped them at a campground in Rock Springs; the constant dull ache that had been plaguing his lower back for days.

All that was left behind was Blaine, tight and slick around him—angel—gorgeous as he leaned back and planted his hands behind him on Kurt’s thighs—fierce, owning, beautiful—rolling his hips slowly, deliciously and agonizingly slowly.

Kurt ran his fingers up and down Blaine’s torso, lazily, like there was no rush—there wasn’t; there never had to be. Having Blaine above him, riding him like it was the thing he was put on Earth to do, made him close his eyes, moan through his bitten lips, and sink.

There doesn’t have to be anything but this, the voice in the back of his head reminded him. His hands trailed down to squeeze Blaine’s hips—just once, just enough of a signal. But Kurt didn’t try to quiet the voice, didn’t try to ignore it, simply sank further and further past it to the very core of his pleasure: burning hot, crackling energy and made just for him. It felt as if the brokenness inside him had been being repaired ever since their first kiss; strands of yarn were slowly knitting back together something he hadn’t even known was torn until Blaine had held it up before him. He could see it all behind his eyelids, playing out like a movie of his life: silent and monochrome until Blaine, and then glorious Technicolor that exploded in a riot of light and noise and love.

“God bless Wyoming, fuck,” Blaine whispered, dropping forward and bracketing Kurt’s head with his forearms. The chill of the frigid December air was gone as soon as they were skin to skin, and the blanket covering them captured the heat from their campfire, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth and the scents of forest air and clean sweat.

Breathlessly, Kurt said, “I keep telling you, it’s not even a real place. It’s a state of mind.”

“Don’t think it was where Billy Joel was singing about, though,” Blaine quipped, laughing on a ragged exhale that disappeared inside a moan, and oh, the feeling of that was two different types of bliss.

“That’s—Blaine—that’s because… Fuck, keep doing that…”

“Admit it, Kurt: Wyoming is real. Otherwise, where exactly are we right now?”

“North Colorado.”

“There’s already a north Colorado.”

Not missing a beat, Kurt chuckled and rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around Blaine’s middle and rolling them over underneath the thick blanket. “Really north Colorado, then.”

“Fine, really—fucking hell, Kurt—really north Colorado it is,” Blaine acquiesced, hooking his legs around Kurt’s waist and urging him closer, faster, deeper, until Kurt felt like they might both split apart and be fused instead into one person. He surfaced, buried his face in the curve of Blaine’s neck, and licked a sloppy kiss over his collar bone.

He was spinning out, Blaine’s hands scrabbling for purchase on his back; Kurt pulled back and buried himself again with stronger movements and utter abandon. Always the chasing—it was always the chasing and always had been, but with Blaine, it was running hand in hand toward something: running toward a horizon appearing as if they were painting it onto the sky themselves; running toward the next ten years; running toward each other. And Kurt knew that the truth was far from any of that—from all of it—but the lie was too seductive, too easy to believe, too hard to resist.

“Sweetheart,” Blaine intoned, reaching up and cupping Kurt’s jaw, “get out of your head and come join me.”

Smirking down at him, Kurt moved as if to twist out of his grasp but Blaine held firm, eyes locked on his—all at once, something shifted between them and Kurt realized that he was close, right on the brink, as if he’d been falling with the ground rushing up to meet him.

“Eyes on me,” Blaine murmured, his voice half-strangled as he arched and writhed.

Kurt swallowed, the motion almost constricted by the way Blaine was holding him, and when had Blaine become this? When had he transformed into this bundle of sex and want and arcane knowledge, sizzling with an electricity that made Kurt dizzy?

“Don’t close your—fuck, I’m so close…”

And Kurt wasn’t just running, now; he was racing, like his heartbeat, pounding Blaine into the unforgiving ground and winding his hand between them to twist it around Blaine’s length. He could feel himself cracking, leaving shards of himself behind as he moved harder, faster, pivoting and falling into the honeyed amber of Blaine’s eyes until—

Breaking point, both of them coming, slack-jawed and silent, pulsing and trembling—a flat line and a shock back to life all at once. Flashes in Blaine’s eyes: light and dark; life and death; love and despair—everything Kurt had seen in him in Louisiana, and it was too much. He collapsed, his limbs shaking and spent, and with loose lips he silently mouthed those three painful little words into the bare skin of Blaine’s shoulder.

The freezing nighttime temperatures caught up with him all at once as he carefully shifted them both onto their sides, curling into Blaine with a shiver—his hands were burning yet freezing to the touch—and still buried inside him even as he softened.

“Blaine Anderson: kinky exhibitionist. Who knew?” he said quietly, glancing up at the patches of sky visible through the tree canopy above. It felt like too soon to look Blaine in the eye again.

“You’re the one who told me you wanted to have sex outside,” Blaine said, tugging the blanket up under their chins and hissing as their feet were briefly exposed to the cold.

“When the hell did I say that?” Kurt asked. Slowly, wincing all the way, he pulled out and sat up to retrieve more blankets from the pile, heaping them on top of them both until they resembled something of a nest.

“July fourth.”

“There’s no way I said that.”

“You did!” Blaine exclaimed, his voice loud in Kurt’s ear where he’d curled into Blaine’s arms once more. “After the fireworks were done, don’t you remember? We were still squeezed into that lounger, and I saw Hugh and Lisa coming out of the bushes…”

“Right,” Kurt said, nodding as the memory resurfaced. “And you made The Face, and I told you to lighten up, and then you made The Face at me, and I said—“

“You said that you’d wanted to try it for a while. Just to see what it’d be like,” Blaine finished for him, his fingertips ghosting the skin of his arm. “And?”

“Pretty damn perfect, I’d say.”

They lapsed into quiet after that—or at least as much quiet as there was to be had in the middle of the wooded clearing, owls hooting in the trees and insects chirping, not to mention Kurt’s iPod playing somewhere almost out of reach behind them.

How can this be a lie? he thought, suddenly overcome with desperation and reeling from the way his emotions ricocheted from one extreme to another. How can he lie here with me, wrapped up in my favorite blanket and looking like everything I want for the rest of my life, and not be the real thing? How can I be wrong when I know that he’s it; not just my best friend but my everything?

The clarity made him swallow his fear, and he wriggled out of Blaine’s arms, licking his lips and clearing his throat. Letting it out in increments wasn’t enough—it would never be enough, not until he let it all out in one exhale—and this moment… Until the music switched, ‘pretty damn perfect’ was exactly how Kurt would have described it.

But the song did switch, to Yellowcard’s Keeper, and while it began with an almost uplifting sound, Kurt knew the song inside out. Fear broke over him like the waves of a sea in the height of a storm—I want you to love me, I want you to leave me—and he was gone, again—I wish I could be somebody else—and Blaine was wrapped around him but so far out of reach with the way he suddenly tensed—Wish there was something inside me to keep you beside me—and moving to switch the song would be too much of an admission: Kurt knew it, and he knew that Blaine knew it, too.

So they lay there silently until the song ended—I should’ve told you everything, I should’ve told you everything—watching each other in the dark, and Kurt thought it was all over.

Abruptly—too abruptly for it to be the cold finally getting to him—Blaine moved away, his arm shooting out to grab the iPod and switch it off. Kurt swallowed, sitting up and wrapping a blanket around himself. He felt more exposed than he ever had in front of Blaine, like a raw nerve expecting to be brought to wreck and ruin.

“We’re always listening to music,” Blaine said, looking out into the darkness of the trees that edged the clearing. “We used to be able to be quiet around each other and now it seems like it’s this huge, scary thing.

“And do you know why that is, Kurt?” he continued, fixing his gaze on him—it penetrated to Kurt’s very core, like Blaine could see through his every mask. “It’s because ever since we started this, we’ve stopped knowing how to talk to each other. It’s because we've always known that this is something bigger than either of us thought it was, but there’s so much riding on it that we both just shut our mouths and got on with it. But I—I… I can’t do it anymore.

“I’m in love with you.”

And just like that, the strands unraveled. I’m not ready, he thought, openly gaping at Blaine and pulling the blanket tighter. How could Blaine love him, after all he’d done, after Chicago, after all the time he’d wasted? It made no sense. It defied comprehension. All at once he wished with his entire being that there was music, because the utter silence that fell inside his mind made him feel as if he were stuck in a dark space with the walls closing in on him.

He thought of Anne of Green Gables, unable to accept Gilbert’s love because she still viewed herself as a little girl. It was too adult a weight to carry upon his shoulders; having that responsibility both to and for another person. When had everything gotten so… Important? Where were the days of hanging at each other’s houses or on campus or at Coffee Pond, whiling away non-precious hours by watching the same movie over and over or playing What Would We Film Here or even studying?

Slowly, cautiously, Blaine reached for his hand. “Please say something.”

Kurt couldn’t help it: he pulled his hand back and said the first thing that came to mind: “Why now?”

“It’s not like you didn’t know,” Blaine scoffed.

“What?” Kurt breathed, eyes wide—how can he… He can’t know, he can’t, he can’t…

“Please, you’ve known ever since Louisiana; I saw it in your eyes.”

“I told you that it—meant something with you; can’t we just leave it at that?”

“You told me what meant something?” Blaine spat, suddenly getting to his feet, and both of them were naked under their blankets and this was so not the way Kurt had wanted this evening to end but he hadn’t even known it until now.

Scrabbling for words, for coherency, for anything, he sputtered, “The… The sex, the—all of it.”

“When?”

“After the first time I—in West Virginia, it doesn’t matter, it—“

“Don’t you see? That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Blaine shouted.

“You’re my best friend; of course it means something!” Kurt shot back, scrambling to his feet and looking Blaine straight in the eye.

“Okay. Okay, Kurt. I get it,” Blaine said softly. “This really is just a road trip thing for you, isn’t it?”

What if? What if I was to tell him everything, offer him my bruised heart in exchange for his own? What if this is the moment that could begin something new, something wonderful, something that won’t ever have to end? But that was the thing. All good things had a shelf life—why should it be any different for them? They had laid down the rules for a reason. “We had a deal, Blaine. What happens on the road trip—“

“Stays on the road trip, I know,” Blaine interrupted, his voice low and dangerously controlled. His shoulders slumping, he turned as if to walk away, but seemed to think better of it at the last moment. He approached Kurt slowly, as if scared he might run away, and stopped when they were mere inches apart. “See, the thing is, I don’t believe you. And you can be as stubborn as you want about it, but I know that what you feel for me is more than ‘best friends.’ So I’m not giving up, and I’m not going anywhere. It’s out there, now. You can do whatever you want with it.”

With that, he rocked forward and kissed Kurt tenderly—like he might at any other time of the day, like he hadn’t just fractured the fundamental building blocks of Kurt’s entire universe—and then walked away without looking back.

Kurt stood perfectly still, splintered and shivering in the dark.

Distance: 11,313 miles

*

Next: Utah

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 8.4/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 05 Jan 2014 20:55:23 GMT

Day 076: Saturday 1st December, 2012
Running on Empty (Idaho)

“My Own Private Idaho. No question.”

“Kurt, I hate to break it to you, but… It wasn’t actually shot in Idaho.”

“…Fine. Napoleon Dynamite, then. But we’re still watching My Own Private Idaho.”

“Did you know that potatoes were first planted in Idaho in 1837?”

“What the crap is this fucker doing?”

“Kurt, calm down," Blaine said wearily, glancing up from his phone to see Kurt’s eyebrows drawn together and his fingers tight around the steering wheel.

“I am calm!” he shot back, gesticulating wildly. “But he’s the only other idiot on this godforsaken stretch of road and he’s doing, what, forty-five? In the passing lane? No. Grandma Betty drove better than that.”

“Well, it is raining… Do you want me to take over?” Blaine asked.

“We’ve got, like, twenty miles to go,” Kurt reasoned. “What’s the point?”

“The point is that you could blow me while I’m driving,” Blaine replied, waggling his eyebrows when Kurt looked at him sharply. “What? You give excellent head. Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“We’ve been over that,” Kurt said evenly, returning his gaze to the road with a grimace. “Ugh. Fucking Idaho.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“What?”

“Well, I’d say more ‘promiscuous’ than ‘ho.’ That’s all,” Blaine said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Kurt glanced over at him again, and Blaine could see that he was fighting back a smile. “You’re a ridiculous human being today, Anderson. Why did I ever agree to come on this trip with you?”

“Because I’m an excellent travel buddy, I don’t hog the covers—that one’s all you—and I’m also a font of useful information,” he said, ticking items off on his fingers before picking up his phone again. “For instance, did you know that potatoes are, like, the perfect food? You could eat nothing but spuds for the rest of your life and you’d still get all the nutrition you needed.”

“Spuds,” Kurt repeated flatly.

“Po-ta-toes.”

“Don't…”

“Boil ‘em, mash ‘em, stick ‘em in a stew.”

“I swear to god, Blaine,” Kurt groaned.

“You know, if we switched, I could drive through all of these puddles,” he barreled on.

“For the last fucking time, if we drive through puddles we’ll end up ruining the goddamn undercarriage.”

“I’ll ruin your undercarriage.”

“What is with you today? You’re like a petulant child! Let me guess, you got your license out of a Cracker Jack box—“ Kurt stopped short as the R.V. shuddered and jerked underneath them, the headlights dimming and the engine chugging. Within seconds Kurt was reacting, turning them onto the shoulder and letting the R.V. roll to a stop. He slumped back in his seat and cut the engine. “Perfect.”

“What’s going on?” Blaine asked, perplexed.

“I’m about ninety-five percent sure we just ran out of gas,” Kurt said, and unclipped his seatbelt to look at the dashboard. “Which also means that the fuel gauge is broken, and depending on what it is, I might not be able to fix it.”

Thinking quickly, Blaine grabbed the GPS and searched for the nearest gas station. Soon enough, their Kathy Bates sound-alike was telling them that the nearest gas station was an Exxon in Roberts, nearly three miles away. “Looks like we’re walking, then.”

“But it’s raining,” Kurt groaned.

“So I’m ridiculous and childish today, and you’re whiny,” Blaine said as he stood up, stretching out his arms and looking down at Kurt with a smile. “Isn’t that the trifecta?”

“’Ridiculous’ is usually interchangeable with ‘hungry,’ but yeah, pretty much,” Kurt huffed. “And I’m not whiny; other people are idiots and I’m sick of driving. Don’t you think it’s been kind of hard to get back into the swing since Montana?”

“Well, sure,” Blaine agreed as he bent to retrieve an umbrella from the small closet behind the cab. “Why do you think I’ve been reading about potatoes for the last few miles?”

Kurt smiled wanly, then cast his gaze about the cab. “One of us should probably stay here.”

“I’ll go,” Blaine said, patting himself down to make sure he had his phone and wallet.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back before you know it. Maybe you can take a look at the gauge, see if you can figure out what’s going on.”

“Wait,” Kurt said, and as Blaine looked up, Kurt closed the distance between them and caught Blaine’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss that sent tingles up and down his spine.

“What was that for?” he asked when Kurt had pulled back.

“Going out in the rain to get gas,” Kurt replied, his eyes trained on the front of Blaine’s shirt. “Plus, you know. It’s Idaho. You could die.”

Blaine rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to Kurt’s cheek before turning on his heel and exiting through the side door. Outside, he shook out the umbrella and put it up, drawing his wool sweater tighter around his neck with his free hand. The rain was coming down in torrents but the air was fresh—country air that smelt of farmland and reminded Blaine of his mom’s ratatouille.

Catching himself, Blaine shook his head and kept walking. He was spending so much time looking back, these days—and that had never been him. There were things to consider, factors that would affect his future and what would happen when he and Kurt got back to Maine, but more than anything he found his mind wandering to their shared past and things he could have done differently to get them to this place sooner.

Blaine was certain of it, now: they belonged together. While the momentum of their trip had arrested for the past couple of days, Blaine’s momentum for saying the words on the tip of his tongue, the words itching to get out, was building and building and building behind him. He was just waiting for the right time.

“Blaine!”

He started and whipped around at the sound of his name cutting through the pounding of rain on his umbrella. Kurt was running toward him cradling something wrapped in a plastic bag in his arms, clearly paying no attention to the fact that he was nearly soaking wet, and Blaine jogged back toward him to usher him underneath the cover of his umbrella.

“I thought you might be cold,” Kurt offered, shoving the bag at him with a lopsided smile, and when Blaine looked inside, he saw the heather gray of his thick Bowdoin hoodie.

“You… Kurt,” Blaine said, at a loss for words as he took him in, shirt plastered to his chest and his teeth chattering. He pulled out the hoodie and gave it to Kurt instead, ignoring Kurt’s protests and telling him, “Come on, you’re freezing. You need it more than I do.”

He watched Kurt pull the hoodie over his head and tuck the bag into the pocket, and it was probably a good moment to say something, the inherent romance of their surroundings—rain pit-pattering and rippling the surface of the small reservoir to their right, the slight shadow cast over them by the umbrella—lending itself well to the fact. But he didn’t feel… Ready. He was still testing the waters of their relationship, trying to see whether they really could have all of each other and still be them, still be the Kurt and Blaine who bantered and teased and flirted. His biggest fear was that they wouldn’t, that they would morph into something neither of them ever wanted to be, even though what they had now felt like the purest thing Blaine had ever known.

So instead of, “I love you,” Blaine said, “Let’s go.”

With Kurt by his side, the six-mile round trip didn’t feel as long as the ninety minutes it took them. They had walked most of it in companionable silence, giggling and ribbing each other every so often as they huddled and bumped into one another beneath the umbrella made for one. On their return trip, Blaine had eventually just wrapped his arm around Kurt’s waist and matched his stride, basking in the sweet smile Kurt had given him before ducking his head and adjusting his grasp on the gas can.

“I couldn’t really see much when I looked at it, but once I get my tools…” Kurt trailed off when they were about a mile away from the R.V. “Let’s just pray that it’s a blown fuse.”

“What else could it be?” Blaine asked.

“A broken circuit in the dash panel or a fractured float,” Kurt said, “and we really don’t want it to be either of those, because we’d have to call Triple-A. But… I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the float.”

“Why?”

“Because the floats expand and contract depending on the temperature, and we’ve kind of been going from one extreme to the other. Just keep everything crossed.”

“You’re sexy when you talk mechanics,” Blaine told him, squeezing his waist.

“Really, B? You’re choosing now,” Kurt said archly.

“What, you’re allowed any number of lumberjack fantasies and I can’t have this one little thing for you doing your grease monkey bit?”

“No, dork, I meant that we’re walking by the side of the road where I can’t just have my way with you.”

“Well…”

“No. Just… Do something to distract me. But please, for the love of god, make it have nothing to do with potatoes.”

Blaine thought for a moment, considering his options—keep winding him up until he pins me against something; confess everything because that’ll definitely distract him, at the very least, and maybe then he’ll pin me against something; recite an epic movie speech; sing him a song—and finally settling on humming under his breath, growing louder until he caught the tilt of Kurt’s head toward him. The slow spread of a smile across Kurt’s face was like rays of sunlight through a chink in the clouds, and before long he was joining in, his lower register grown richer in the weeks since Ann Arbor.

“Out here in the fields!” Blaine sang, throwing his arms wide and not caring when the torrents of rain began to soak them both. Kurt yelped, but to his credit kept up his humming of the piano part. “I farm for my meals! I get my back into my living!”

Blaine pointed the umbrella at Kurt and gestured for him to take the next line, claiming the piano for his own.

“I don’t need to fight to prove I’m right!” Kurt sang at the top of his voice, circling around Blaine on light feet and dancing just out of reach, as if they were singing were some flirty duet in the manner of Ray Charles and Betty Carter. “I don’t need to be forgiven, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”

Blaine swung the umbrella by its handle and brought it to rest across his body, showing off his best air guitar as Kurt doubled over laughing. He wasted no time in taking up the next line of vocals: “Don’t cry, don’t raise your eye. It’s only teenage wasteland.

“Sally, take my hand,” he sang, offering his hand to Kurt and spinning him in place, “we’ll travel south ‘cross land.”

“Put out the fire, and don’t look past my shoulder,” Kurt joined in, mirroring Blaine in dropping his chin to hit the low note. “The exodus is here, the happy ones are near. Let’s get together before we get much older.”

Not wanting the tension of the lyric to settle into their bones as they looked at each other, Blaine sprinted onward into the guitar solo, pulling as many stupid rock star faces as he could. He nodded at Kurt for a count of four and took a deep breath, spreading his arms wide as they finished, “Teenage wasteland, it’s only teenage wasteland. Teenage wasteland, oh yeah, teenage wasteland. They’re all wasted!”

“Oh my god,” Kurt said breathlessly, wrapping his arms around his middle as he doubled over again. “Sometimes I forget what complete dorks we are. How are we supposed to find anyone that can put up with us? We’re doomed.”

“Ah, maybe,” Blaine bantered, sliding his arm back around Kurt’s waist and holding the umbrella up again, even though they were both wet to the skin. “But anyone who can’t rock out to The Who isn’t worth your time, you know.”

“This is true,” Kurt agreed, taking a deep breath and finally seeming to get his laughter under control. As they walked, already much closer to the R.V. than Blaine had thought, Kurt turned to look at him and cleared his throat. “I—“

“What?” Blaine asked lightly. Right, left, right, left, keep your fucking feet moving.

Kurt shook his head, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I’m thinking maybe Idaho’s not so bad after all.”

“As long as you’ve got the right music,” Blaine told him, tamping down on his disappointment and turning it instead to fuel. He would be the one to break this stalemate, and now he could almost be certain of the response. It didn’t matter that he knew how Kurt felt about him—feelings were, all things considered, the easy part. What was difficult was knowing whether Kurt would stop being stubborn long enough to confess those feelings.

When they reached the R.V., it was almost like watching Kurt step into a different skin, one with which Blaine had become well-acquainted over the summer while they spent time in Burt’s shop. He quickly changed out of his wet things and into a clean t-shirt and jeans—all business, so Blaine busied himself by taking the gas can and filling the tank before heading back inside and plopping himself into the driver’s seat to watch Kurt work.

Within a few minutes, Kurt had the fuse box under the glove compartment open, the cover flipped over in his hands so that he could look at the schematic. He arranged himself somewhat awkwardly so that he could duck underneath with a small flashlight clenched between his teeth, and as he pulled out a fuse and held it up to the light, he let out a muffled yet triumphant, “Ha!”

“Lady Luck on our side?” Blaine prompted, and in lieu of a spoken response, Kurt gave him a thumbs-up. He made short work of switching out the blown fuse for a new one, and at his second thumbs-up, Blaine switched on the engine and watched the gauge slide to a few clicks above empty. “You’re the man, Kurt Hummel.”

“Learned from the best,” Kurt quipped, replacing the cover of the fuse box and climbing gracefully out from the gap into which he’d wedged himself. “I was thinking that we might as well change the oil while we’re here.”

“That makes, what—four changes since we left?” Blaine asked, switching off the engine again.

“Look at what happened today. It’s just good sense,” Kurt reasoned, brushing himself off before stepping between Blaine’s knees and murmuring into his ear, “Anyway, I thought you liked it when I did my grease monkey bit.”

Blaine groaned and made a half-hearted attempt at pushing him away, thinking better of it halfway through the motion and pulling him down for a dirty, open-mouthed kiss. “Let’s be quick. We need to fill up the tank and get to the campground.”

“What’s the hurry?” Kurt asked.

Blaine knew he was teasing, stalling for time just because he could; he ran his hands up and down the backs of Kurt’s thighs, squeezing just below the curve of his ass, and said, “You are.”

Distance: 11,051 miles

*

Next: Wyoming

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 8.3/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 01 Jan 2014 20:53:19 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
WARNING: This chapter contains mild drug use.

This fic will be updated twice-weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 4pm EST/9pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3. Previous chapters here.

Day 074: Thursday 29th November, 2012
Book of Revelations (Montana)

“Kurt, come on. You still haven’t watched it yet?”

“I… Was getting around to it.”

“Right.”

“Hey, Blaine?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pretty much fulfilling every single lumberjack fantasy I ever had right now.”

Blaine laughed as he wiped his forearm across his forehead and swung his axe to rest over his shoulder. “Lumberjacks, huh?”

Kurt smiled coyly, burying his hands in his pockets and descending the steps of the cabin. “We watched the Wolverine movie together, remember?”

“Well, sure, but I just thought that was a Hugh Jackman thing,” Blaine replied.

“It's always a Hugh Jackman thing,” Kurt said, “but in that particular instance, it was also a lumberjack thing.”

Blaine laughed again, bending to retrieve the last small log from the pile he had been working his way through for the past half hour; as he swung the axe over his head and brought it down to split the log clean in two, Kurt watched the muscles of his back and shoulders flex and contract beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

“How are you not freezing right now?” he asked.

“Manual labor, working up a sweat, all that jazz,” Blaine said, swinging the axe one last time to bury it in the stump. He picked up the log basket and crossed his arms through the wicker handle, carrying it up the steps to the porch and nodding for Kurt to follow.

“I don't think I’d ever get used to this view,” Kurt murmured at the top, stepping closer to Blaine and feeling the body heat that poured off him in waves. “Thank you for showing me.”

Blaine’s arm slipped around his waist, pulling him closer as they stood on the porch, gazing out at the sun setting behind the mountains that bordered the placid water. He smelled of sweat and cologne and nature.

Their drive up the previous day had been brutally long but beautifully scenic, offset further by the fact that they had two nights to spend in Blaine's father's idyllic log cabin. After falling into bed, watching Big Eden, and sleeping a solid twelve hours, they had both awakened refreshed enough to spend their day on a long walk around the area, taking in the picturesque views and frigid mountain air.

Upon their return, Kurt had taken the time to explore the cabin itself while Blaine set about chopping wood for the generous hearth in the living room. The cabin was seven hundred and sixty square feet of country charm the likes of which Kurt could only imagine finding in Montana, and even the exterior had him itching for a light meter and a handheld video camera. On the porch was an oversized wooden rocking chair, in which Kurt was categorically not picturing himself sitting while Blaine went on a run through the woods five, ten, fifteen years from now. Through the unassuming front door was a small living room that led into a rustic kitchen, all of the appliances concealed by panels matching the cabinetry, and upstairs was a loft bedroom with a tiny en suite.

No cell service, no internet, and only local stations on the TV. At the beginning of the trip, Kurt had thought it would be two days of board games, nature, and hell—now, he knew he couldn’t have been more wrong. It was perfect.

“I have something for you,” Blaine said, warm lips grazing Kurt's ear. “For both of us, actually.”

“Lead the way,” Kurt said with a shiver, and followed him inside.

As Blaine stacked a few logs in the open fireplace and set the kindling aflame beneath the grate, he said, “So… Don’t be mad.”

“Don't give me anything to be mad for,” Kurt quipped, removing his coat and perching on the arm of the chocolate brown leather couch.

Blaine chucked weakly. “I got us some pot.”

A grin slowly worked its way along the line of Kurt's lips. “Why would I be mad about—wait. Where did you get pot?”

“I went out to stretch my legs while you were in the bathroom yesterday morning, and I noticed a bunch of guys—“

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“—in the parking lot, and one of them called me over—“

“Blaine, tell me you did not get us Walmart marijuana.”

After wiping his hands off on his jeans, Blaine stood and pulled a small plastic baggie from his pocket. He held it between his finger and thumb, shaking it back and forth with a sheepish grin. Sighing, Kurt held out his hand and accepted the baggie, pressing it to his nose and inhaling deeply through the plastic. With no small measure of surprise, he glanced back up at Blaine, who waggled his eyebrows and said, “Good, right?”

Letting out another sigh, Kurt handed it back. “We need snacks and live music before I’ll even consider this. On principle.”

“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much, but I already have that covered,” Blaine announced excitedly, and he sped off into the kitchen area. Kurt just stared after him.

“What do you mean, ‘already covered?’ How do you have live music ‘already covered?’” he asked, poking his head around the open door to see Blaine already dumping out a bag of pita chips into an oversized bowl.

“I’ve got a bootleg of a show at the KOKO from last year,” he replied, speaking quickly and excitedly. “There’s a few bands I’ve been dying to play for you—this one band, Bastille? Holy shit, you’re gonna love them. I actually have a feeling that they’re gonna be huge—“

Kurt silenced him with a kiss, pulling back only when he was breathless. He pressed his forehead to Blaine’s temple, and simply whispered, “Okay.”

“No, seriously, it looks like a face!” Kurt crowed, looking at the map that hung outside the cabin door and pointing at Montana’s western border. “It’s the profile of a person, Blaine.”

“Do you think it’s a thing?” Blaine asked. “Like, do you think anybody ever gave it a name?”

“What, like Steve? The Steve side of Montana?” Kurt suggested.

“The Steve side of Montana,” Blaine agreed, just as Pompeii came to an end.

“Oh my god, play it again.”

“Kurt, it’s already on repeat.”

“But Blaine, play it again.”

“I told you you’d love them.”

“But if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?” Kurt sang at the top of his voice, not even caring that he was horribly off-key and emulating the lead singer’s pronounced English accent. He giggled to himself and took another toke from their second joint of the evening just as a thought occurred to him. “Hey. Why do we never play ‘Would You Rather’ anymore?”

“Because it always ended with awkwardness or dick jokes,” Blaine reminded him, barely stifling a snigger as he took the joint from between Kurt’s fingers. The smoke was a thick cloud around them where they sat on the porch; it was a still night, and the air was freezing, but with Blaine curled around him on the rocking chair, Kurt didn’t particularly notice. He didn’t care at all, in fact.

“We played it all the time when we were kids,” Kurt mused idly. He glanced up at Blaine and slowly worked his fingers into his thick curls, his arms feeling pleasantly heavy. “You need a haircut.”

“Do not,” Blaine replied petulantly, and stuck the end of the joint back between Kurt’s lips. “Don’t you remember how long it was when we first met?”

“Mmhmm,” Kurt hummed on an exhale. “You looked like a hobbit. Not that I actually knew what a hobbit was when we were six.”

“Speaking of hobbits,” Blaine said, “do you remember that day up in your attic, with the calendar?”

“Of course I do,” Kurt replied, smiling fondly at the memory.

The Saturday after they met, Kurt and Blaine had been up in Kurt’s attic looking through box upon box of books, and found an old Tolkien calendar from 1990. Kurt had helped Blaine count along with him, their fingers hop-scotching across the squares, and they had gone from September sixteenth to December twenty-fifth three times to be sure. They got to one hundred every time.

“Do you get twice as many presents, then?” Kurt had asked him, thinking that it must have been great to be born on Christmas, but when Blaine had wrinkled his nose, he’d wondered if everyone always asked him the same thing.

“Nope. Mommy and Daddy get me one extra present that’s just for my birthday, but nobody else does.”

Kurt had thought that it wasn’t very fair at all, and tried to remember to ask his mommy if they could get Blaine two presents in December, when they went shopping at the big department store with the pretty Christmas windows.

He told Blaine as much now, and Blaine smiled as he dragged deeply from the joint. In the dim porch light, Kurt watched his eyes grow dark; Blaine tapped Kurt’s mouth once before he leaned down and sealed his lips over Kurt’s. It was a kiss, an addictively poisonous kiss, and Kurt pulled the smoke out of Blaine’s mouth and into his lungs, his hands flying up to frame Blaine’s face. He rested his forehead against Blaine’s when he pulled back, eyes closed, and let the dizziness take him.

The rocking chair tipped back and forth, back and forth, creaking under their combined weight, and god, Kurt loved him so much. He loved Blaine’s every last cell, and reason only just edged out his wild urge to confess something, anything. He swallowed hard, and said, “Tell me something you want.”

“To be in two places at once,” Blaine whispered, his right hand covering Kurt’s where it had slipped to rest against the warmth of his pulse point.

“Easy,” Kurt whispered back, “just straddle a state line. Tell me something real, something you actually want.”

Blaine sighed and dropped his head, burrowing into the hollow of Kurt’s neck. “I want you to fuck me in front of the fireplace later.”

“Later is good,” Kurt managed. “I don’t know if I can—“

“Me either!” Blaine interrupted, bursting into laughter that shook his entire body. “It’s like my dick disappeared.”

“What do you mean it disappeared?”

“It moved. To space.”

“Oh my god. I’m so high that that actually made sense,” Kurt whined on a giggle, taking a deep breath and waving his hand to try and calm himself enough to ask again. It was no use, though; he was done for. He clutched onto Blaine like his life depended on it and both of them laughed until they wheezed, until it had been so long that he had to relight the joint before taking another drag. “Seriously, though. What do you want for your birthday this year?”

“Surprise me,” Blaine answered smoothly.

“You hate surprises.”

“I like yours.”

“Okay,” Kurt murmured. “Seriously, how is it only twenty-six days away? That’s less than four weeks.”

“Don’t,” Blaine said, his voice so low and commanding that it sent a frisson dancing up and down Kurt’s spine. He stifled the impulse to break the tension by attempting to bounce Blaine on his knee or something equally ridiculous—his legs were almost asleep anyway, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“Getting cold,” he mumbled, burying his face against Blaine’s chest and rubbing his cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt. It felt amazing, and Kurt couldn’t help but let out a moan of approval. Blaine’s answering chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest, and oh—every sensation was like a miniature firework bursting beneath Kurt’s skin.

Time slipped by him as Blaine clambered out of his lap and bundled him inside, and before Kurt really knew what was going on, he found himself stretched out along the couch, Blaine sitting pretzel-style at one end with Kurt’s head in his lap. His iPod was still playing, the sound amplified by the deep bowl into which Blaine had placed it, but the song had changed, now—he vaguely recognized it as Back Down South by Kings of Leon. It was sad, heavy, and soothing—perfect for his sudden and inexplicable wave of melancholy.

They were coasting: he knew that much. Their zigzagging route around America was coming toward its final downswing; after leaving this cabin—a prospect Kurt didn’t want to entertain for longer than absolutely necessary—they would indeed head back down south for the last time. He wanted to stay here forever, bury this night in the soil of the flowerbeds that lined the cabin’s back yard and let enough time pass for something to bloom, something that ached with beauty.

“I had a crush on you in senior year,” he blurted before he could stop himself, and just before he screwed his eyes shut, he caught a glimpse of Blaine’s surprised gaze settling on him.

“Told you I liked your surprises,” Blaine murmured, his fingers carding gently through Kurt’s hair. “Yours probably didn’t involve ice cream and hand-holding, though.”

“No, it did,” Kurt replied, sighing as he opened his eyes. “I mean, it was before Brad, so…”

“Ah, yes. Brad the Great Deflowerer.”

“That’s not a word. And—“

“It’s totally a word.”

“And he didn’t deflower me; I wasn’t some blushing virgin.”

“Sweetheart, you’d barely even admit to jerking off until you were seventeen.”

“So not true.”

“It is! Why do you think I was so surprised when you told me your kill count?”

Kurt snorted derisively. “I’ve said it before: this coming from the guy who was practically celibate before me.”

Blaine simply laughed again, dropping his head and gazing down at Kurt through his thick eyelashes. “So, about that kill count…”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“Who was the best?” Blaine asked at length.

“That is quite a question. Hmm, let’s see…” Kurt teased, making a show of tapping his chin. He knew the answer, of course, but he also knew that Blaine was fishing for compliments. “Well, there was Brad, of course. I guess I kind of have to look back and laugh, a little bit. But for a first time, he was… Nice. It was nice.

“Then—well, you knew about Nathaniel. Drunk, don’t remember much,” Kurt continued, wrinkling his nose. “Edward was… Mm, Edward was fantastic. And then… Max, obviously.”

“So we’ve covered the ones I know about,” Blaine cut in smoothly. He shifted on the couch, his posture straighter and his gaze more attentive. The firelight licked over his skin, casting him golden, and Kurt wanted to say that it didn’t matter, that none of it mattered, because Blaine was here and he was the only one that Kurt cared about anymore.

But he had started, so he would finish.

“After you left—literally the day after—I, um… I slept with Daniel.”

“Daniel who?” Blaine asked, and then, “Oh my god, Daniel from the band?!”

Shamefaced, Kurt nodded, and Blaine burst out laughing. “Shut up,” he grumbled, reaching up and punching Blaine’s shoulder.

Blaine’s laughs were already dying in his throat, though; he grabbed Kurt’s arm and brushed his lips across the inside of his wrist. “How did that even happen?”

“I went over to April’s and they were all jamming together,” Kurt answered. “All of us went to The Cannery, one drink became seven… The next thing I know, we’re in his parents’ basement and I’ve got him over his desk.”

“Wow. Okay. Okay, so that’s five.”

“Oh my god, I need a drink,” Kurt moaned, hiding his face in his hands. He took a deep breath, and continued, “Alright. Next was Stefan—you know, the Serbian guy from Baxter House? Gave one hell of a blow job. He just, um… Didn’t have much of his own to work with.

“You know, come to think of it…” he trailed off, retracing his own missteps of that lost year without Blaine. “There were… Four? Four guys after him that kind of all blur together. Then there was James Wilson—“

“Dairy Queen James Wilson?” Blaine asked.

“The very same.”

“He only came out last year.”

“Oh, I know,” Kurt said meaningfully, pursing his lips against a laugh and holding his hands up. “We ran into each other on campus, one thing led to another… He made the announcement the next day. I’m not saying I had anything to do with it, but…”

“I wonder how many other guys your dick has forced out of the closet,” Blaine mused, earning him another punch to the shoulder. “That makes eleven, by the way. So Chandler was twelve?”

“Interrupted, remember?

“Then who did I succeed?”

Kurt swallowed, mentally berating himself for ever admitting his number to Blaine on that balmy night back in Missouri. “Roberto Mancini.”

Blaine blanched and his mouth dropped open. “You had sex with Roberto Mancini? As in, the Roberto Mancini who almost fucked up my entire internship proposal?”

Nodding mutely, Kurt averted his eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, he was awful. He dragged me into the shower afterward and practically scrubbed us both raw because, and I quote, ‘we must wash off the sin.’ And then he tried to wash my hair for me. Which, fuck no.”

After a moment, he felt Blaine relax underneath him. A moment more, and he was shaking with laughter. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

In spite of himself, Kurt was soon joining in, Blaine’s infectious belly laughs too much to resist. When he finally regained his breath, he said, “You never really told me, you know.”

“About what?”

“About Tyler. How was it?”

At that, Blaine sobered entirely, his eyebrows drawing together and his expression darkening. “Nothing. It was… Nothing.”

“And… Me?” Kurt asked carefully.

Meeting his gaze squarely, Blaine whispered, “Everything.”

“Oh,” he said. He let his eyes slide toward the flames roaring in the fireplace, let the music wrap around him anew, let everything fade except the still-pleasant buzz in his bloodstream. It was too much—everything was too much these days. The weight of it all was terrifying, but then… But then there was something burning inside of him, too; something was stirring more and more, yearning to break free, and Kurt only ever felt sated when he let some of it out. Some of it, but not too much. Inches that still felt like miles: “You too, by the way. Out of everyone… It’s you.”

Blaine slid the tips of his fingers beneath the collar of Kurt’s Henley, and leaned down over him, holding himself just far enough away that his face didn’t blur. “See?” he whispered.

“See what?” Kurt breathed.

Blaine closed the last of the gap between them, and Kurt shut his eyes—warmth and home and yes—and in the second before Blaine kissed him, he whispered, “I love your surprises.”

Distance: 10,573 miles

*

Next: Idaho

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 8.2/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 29 Dec 2013 20:39:12 GMT

Day 072: Tuesday 27th November, 2012
Anchors (North Dakota)

“Some slim pickings right there.”

“We’ve discussed the Southern accent, Blaine.”

“Ugh, fine. Fargo?”

“So... Just what is it about this place you’re taking us?” Blaine asked, reclining in his passenger seat as they cruised along US-85 at a comfortable speed. They were on their way to Williston, North Dakota, a small town that Kurt had been adamant they had to visit, even though it would result in needing to park overnight at a Walmart.

“Ooh, Georgia,” Kurt said, pointing to the SUV in the passing lane, before answering Blaine’s question, “It’s where I got the paperweights.”

“What paperweights?”

“The ones I have on my desk. You kept fiddling with them when we first started planning this trip.”

“How do—oh, look, another South Dakota—how do you always remember things like that?” Blaine asked, as he always did when Kurt presented clear recollection of even the tiniest details.

“Cinematographers have to be good with details,” Kurt sing-songed his stock response. “But, um... Do you remember when Dad flew us all out to Bismarck for Grandma Betty's funeral?”

“Yeah, the week before graduation,” Blaine clarified, pitching the end of his sentence into a question. Kurt nodded, scratching at his shoulder and licking his lips; Blaine turned sideways in his seat, leaning his cheek against the warm leather of the headrest—Kurt had never told him what had happened during their trip.

“She—in her will, she left us instructions for this ridiculous scavenger hunt, which was just like her. We ended up at this kitschy little art shop in Williston, and she told us that we had to get something to remember her by, instead of her leaving us something.”

“Why’d you choose the paperweights?” Blaine asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Well, they’re Tree of Life, and Grandma Betty spent her entire life here. Like she was rooted, or something. And she always kind of reminded me of Grandmother Willow in Pocahontas, you know, talking in loose riddles and dishing out life advice like it was her sole purpose for existing,” Kurt said, his tone belying a fondness that his words did not.

Ignoring Kurt’s cry of “Wisconsin!” as he pointed through the windshield at a sleek Buick pulling slightly ahead of them, Blaine asked, “How much of her wisdom made it into your valedictorian speech?”

Kurt laughed. “None of it, actually. Although, I guess—I guess in a way, she was in it. The thing I said about people wanting us to be only one thing—that was how she was. I always felt like she was trying to categorize me, and it was infuriating.”

“God, you rehearsed that speech for weeks. Do you still remember it?”

“That’s like asking if you remember Sam's monologue at the end of The Two Towers—and don’t recite it right now, oh my god.”

“I wasn't going to,” Blaine shot back, sticking out his tongue for good measure. “I was going to ask you to recite yours.”

“Really?” Kurt asked, glancing at him sidelong. When Blaine nodded, he took a deep breath and flexed his hands around the steering wheel. “From the top?”

“From the top.”

“Okay, um... We’re always taught the importance of remembering where we started, and appreciating how far we’ve come,” Kurt began, cycling through the speech with none of the inflection Blaine remembered, but instead at a speed betraying the fact that he was trying to remember enough to get through it. “We can’t look at the end of an era, like this one, without going back to the beginning. And in the beginning, they told us to be individual, that diversity is good, that we have to make our own special music and sing our own special song. Okay, well—maybe that last one was just Mama Cass, but you know what I mean.

“My point is, somewhere along the way, we tend to forget all that,” Kurt continued, voice growing momentarily soft and his recitation slowing. Blaine found himself nodding along, just as he had while sitting in the front row at graduation, gazing up at his incredible best friend with a tassel swinging in the corner of his left eye. “We’re not told to, but we do it anyway. We become caught up in the everyday, in making sure that we fit into a nice, neat little box that we can slap a label on and show to the world. Because suddenly, when we got to high school, people only wanted us to be one thing: the cheerleader, the audiovisual geek, the stoner, the science nerd, the zero… In my case, the gay kid.

“After a while, I think a lot of us found those labels a comfort. Life was easy if we only had to be one thing. We could even group people together by their labels and judge them accordingly. And I see some of you side-eyeing me right now, but we all did it.

“The thing is… I’m looking at all of you in your caps and gowns, and I can’t remember a single one of your so-called labels. I don’t see anyone squeezed into a box or shoved to the side—I only see a graduating class of the people I’ve known since kindergarten, people I’ve grown up with and loved and fallen out with and—loved again,” Kurt recited, speeding up once more and tripping over the word ‘love.’ “You’re all sitting in front of me right now because you defied what everyone expected of you, what they labeled you as, and came here to be united.

“After we’ve said goodbye to each other, we’ll be going out into a world where more people will try to label us and put us into boxes. But I want you to remember this day, this beautiful day where for once, we were one. Where for once, if we wanted to be two things, three, five, fifty, a thousand—we felt like we could be all of them. Where we didn’t feel like we had to make other people happy, because we were here only for ourselves.

“My final advice to you, my fellow Class of ‘08 graduates, is to remember that. And when you leave today—please don’t forget to take yourselves out with you into the world, with whatever labels you want.”

As Kurt finished, taking as much of an exaggerated Shakespearean bow as he could while driving, Blaine loudly applauded him, lost in memories of their senior year of high school, when things like being valedictorian mattered. It had been a good-natured race between them, and they’d been neck and neck until Blaine had caught the flu and missed three weeks of school—afterward, he’d never quite managed to drag his Physics grade back up.

“It was a kick-ass speech,” Blaine told him, and quite uncharacteristically, Kurt blew him a kiss.

Blaine caught it, and slowly lowered his hand back into his lap as he considered just how out of character Kurt had been acting since… Well, that was the thing: he could no longer remember when the shift had occurred. Perhaps it had been a gradual shift that he was only seeing now that he looked back at the beginning, like Kurt’s speech told him to.

“Texas,” Kurt pointed out quietly, and Blaine’s thoughts turned once again to Hugh’s offer of moving to New York to be part of their new outfit. After a few moments passed, Kurt broke the silence by saying, “You’ve gone quiet.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“What would you say if I told you I was thinking about New York?” he asked, crossing his hands in his lap and thumbing at his index finger.

“I’d say tell me something I don’t know,” Kurt replied at length, his tone overly bright. “And I’d say that you should go for it.”

“I should—wait, really?”

“Mmhmm. What’s there to keep you in Maine?”

“Well, I—I…” Blaine trailed off, his thoughts short-circuiting before they made it to his mouth. You, he wanted to say, though all at once he realized that he had no idea what Kurt’s plans even were beyond his long-held dream of ‘creating beautiful things.’ “What are you going to do? After we get back, I mean.”

Kurt opened his mouth but said nothing, and dismissed the question with a simple shrug. “Still figuring out that part.”

“Would you come to New York with me?” Blaine blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He quickly added, “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I love those guys, but I’d go crazy if I had to live with them. I’m gonna need a good roommate.”

“I don’t know, B,” Kurt said with a heavy sigh. “Honestly, I’m trying not to think too much about what’ll happen when we get back.”

“Why?”

“Being on the road like this, it’s… Kind of magical, don’t you think?”

“Of course.”

“I know it has to end, and I know that it will, but… I just don’t want it to.”

“Me neither,” Blaine reassured him, reaching over and covering Kurt’s hand with his own. “You okay if I go surf for a bit?”

“The internet?”

“No, Kurt, the miles of choppy water currently surrounding us.”

“Well, who even says ‘surfing the internet’ anymore? But yes, fine, go,” Kurt said, waving him off, but before Blaine could exit the cab, Kurt took his arm and added, “I’ll think about it.”

Blaine made his way into the living area and fell back onto the couch with a sad smile on his face—he knew what “I’ll think about it” meant when Kurt said it. The deal was as good as off the table. But there was still time for them to figure everything out; he could feel the right moment to tell Kurt how he really felt growing closer, as if he were standing in the middle of train tracks that were just beginning to vibrate beneath his feet.

He killed a little time by catching up on news from back home, and guiltily sending a couple of short responses to emails that had been sitting in his inbox since before Louisiana. The thought of Louisiana made him itch to get back to Kurt’s side, and before he’d spent too long frustrated at the space between them, they were jumping out into a mostly-empty parking lot out front of a small strip mall.

He found himself hanging back a step, watching Kurt’s long legs take the sidewalk in stride, and at once he wondered, What will I do if he doesn't come to New York?

The thought made him swallow hard as he followed Kurt past the Economart and Country Floral. Blaine had experienced their relationship in both extremes, now, and he knew exactly which he preferred. Being without Kurt in any capacity would be like losing a vital piece of himself—had felt exactly like that his entire year abroad, in fact—but being without Kurt’s heart, however veiled it might currently be, was unthinkable.

“I… It didn’t look like this last time,” Kurt murmured as they came to a stop outside a storefront.

Woolgathering cut short, Blaine gazed up at the store and took it in. The wooden façade that covered the brickwork was painted entirely black, and the display in the front window was a selection of Ray Caesar paintings—surrealist images of women in various poses, some of them displaying animal characteristics and others completely abstract in their composition. The silver lettering above the storefront read Moiety: Fine Art for the Discerning Collector.

It was the last place Blaine ever expected to find in Williston, North Dakota. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Yeah, Moiety,” Kurt said, gesturing up to the sign. Blaine liked the way the word sounded when Kurt spoke it. “It’s the same place; it just looks completely different. Before, it was—well, almost the exact opposite; all kitschy and bright.”

“Do you wanna go?” Blaine asked, brushing his knuckles over Kurt’s elbow, the stiff canvas fabric of his jacket scratching against his skin.

“No… No, we came all this way,” Kurt answered with a sigh, and pulled the door open.

The interior of Moiety smelled strongly of sage and sandalwood. Its lighting was surprisingly dim for an art store—spotlights set at intervals along the ceiling cast fuzzy circles of yellow along the floor between aisles of postcard-size paintings. One wall was entirely taken up with a nighttime scene of winter-bare trees, and the glossy, dark stain of the floorboards made Blaine think of his father’s cabin at Saint Mary Lake, where they would be staying their three nights and two days in Montana. A slow, echoing, piano-driven song was playing over the speakers, and it lent an even darker atmosphere to the already dark store.

Moiety was a place entirely at odds with the other small stores along the strip mall, sticking out like a sore, bruised thumb, and when Blaine said as much, there was a dark chuckle from the back.

A tiny woman with graying hair appeared as if out of nowhere, thin-framed spectacles hanging from a chain around her neck and bare toes just peeking out from beneath her floor-length black velvet dress.

“That’s because we’re the only place with a modicum of culture in this backward town,” she said, her voice a thin and croaking rasp. As she approached them, the scent of cigarette smoke hung around her like a cloud. She looked them both from head to foot, and the crooked, toothy smile that twisted her mouth sent a shiver running the length of Blaine's spine. “What can I help you gentlemen with today?”

“I was here a few years ago,” Kurt began when Blaine remained silent, and from the corner of his eye, Blaine could see him drawing himself up a little straighter. “At least, I think I was. It looked completely different back then.”

The woman nodded, her eyes narrowing and her smile growing wider. “Yes, it was very different. Why did you come?” she asked, but before waiting for an answer, she barreled on, “I took over from the old owners about a year ago, you see.”

Kurt hesitated a moment, seemingly thrown off by her odd pattern of speech. “I came to find something to remember my grandmother by, after she passed.”

“And what did you choose?” the woman asked, her gaze narrowing even further. She stepped closer to them both, her head tipped back as she looked Kurt in the eye. “The old owners were unaware of how an art shop such as this one should be run, you see. Very unimaginative.”

She paused to clear her throat, then, and Kurt said, “A paperweight with the Tree of Life.”

“Do you know what ‘moiety’ means?” she asked suddenly, turning her attention to Blaine. He shook his head quickly and felt an inexplicable disappointment in himself, as if he’d failed a test for which he’d been studying all week. “The owners didn’t, either. So laughable, all of the things they didn't know. But I’m here, now.”

“Could you tell us what it means?” he asked.

“What what means?”

“’Moiety.’”

“It means, ‘one of two equal parts,’” she told him, looking between them both. “You see? You see why they were so blind, why I had to take over?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, definitely,” Kurt broke in. “How could anyone not see?”

The woman threw her hands up with an air of exasperation, then placed one on Kurt’s arm and fixed him with a gentler smile, one that almost looked kind. “You are welcome to browse,” she said, and then turned her gaze to Blaine. “You must listen while you look. Take it in, you see?”

Blaine opened his mouth to ask what he should be listening for, but the woman simply pointed up, raising her eyes to the ceiling—for a moment, the song’s volume seemed to be amplified, as it would between snatches of dialogue in any given movie trailer, and Blaine finally understood.

“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have books to balance,” she said, the fingers of her hand twitching in mid-air. Without another word, she excused herself and disappeared toward the back of the store again, passing through a heavy black curtain that swayed in her wake.

“What the fuck?” Kurt whispered, and Blaine instinctively stepped closer to him. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

“Was it just me or did that seem kind of… Hills Have Eyes to you?” Blaine asked.

“It wasn’t just you.”

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

“Can we stay? Just for a couple minutes? I kind of…”

“What?”

Kurt waved his hand dismissively and averted his eyes to scan the store. “I had this idea that I’d get another paperweight here; one to remember our trip—if she even has any amongst all the dead flowers and animal bones."

“Okay,” Blaine said, nodding and gesturing down the aisle.

They made a quick circuit of the store, and among the long displays of dark, surrealist paintings they found various end shelves full of odd ornaments, a box of ornately jeweled pen and journal sets, and finally by the cash register, the paperweights they had been looking for.

There were heavy glass globes in all sizes, nestled within black boxes lined with white silk, and after a few seconds, Blaine watched as Kurt picked one up from the back of the shelf. It was clear as crystal, no bubbles or imperfections, and suspended within was a black, frosted silhouette of the United States.

“Oh my god,” Kurt whispered, holding it out to Blaine. “How perfect is this?”

“Pretty perfect,” he murmured.

Kurt hesitated by his side for a moment, then took the paperweight in its box to the cash register to wait for the old woman’s reappearance.

Blaine returned his gaze to the rest of the display. Most of the paperweights looked like something he could have found at Nightshade—the single ‘alternative’ store in Brunswick, where the vast majority of their high school’s goth and emo population shopped for their accessories. One of the globes in particular caught Blaine’s eye: a perfect likeness of a human skull, cast in obsidian. As his eyes lingered on it, he couldn’t help but shiver once again, and instead turned his attention to the paperweight sitting to its left: more of an oval in shape, and containing a single sprig of lilacs.

At once, he thought of Kurt’s mother and how, on his first visit to Kurt’s house after they’d met in the street, he’d noticed the basket of lilacs hanging from a hook on their porch. The basket had hung there for months after the car accident, the lilacs slowly dying and curling in on themselves.

Just as Blaine resolved to buy the paperweight for Kurt, the old woman reappeared from the back. She was silent as she rang up Kurt’s purchase and pulled a glossy black bag from behind the register, gently setting the paperweight inside.

Kurt thanked her and turned to Blaine, raising his eyebrows as if in relief.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Blaine said, nodding in the woman’s direction; Kurt briefly squeezed his arm as he passed by, seeming not to notice the box in Blaine’s hands.

He approached the register cautiously, the woman’s dark eyes boring into his with an intensity that made his hair stand on end.

“Just this,” he said, attempting to break the tension.

“Where did you find this?” she asked as she took the paperweight from him. “I told them to take all of it with them, you see. But they didn’t listen, and there was so much waste. Why did you choose this?”

Because it’s the least depressing thing in this entire store, Blaine thought, but bit his tongue. “My friend’s mom, she always loved lilacs.”

“She's dead?”

“Yes. When he was eight.”

“Restless and torn, you see,” the woman said, quite inexplicably.

“I beg your pardon?” Blaine asked, feeling more confused by the second.

The woman sighed with that same air of exasperation, and leaned over the counter to grab Blaine’s hand with a force he wouldn't have thought her capable. “How can you love someone like that? You didn’t listen when I told you to.”

“How can I… What?” he asked weakly.

“’How do you love someone so restless and torn?’” the woman asked, pointing upward again, and suddenly it clicked into place—she must have been quoting the lyrics of the song.

Blaine paused, carefully considering his response as a wave of indignation crested over him, hot and furious. “With hope,” he said, and the woman released his hand with a scoff. “With faith,” he continued as she rang up his purchase. Frustrated, he leaned over the counter and looked her straight in the eye. “With everything that I am.”

She regarded him coldly for a moment more, then shrugged as if to indicate that she was finished with him. He paid, took his black bag, and walked away from the counter in silence, anger and defensiveness putting a terrible weight into his step. How dare she? She didn’t know him, and she certainly didn’t know the man he loved.

“That heart of yours. Did he steal it or did you give it?” he heard the woman ask in the second that his palm settled flat against the door’s silver push panel. He half-turned back toward her, and she was standing at the end of the aisle farthest back, looking at him with that almost kind smile. “I know that they’ll come back, you see. So I have to keep it everything it can be.”

“He stole it first, but I’ll give it over and over again if he’ll let me,” Blaine said quietly, dropping his gaze.

The expected reproachful response that already had him bristling never came, and when he looked back up, the woman was gone. Mentally shaking himself, he passed through the door and into the bright, cold sunshine outside. Kurt pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and Blaine felt the residual anger drain from him. It left him almost dizzy, and Kurt seemed to sense it, taking his hand and leading him away from the store with a concerned glance.

“Are you okay?” he asked when they were halfway back to the R.V.

“Just… Really, really creeped out,” Blaine answered.

“What did you get?”

“Something for you.”

“Really?” Kurt asked. “What is it?”

“Surprise,” Blaine told him, swinging the bag in his free hand. “Do you wanna see now?”

“Ugh, let’s not talk about seeing things,” Kurt said with a shudder, retrieving the keys to the R.V. from his pocket and unlocking the side door. He turned around as he climbed the first step and leaned down to press a dry kiss to the corner of Blaine’s mouth. “Come on. We’ve got a movie to watch and a Walmart to suffer.”

Blaine hesitated a moment before following him inside, sparing a single glance back at the storefront from across the still-empty parking lot.

With everything that I am, Blaine thought, feeling somehow imbued with more resolve than ever, than even before setting foot inside the dark walls of Moiety. Weighing the bag in his hand, he mused idly that, rather than buying the paperweight to honor a memory, perhaps he could use it instead to anchor a memory soon to be made.

Distance: 10,072 miles

*

Next: Montana

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 8.1/10]

dazzlebug — Tue, 24 Dec 2013 20:41:39 GMT

Day 071: Monday 26th November, 2012
We Were Never Here (South Dakota)

“How about Armageddon?”

“We’d definitely hit your Bruce Willis kink.”

“Blaine, Bruce Willis being hot is not a kink. It’s Bruce Willis being hot.”

Kurt was flying.

Not literally, of course—he wasn’t even driving fast enough to get a speeding ticket—but his mood was so light that it felt like he was barely touching the ground. He had Poppiholla playing on repeat to soundtrack his journey along US-16A, and was grinning like a buffoon as he passed a sign that read, Mt. Rushmore, EXIT 2 MILES. Although it was cold, it was a beautiful and clear day with only a few scattered clouds darkening the horizon to his left, and as he drove, he was surrounded by trees and hilly peaks that rolled and undulated as far as he could see on either side of the curving highway.

And everything was capped with a blanket of pure white snow.

Still exhausted from an almost solid eight hours of driving the previous day, Blaine was napping in the bedroom. Looking at it on a map, the route was a fairly straightforward one, but the post-Thanksgiving traffic had been hell—Kurt had never heard Blaine curse so much outside of the bedroom. To top it all off, Blaine had risen at dawn to warm the R.V.’s engine before heading out to clear off the thick layer of snow that had settled over her during the night.

Kurt pulled into the left lane as he passed the half-mile exit sign, and followed the road beneath an arching, wooden-framed bridge. His smile stretched from ear to ear; Mount Rushmore was one of the great American monuments he’d always wanted to see, and he couldn’t believe that he was finally getting to do it. If Blaine wasn’t already up by the time they arrived, Kurt resolved to kiss him awake.

Passing through the saloon-fronted stores of a small strip mall in Keystone, Kurt could tell that he was getting close. Around thirty minutes earlier, he’d opened his blog app and set up a new video post, and now he brought his phone out of sleep, adjusted its angle in the cup holder so that it was tilted to capture his profile, and hit the red button to begin recording.

“Good afternoon!” he called brightly, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose and inclining his head slightly more toward the phone. “Followers, friends… I’m actually not sure what I’m supposed to call you guys… It’s day seventy-one and this latest exciting video diary is coming to you from South Dakota, where it’s cold, clear, and beautiful—and the best part? There’s snow everywhere.

“I’m usually stationary, I know, but today I thought it might be fun for you to witness what I’m sure is going to be a ridiculously over-the-top reaction when I first see Mount Rushmore,” Kurt continued. He paused momentarily as he drove through a tunnel carved out of rock, and continued, “I’ve wanted to see it ever since I was, oh… Seven, maybe? So this is—this is big, for me.

“I’m just…” he trailed off, shaking his head and smiling to himself a little. “You know, I think there are times in every friendship, every relationship, where you have to kind of just sit back and let everything go but what you have. And right now, that’s what I’m trying to do. Because if what happens on the road trip stays on the road trip, then doesn’t it kind of follow that whatever happens should be amazing? I think—“

Kurt’s thought was cut abruptly short as he passed a line of snow-capped trees and, for the first time, glimpsed Mount Rushmore. It stood proud and majestic, the faces of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln overlooking the sprawl of the Black Hills, and Kurt felt as if the breath had been stolen from his body.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

He took the remaining turns of the road silently and as quickly as he could, and within what seemed like a mere clutch of breath-held moments, he was pulling the R.V. to a stop in the visitors’ parking lot, as close as he could get. Slumped back against his seat, he did nothing but smile for a full minute. The cinematographer in him wanted to examine every tiny detail, search out every flaw and imperfection in the time-weathered rock, and celebrate them all.

“Are you freaking out?”

Blaine’s voice was a sleepy sort of wry, startling Kurt out of his reverie. He glanced up to find Blaine standing by his side, knuckles brushing his arm as he took in the spectacle for himself. Forgetting all about the ongoing recording, he reached up to pull Blaine down for a sound kiss, unable to help smiling and giggling a little against his lips.

“You’re freaking out,” Blaine sing-songed, bunching the cuffs of his hoodie in his hands and stretching up onto his toes.

He drew Kurt’s gaze like he was the sun to Kurt’s moon, and in turn moved around him as if he were caught in Kurt’s gravity. Only a red blinking light in Kurt’s periphery distracted him, and he hastily stopped the recording, inwardly cursing himself for using the instant capture feature that would upload straight to his blog. He hadn’t exactly intended to be caught on camera making out with his—with Blaine.

“Come on,” Kurt said, getting to his feet and tugging on Blaine’s sleeve. “You need boots, a jacket, and gloves. It’s below freezing out there, and I want a closer look.”

It wasn’t long before they were both bundled up in winter gear, walking arm in arm through the eerily silent, empty parking lot and beneath the square stone archway onto Grand View Terrace.

Their boots crunched through the snow, and Kurt could feel a sense of giddy delight building inside him—winter was his season, and snow was his favorite. More so than any horribly commercialized holiday, there was something about snow that carried with it a sense of magic; there was no peaceful quiet like that of when snow was falling, and it left in its wake a ground reflecting so much light that, as a young child, Kurt had sometimes wondered if he was walking on the sky.

“Well… I guess it is a Monday at the end of November,” Blaine commented, gesturing back to the parking lot as they passed between pillars adorned with the state flags. “Although wouldn’t you think that people would take advantage of this particular holiday to be all patriotic?”

“I think most people just want to get home and away from obnoxious family members,” Kurt replied blithely.

“Like Great-Aunt Mildred?”

“She made me eat sprouts, Blaine. They taste like farts.”

“Oh, I’m well aware. Don’t you remember Sproutgate 2005? I didn’t talk to Cooper for almost a month,” Blaine said, shuddering in a way that Kurt knew had nothing to do with the cold. He stopped himself from going on to say that Cooper might have actually noticed Blaine’s silent treatment if they were in the habit of speaking more frequently than every six weeks.

They came to a stop before the low wall overlooking the amphitheater, and as Kurt stood gazing up at the mountain towering above him, he caught sight of Blaine brushing snow from one end of a stone bench. He closed the distance between them and took the seat Blaine offered with an exaggerated, gentlemanly bow. Before he could move to clear a space next to him, he found himself with a lapful of Blaine: a warm, grounding weight and an arm curled around his shoulders like it was nothing.

Maybe it was nothing.

“Are you still freaking out?” Blaine asked, glancing up at the mountain and then down at Kurt. It always struck him how oddly nice it was to have to tip his head back in order to meet Blaine’s gaze.

“I was never freaking out.”

“You were freaking out a little bit.”

“Fine, I was freaking out,” Kurt conceded. After a moment, he added, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Blaine asked, brow furrowed.

“For bringing me along,” Kurt said. “I mean, who knows when I would’ve gotten to see this otherwise?”

“I told you, I wouldn’t have left without you,” Blaine said quietly, his thumb burrowing beneath Kurt’s scarf and rubbing the skin at the nape of his neck. The moment hung between them, and Kurt could tell that they were both wondering the same thing: What if we hadn’t left Maine? What would we be right now?

To break the silence, Kurt returned his gaze to the mountain and said, “I’d love to shoot here. Wouldn’t you?”

“Set the scene for me,” Blaine said.

Two best friends on a road trip, Kurt thought. Sitting in this very spot and feeling like right now, right at this moment, they’re exactly where they’re meant to be.

“Post-apocalypse,” he finally replied, and Blaine’s eyes widened a little. An idea occurred to him, and as surreptitiously as he could, he moved his hand behind him and slowly began collecting snow. “I wanna see it filthy and neglected, the entire place in ruins. The terrace back there is all overgrown, and the whole place is covered in snow, like it is now. I’d want to really juxtapose the innocence against the horror, you know?”

“Go on,” Blaine said, nodding.

“And there are two guys—“

“Naturally.”

“—all bruised up, guns slung across their backs, looking like they’ve never seen snow before,” Kurt said, looking out over the wall and seeing powdery puffs of it falling from the boughs of trees up on the hill.

“What happens next?” Blaine prompted.

“They’re standing at the wall, shoulders slumped because it’s cold and they’re exhausted and haven’t found shelter yet,” Kurt continued, nudging Blaine off so that he could stand up. They crossed to the wall together, Kurt’s snowball packed tight in his gloved hand. He put a few paces between them, knowing he was about to begin World War Three. “It’s quiet—all they can hear is the wind howling through the trees, and that’s when a song begins to play. Barely there to begin with, but getting louder—and then one of the guys grins at the other…”

“And then what?”

“Duck and cover!” Kurt yelled at the top of his voice, turning and hurling the snowball toward Blaine. It exploded against the front of his dark pea coat, leaving a splatter of white on Blaine’s chest and a comically shocked expression on his face. “What, like you really weren’t expecting that?”

Blaine brushed himself off and drew his shoulders back. “Battle stations, Hummel. Because you’re going down.”

“May the best man win!” Kurt called over his shoulder as he took off across the terrace, running for what little cover that the Avenue of Flags could provide him. Snowball fights were no laughing matter between him and Blaine—the last one they’d had, back in their second year of college, had gone on for nearly an hour before Blaine had finally given up and grudgingly conceded victory.

He ducked behind the third pillar along the avenue and crouched down, rapidly taking handfuls of snow and packing them as tightly as he could. He had a title to defend, and he wasn’t going to give it up quietly.

“Incoming!” Blaine called, and Kurt glanced past the corner of the pillar just in time to see Blaine leaping through the air and throwing a snowball at him mid-jump.

It missed him by a few inches and Kurt hid himself behind the pillar once more, grinning with his back to the stone. “Seriously, Blaine, did you learn nothing from Night at the Museum 2?”

No response came, and aside from the brief sound of Blaine’s boots crunching past him through the snow, it was silent. Kurt gathered a snowball in each hand and cautiously peeked out from behind the pillar, but Blaine was nowhere to be seen. Silently congratulating himself on having the forethought not to wear his other jacket, which was dry clean only, he stepped fully out from between the pillars and waited.

“Come on, Anderson!” he called. “I’m not gonna wait around all day while you get up the courage to face me!”

A snowball hit the side of his thigh as Blaine darted, quick as a flash, between two pillars to Kurt’s right. He swore under his breath and followed, but Blaine had already run out into the open space of the avenue. With a quick smirk down at the pile of snowballs Blaine had left behind, he lobbed the ones he held at Blaine—both hitting him square on the shoulder—and gathered up three more.

“You sounded exactly like your dad just then, you know!” Blaine declared as he scurried off toward Kurt’s original hiding spot.

“Yeah, and look how his snowball fight with your dad ended up! Epic Hummel Smackdown!” Kurt shot back, dogging Blaine’s footsteps and following him back out onto the terrace. As soon as he’d stopped zigzagging, Kurt took two of his three shots, landing one on his back and the other on his calf.

Blaine turned around to throw one back, and it hit Kurt smack on the jaw. He hissed and staggered backward—the snowball had been packed tight and it stung like a bitch. Blaine was by his side almost immediately.

“Fuck, are you okay?” he asked, gloved hands cupping Kurt’s face and tilting it upward so he could see.

“You never learn,” Kurt reprimanded him, taking his remaining snowball and crushing it into Blaine’s hair. He laughed at Blaine’s grim expression, pressed a firm kiss to his mouth and took off again.

He didn’t get far, however, before Blaine grabbed him around the waist and tackled him to the ground, landing on top of him in the snow and saying with a smirk, “Yield, Hummel.”

“Never,” he said, softening his voice and his gaze. He’d lost enough fights in the past through Blaine employing dirty tactics that, if this was about to end, he was going to get the parting shot. Slowly, he slid his wrists from Blaine’s loose grip to twine their fingers together. The cold was seeping into his hair and through his clothes, and as he looked past Blaine hovering above him, he saw that the sky had turned an ominous shade of gray.

When Blaine twisted around to see what he was looking at, Kurt took the opportunity to hook his leg around Blaine’s hips and roll them over, hands still clasped together. Blaine’s lips were cold, but warmed Kurt nonetheless when he leaned down for a slow kiss. “Yield, Anderson,” he whispered, his breath coming out in a bloom of white.

“Fine, keep your stupid title,” Blaine grumbled, shivering, but there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth that betrayed him. “Can we get up, now? I’m freezing. And it’s starting to snow.”

By the time they’d gotten to their feet and finished brushing themselves off, it was already coming down in fat, heavy flakes, and Kurt was looking forward to getting inside and feeling his hands burn as they warmed up. But just for a second, he looked at Blaine in his pea coat with snow settling into his curls, and remembered him in a short-sleeved t-shirt, standing on a wall in Florida and kissing him like his life depended on it.

“I’m freezing,” Blaine repeated, his shoulders up by his ears and hands buried in his pockets.

“Let’s stay here for a second,” Kurt said, quickly unbuttoning his coat and wrapping it around them both.

“Okay, Bridget,” Blaine said wryly, pushing his arms beneath the thick wool of Kurt’s coat and squeezing his waist.

“Actually, this would make me Mark,” Kurt corrected him with a grin. He glanced around, watching the snow settling around them. Their tracks were already beginning to disappear. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. Isn’t this perfect?”

Blaine ducked his head, kissed Kurt’s jaw where it still stung, and hummed in agreement.

The moment was broken by Kurt’s phone chiming with a new email, and he kept one arm wrapped around Blaine as he drew it out of his pocket and read the message over Blaine’s shoulder.

So that’s the infamous Blaine? He looks like a keeper, but if you’re really more for enjoying the moment, set a few aside to listen to this. –F.

Kurt immediately tapped open the accompanying YouTube link, excited and frustrated in equal measure at the ongoing mystery of just who F was, and what they were trying to accomplish. There was a tinge of embarrassment that he could feel coloring his cheeks, like he’d been caught on camera doing something far more risqué than kissing, but as Coldplay’s Life In Technicolor II began to play, it’s uplifting introduction swept away all vestiges of anything other than simple happiness.

“Another one from Marcie?” Blaine asked, and Kurt nodded as he unwrapped Blaine from his embrace. He didn’t like lying, but if he told the truth he would have to tell all of it, and there was no way he could stomach revealing the one place he had left to go when he could no longer make sense of himself.

“Let’s go,” he said, and took Blaine’s hand.

As they made their way across the terrace toward the Avenue of Flags, he glanced toward the pillar he’d hidden behind—his snowballs were already buried. The snow was falling in thick sheets, catching in his eyelashes, and he spared only one glance backward. The footprints they’d left by the wall were almost filled in, and the bench was covered again.

“Almost looks like we were never here,” Blaine said quietly.

“It does,” Kurt agreed, wondering once again, What if we weren’t?

Distance: 9,713 miles

*

Next: North Dakota
Posting: Sunday 29 December, 2013 @ 4pm EST/9pm GMT (estimated)

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 7.5/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 22 Dec 2013 20:13:09 GMT

Day 069: Saturday 24th November, 2012
Tipping (Nebraska)

“Hold it right there, Blaine Anderson.”

“I was just inches from a clean getaway!”

“I… Wait; I know this. Terms of Endearment?”

The neon lights buzzed, flickering in and out of their bright luminescence almost in time with the strobe lighting over the dance floor, and Blaine sipped his beer slowly, forearms on the railing of The Max’s upper level as he surveyed the crowd. He could see Kurt below, swaying in the center of the packed dance floor with a stranger wrapped around him. Every so often, Kurt would glance up at Blaine and smirk—it was all for show. Blaine knew Kurt was his, and though a twinge of jealousy was puddled in his gut, he paid it no mind.

Tackling Kurt around the waist in the middle of a dark and pretty spooky maze wasn’t exactly planned, but hearing him say those words—Yes, Dad. I love Blaine, too—had caused an abrupt about-turn in Blaine’s mood. The pedestal suddenly hadn’t seemed so tall.

No longer were his feelings a weight dragging behind him—now, they were an anchor, and he was biding his time. He was sure of his feelings, and he was sure of Kurt’s, but what he wasn’t sure of was how it was all going to be reconciled. It had to come to a head sooner or later, and he was growing more and more certain that, with the words almost constantly on the tip of his tongue, he would be the one to address it.

But he could wait. Kurt was an expert at dodging danger, and what they had was still cloaked in it. Blaine wasn’t about to back him into a corner; being on the road with nowhere to run except twenty feet away, it would simply be using the situation to his advantage.

Taking another sip of his beer, his eyes roved the interior of the club. He couldn’t imagine that there was any place in Omaha better for the LGBT crowd—or anyone, really, taking into account the ratio of obviously straight couples littered across the dance floor—to blow off steam on a Saturday night. The place was expansive, with different rooms playing different genres of music; the cover was low; the drinks were cheap. And the music itself… The DJ in this room was playing a mix of dance and pop, and—with the exception of an occasional foray into nineties classics, of which the currently playing Groove Is In The Heart was one—he seemed to know exactly what the people of Omaha wanted: music to lose themselves to.

The next time Blaine glanced down, Kurt was nowhere to be seen. He drained the contents of his bottle, left his spot, and made his way downstairs to the bar to wait for Kurt to come back to him—which, sooner or later, he always did. Blaine could count on at least that much.

Just as he was accepting another beer from the bartender, a familiar hand settled over his own. Kurt tipped the bottle to his own mouth and drank deeply, eyes on Blaine as he swallowed.

“Having fun out there?” Blaine asked, voice raised over the music, and Kurt smiled, leaning closer.

“I swear to God, that guy must have a dick about the size of that building we saw yesterday,” he replied, and Blaine chuckled. He could already tell that the ‘Penis of the Plains,’ as native Nebraskans referred to it, was going to be a running joke for years to come.

“Did he warn you, at least?” Blaine asked nonchalantly. “Because that’s the kind of thing you have to warn a guy about.”

Kurt tucked a finger beneath Blaine’s chin and answered him with a kiss before turning his back to the bar and leaning on his elbows. Blaine’s eyes swept downward to his long legs, the heel of one foot tapping to the beat.

“Come on,” Kurt said after a moment, fingers wrapping around Blaine’s wrist. “This song always makes me want to move.”

They wound and pushed their way through the crowd together, the press of bodies swallowing them and pushing them flush as they walked with the beat. Once Kurt had found them a spot, he looped one arm around Blaine’s waist, the fingers of his free hand playing with Blaine’s tie as he bit his lip and shimmied his shoulders back and forth.

“You’re in a good mood,” Blaine observed with a grin.

Kurt leaned down, saying directly into Blaine’s ear, “I’m dancing with you. Of course I’m in a good mood.”

“What, that other guy wasn’t keeping you happy?” Blaine joked.

“You’ve got moves, remember?” Kurt answered, before scrunching his face and shooting him a look. “Too soon?”

Blaine shook his head; Delaware was far enough in the rear view that they could laugh about it. “Speaking of moves, mister,” he said, “I haven’t seen the patented Kurt Hummel shimmy since senior prom.”

“The classics never go out of style,” Kurt quipped, furrowing his brow and circling his hips into Blaine’s.

Blaine’s hands slid around to Kurt’s ass, giving back as good as he was getting. If either of them left this dance floor without an uncomfortable hard-on, it would be a miracle.

“Have you ever thought about being tied up?” Kurt said into his ear, quite unexpectedly; Blaine groaned and dropped his head to Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt chuckled, and asked, “Should I take that as a yes?”

“Okay, A) where did that even come from, and B) do we have anything in the R.V.?”

“It was just something I was thinking about last night. I might have a pair of handcuffs somewhere.”

“You don’t need to tell me why,” Blaine managed, turning his head and grazing the line of Kurt’s neck with his teeth.

When he raised his head again, it was to see the lights coming up before dropping straight back down; he caught the briefest, arresting glimpse of irises awash in stormy blue. It was the same shade that Blaine now associated with those moments when Kurt’s breathing would speed up right before he came.

“What about some classic Blaine moves?” Kurt asked with a nudge, pulling Blaine back to himself. “Because I remember a certain sixteen-year-old version of you jumping on the desks in Mrs. Beck’s History class, singing Robin Thicke to that poor kid—“

“There aren’t any desks in here,” Blaine interrupted smoothly, his finger against Kurt’s lips.

Kurt twisted his head away, put his mouth to Blaine’s ear and rolled his earlobe between his teeth. In a low voice that Blaine struggled to hear over the music, he sang, “When I get you, you’ll know, babe…”

“Shut up,” Blaine groaned, turning to catch Kurt’s lips in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

As the electric intensity of Goldfrapp’s Strict Machine coiled its way through the crowd toward them, strong hands bruised their grasp into Blaine’s hips, and he found himself being turned around to face the rest of the clubbers.

Shivering despite his sky-rocketing body heat, Blaine dropped his head back to rest on Kurt’s shoulder and turned his head to speak directly into his ear. On an inhale, he caught the scent of Hugo Boss intermingled with a tang of sweat, and as Kurt’s arms crept around his middle to pull him closer, he barely held back a groan of approval. ”This definitely isn’t how we did it at prom,” he finally said, reaching back to cup his fingers to the nape of Kurt’s neck.

"What do you want tonight?" Kurt purred. There was a deep, thrilling undertone to his voice and Blaine pressed his forehead to the heat of Kurt’s neck, body becoming more and more relaxed as he found the pattern of the beat and gave himself over to it. Kurt’s fingertips slid between the buttons of Blaine’s shirt, contracting and pressing into the skin of his torso, and he hooked two fingers into a belt loop to pull Blaine even closer, almost as if he was trying to fuse and meld them into a single entity, one made up of a symbiotic, rhythmic give and take. They moved together as the song continued, the bass running dirty and low and so synthesized that it kept them suspended in surroundings of nothing but the feeling of body on body. "Tell me what you want."

Blaine wound his fingers up into Kurt’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and tugging so that Kurt met his gaze. He circled his hips back in time with the two sweeps of bass that preceded the second bridge, thrilling at his own approximation of wonderful electric as it set his every nerve aflame with Kurt’s full mouth inching closer, closer, closer until his eyes blurred and shuttered, because this was what Blaine wanted.

He wanted the feeling of the firm, assured body moving in time with his own. He wanted the surprising and welcome gentility of the first kiss, and then for it to turn to pure filth soon after. He wanted the dance floor to momentarily swim beneath his feet as Kurt flipped him back around so that they faced one another, lips breaking apart before crushing together once more. He wanted these worshipping hands running the lines and planes of him, hairs standing on end as he surrendered and moaned and poured heat into a kiss that seared him with its obscenity. He wanted this contact, this touch, this sensation of his axis tilting further and further forward.

"I want you," he all but groaned into Kurt’s ear after one last sweep of his tongue along Kurt’s lower lip, eyes opening into sharper focus with the song’s fade into a punchy remix of Robyn’s With Every Heartbeat.

Not this song, Blaine almost whined aloud. He couldn’t have this song ringing in his ears when he’d only just found his footing in this crazy mindfuck of a situation.

Kurt tensed against him and mouthed, Come with me. Blaine happily took Kurt’s hand and left his thoughts on the dance floor. The song followed them, however, as Kurt led him from the main room and out through the main hallway to the doors of the nightclub complex. They were running, taking a right as soon as they were outside. Kurt pulled him into a narrow, dark alley, and Blaine hesitated halfway with Kurt’s hand still tangled up in his own. It was starting to rain, and he took in deep lungfuls of freezing air to soothe his racing heart and the rush of blood in his ears before it all continued on its journey south.

"Hey," Kurt said softly, thumb rubbing back and forth over Blaine’s knuckles as he took a step forward. Kurt closed the space between them and tilted Blaine’s chin upward with a gentle hand, and Blaine felt a ghost of breath exhaled across his lips just before Kurt recaptured his mouth in a slow, deep kiss.

“Maybe we can make it happen, baby,” Blaine heard from inside, his mind filling in what was muffled through brick and mortar. “We could keep trying but things will never change.”

It was mere moments until the heavens truly opened overhead; the rain fell in fat drops onto his skin and Blaine fell with them, giving himself over entirely. He pressed his palms into the small of Kurt’s back to pull him in closer, and god—he could have cried with the rightness of it all: Kurt’s lips reaffirming a daily claim; Kurt’s body pressing tightly against him; Kurt’s love coursing into his own bloodstream.

“Okay?” Kurt breathed, and Blaine nodded quickly.

Grinning, Kurt curved his palm to the back of Blaine’s head and pushed him back against the rough brick wall, swallowing down the gasping whisper of breath that Blaine let out.

“Good enough to waste some time. Tell me, would it make you happy, baby?”

Blaine screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to keep everything but Kurt locked out of his mind. He’d been growing steadily and uncomfortably harder ever since being on the dance floor, but it only registered now, as Kurt’s hands—wet with the rain that ran across his skin in rivulets—came to rest on the buckle of his belt and Blaine’s hips automatically pushed forward.

Seemingly spurred on by the silent encouragement, Kurt made quick work of Blaine’s belt and the button fly of his jeans, yanking them to mid-thigh as he dropped to his knees. Blaine hissed at the sudden cold of the raindrops hitting his newly exposed flesh, his skin so heated that he was surprised when they didn’t simply sizzle away into nothingness. Kurt wrapped hot, damp fingers around him and glanced up from beneath thick, wet eyelashes.

Blaine bit his lip when Kurt’s mouth sank over the head of his dick, his back arching forward into the contact. The front of his shirt was freezing against his blood-warmed skin, and as Kurt pulled off slowly, teeth lightly grazing the length of him, his hips canted forward to search out more of the blissful heat of Kurt’s mouth. He watched as Kurt smiled and licked his lips, glancing up at him with a positively wolfish gleam in his eyes. It was only a second after Blaine closed his eyes that he felt himself being enveloped by that same heat, the fast and rhythmic push and drag of Kurt’s tongue along his shaft sparking simmering flames beneath the surface of his skin, and he carded his fingers through Kurt’s sopping hair before curling them into a fist and beginning to fuck Kurt’s mouth in short, shallow bursts.

Blaine dropped his chin to his chest and his eyes locked on Kurt’s, a dark thrill coursing through his veins in a heady undercurrent. Kurt grabbed him by the hips once more, pulling Blaine forward to fuck his mouth harder and deeper, and Blaine let out a guttural groan, watching himself pump between Kurt’s flushed lips. He knew he wouldn’t last long like this, with the constant cold of the rain that trickled from his scalp down the line of his neck sending chills shooting up and down his spine. He could feel the pressure already beginning to mount, a trembling in his thighs that only got stronger with every gentle rake of Kurt’s teeth, every obscene moan that resonated throughout each cell of his body, every time that he caught Kurt’s gaze still zeroed on him, his eyes so dark that they were almost ebony.

He felt the rush building fast, almost a tangible thing that he could have reached out to touch, and he gave the fistful of Kurt’s hair he was still gripping two quick tugs.

Kurt surged forward, pinning Blaine back against the wall, and the sharp flare of impact in his lower back was what sent him tumbling over the edge, releasing his hold on Kurt’s hair and scrabbling for purchase on the brick. As his orgasm tore through him, he cried out in a litany of abandoned obscenities that were consumed by the open sky.

When it all became too much, Blaine raised one heavy arm and dragged his fingertips along the side of Kurt’s neck, and he pulled off with one final, wet pop. Hands almost numbed from the cold and the aftershocks running through him, he dragged Kurt up by the shoulders of his sweater and kissed him languidly, open-mouthed and whimpering at the taste of himself on Kurt’s tongue.

Kurt chuckled as they broke apart and Blaine pitched forward, dropping his forehead to rest on Kurt’s shoulder as he tucked himself back inside his jeans with still-shaking fingers.

"That—your fucking mouth,” Blaine mumbled, feeling a rush of warmth as Kurt rubbed his upper arms. ”Where did you learn to give head like that?”

"Practice," Kurt answered with a self-satisfied grin.

“Can we…? I’m soaking.”

“Plenty of dry clothes in the R.V. A bed, too. And a couch, a chair, a floor, a shower…” Kurt said, taking a step back and holding out his hand, giving Blaine an expectant look.

Without hesitating for a single moment, Blaine slid his slick fingers between Kurt’s. As they headed out onto Jackson Street, he saw a group of girls practically falling out of the club onto the street, all singing at the top of their lungs, “And it hurts with every heartbeat.”

But this doesn’t hurt anymore, Blaine realized. Blinking rain out of his eyes, he wondered, is it almost time?

He was distracted by the flash of cab headlights turning the corner a few blocks up; just as he raised his arm to flag it down, Kurt pulled him close to kiss him, slow and indescribably sweet, and Blaine felt it all the way down to his toes. He almost forgot about the cab, but the rain lifted just enough for the sound of the approaching engine to slice its way into his muddled consciousness. He broke the kiss to fling out his arm and shout, ”Taxi!”

Kurt held the door open for him to climb inside, and once they were settled, directed the driver to the Walmart Supercenter on South 72nd with barely so much as a grimace. When the cab pulled away, windshield wipers beating dully against the rushing rain, he whispered in Blaine’s ear, “So what do you have planned for me?”

“Well… I hear there’s a bed…” Blaine began, fingers trailing the length of Kurt’s thigh.

“There is,” Kurt confirmed, voice a thick rasp.

“And a couch, a chair, a floor, a shower… Possibly even handcuffs.”

“God, just tell me.”

“Sweetheart,” Blaine said, cupping Kurt’s jaw and taking his bottom lip between his teeth. He pulled off slowly, and told him, “You have no idea.”

Distance: 9,167 miles

*

Next: South Dakota

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 7.4/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 18 Dec 2013 20:49:08 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
WARNING: This chapter contains an appearance by Finn. It’s all happy, but please be aware if it continues to be difficult for you to read about him.

This fic will be updated twice-weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 5pm EST/10pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only). Previous chapters here.

Day 067: Thursday 22nd November, 2012
Lost and Found (Kansas)

“We already had Elizabethtown, remember?”

“Oh, right. Umm… Mars Attacks?”

“Now we’re talking.”

“Blaine!” Kurt called at the top of his voice. It echoed all around him in the stillness of the night, and after shrugging his arms against his sides, he adjusted his backpack and carried on walking, taking left after left after left.

Even with the comforting twinkle of the stars above him and his flashlight in hand, the darkness inside the maze remained oppressive.

“’Let’s turn off here,’ he said. ‘It’s a maze; it’ll totally be fun,’ he said,” Kurt grumbled aloud, shaking his flashlight when it flickered. This had all the potential of a grisly horror movie: two very much non-virginal boys lost in a maze in the middle of nowhere, separated because one of them had insisted on racing to the middle for their Thanksgiving picnic.

Why they couldn’t have had it inside the R.V.—where it was warm, and more importantly, safe—Kurt didn’t know. What he did know was that he had been mostly powerless to resist those goddamn puppy eyes of Blaine’s, even when he was slowly but surely resigning himself to the inevitable end of what they had. It was the beginning of a long, painfully drawn-out goodbye; they would always be best friends, of course, there was no doubting that. Blaine was his air. But Blaine had the prospect of a new life waiting for him, now, and Kurt had no right to hold him back from it. He loved Blaine, and as much as the thought left him cold, he had to let him go.

Just as he reached another dead end, his flashlight flickered a few times and sputtered out. Kurt swore under his breath and switched to the miniature flashlight he kept on his keys.

It was too quiet so deep in the maze. Kurt stopped where he stood to weigh listening to his iPod against being able to hear if Blaine called for him; as he moved to take off his backpack, his phone started to ring in his pocket, The Dandy Warhols’ Bohemian Like You blaring at top volume.

When he saw Dad (Home) emblazoned across the screen, he immediately answered.

“Hey, little brother!” Finn’s voice greeted him brightly, his infectious happiness making Kurt smile every bit as much as if he’d just been wrapped up in one of Finn’s bone-crushing bear hugs. There were in fact only a few months between them, but having been an only child for most of his life like Kurt, Finn took his role in their new family seriously. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Finn,” Kurt said, inhaling deeply and imagining that he could detect faint scents of laundry detergent and American Crew hair wax on the night air. “Where are Dad and Carole?”

“Walking off dinner,” Finn said incredulously. “I mean, I’ve got a total food coma situation going on right now, and they’re like, old. You know? I don’t know how they do it.”

“Ha, and how many helpings did you have compared to them?” Kurt asked.

“Everyone had seconds,” came the answer, followed by a long pause. “Okay, I had, like, two more helpings after that. But it’s Thanksgiving! Isn’t eating crap tons of food the whole point?”

Kurt shook his head, grinning to himself, and sat down on the ground, taking off his backpack and leaning against the hedge wall. If he kept walking without paying attention to where he was going, he’d only end up more lost than he already was. “So how are things, how’s grad school so far?”

“Really great,” Finn began. “The new classes are awesome; I feel like I’m really getting a handle on things that I wanna be teaching, you know? And I’ve found a couple of kids to tutor, so I’m doing that on weekends—that’s how I got the money to fly home.”

“That’s fantastic, Finn. I’m so proud of you.”

“And I, uh… I met this girl…”

Kurt sat bolt upright. A girl? This was big news. After Finn’s epically awful break-up with Quinn Fabray during sophomore year, he’d flitted between a few girls without any of them ever sticking more than a couple of months at most. He’d stopped even mentioning girls at all.

Carefully, he said, “Go on.”

“So we had an assignment in class to go watch a musical, right? And there was this touring show that came to town, West Side Story. So a bunch of us from my class decided to go see that instead of just renting one on Netflix, and like, it was great and everything, but…” Finn trailed off with a sigh that didn’t sound a single bit weary. “It was after the show. Stacey and Nola wanted to do the whole stage door thing because they were, like, drooling all over the guy who played Tony, and we weren’t exactly in the nicest part of town, so I went back there with them.

“Anyway, so we were the first ones there and we waited forever, and then the girl who played Maria—Rachel’s her name, Rachel Berry,” Finn continued, speaking the girl’s name with a kind of reverence Kurt hadn’t heard since Quinn, “she came out, and she’s just… God, Kurt, she’s beautiful. She’s tiny—shorter than Blaine—and she’s just crazy talented, and there was this moment where we looked at each other and I just… Felt it.”

There was a long pause, and Kurt realized that his fingers were clenched too tightly around the strap of his backpack. “What happened next?!” he prompted breathlessly.

“Well, we talked a little but it was super awkward because at first she thought Stacey was my girlfriend—which, dude—and then when she figured out the reason I really wasn’t mad that Stacey was drooling over Tony, she wrote her number on my playbill thing,” Finn said. “But she was only in town for that one night, so I decided to call her right away and… She came over and we got that insane Super Taco pizza from Sarpino’s that I told you about, and we stayed up ‘til sunrise just talking.”

“Oh my god, Finn,” Kurt breathed, his throat feeling tight. He’d never heard Finn talk about any girl like this, much less after just one night. “So… If she’s touring, how are you guys gonna work it?”

“Her tour finishes up just after Christmas, so she’s gonna come stay for a couple weeks and we’ll see how it goes then. But right now we’re talking or texting most days, and it’s just… She’s really, really awesome.”

“Oh my god,” Kurt repeated, slumping back against the hedge. “Finn, I’m just… I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks, Kurt,” Finn said softly. After a moment, he asked, “So what’s up with you guys? Burt showed me the GPS thingy earlier—you guys are in Kansas?”

Kurt let out a huff of humorless laughter and scratched at the side of his neck as he glanced around. “I’m currently sitting in the middle of a maze somewhere outside Wichita, because B decided it would be great to spend Thanksgiving lost, cold, and hungry.”

“Wait, since when are you calling him ‘B’ again? You haven’t called him that since you had that crush on him senior year.”

“How did you know about that?” Kurt blurted before he could think to refute it. He could have kicked himself.

“Dude, everyone knew,” Finn told him. “Puck and I had a bet going as to how long it’d take Blaine to figure it out, and he’s still winning.”

“I… I don’t know, a few weeks maybe?” Kurt replied dazedly, memories rushing to the surface of mooning around after Blaine like the love-struck teenager that he was, right before Brad—his first boyfriend—had shown up. His face was on fire.

There was a pregnant pause, during which he heard Finn taking a deep, measured breath. “Are you guys, like—“

“Finn, trust me, you don’t want to know,” Kurt cut him off. It was safer to just nip that conversation in the bud. Changing the subject, he asked, “Will Dad and Carole be back soon?”

A moment of awkward silence passed; Kurt knew that Finn wanted to ask more—he could never stand to be left in the dark if something was going on—but was glad that, at least for now, he seemed to think better of it.

“Yeah—actually, they just walked in,” Finn finally said, and there were a few seconds of static as he covered the mouthpiece to speak to their parents. When he came back, he said, “I miss you, little brother. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too, Finn.”

“Just… It’s okay to be happy, you know? If that’s what you’ve got right now then you should hold onto it.”

“What? Finn, what’s that suppo—“

“Kurt?”

One word from his dad, and Kurt felt himself relaxing. The light edge of panic he’d barely even noticed creeping up on him faded back into the shadows, and Kurt smiled. “Hi, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too,” Burt said. Kurt let out a chuckle when he heard Carole calling a happy Thanksgiving in the background, and returned the sentiment. “What’re you boys up to?”

“I was just telling Finn that I’m sitting in a maze somewhere near Wichita, because Blaine thought it’d be fun to make me work for my food,” Kurt said succinctly, and Burt’s ensuing chuckle made him feel a little warmer.

“Singin’ for your supper, huh? I hear that’s a thing you do, now.”

“You—who told you that?”

“Blaine’s mom and I do talk, you know.”

Kurt’s heart leapt into his throat, and he swallowed thickly. “She told you about the singing,” he said.

“Yep. She told me something else interesting, too,” Burt prompted. Kurt knew that his father was a patient man, but that he was expecting an answer to the question he didn’t even need to ask.

“What exactly did she say about—about me and Blaine?” Kurt asked glumly, not the least bit surprised that Alice knew. Blaine spoke to her at least once a week.

“Nothin’ much. Just that you two are ‘seeing how things go,’ whatever that means,” Burt said. “Kurt, why wouldn’t you tell me something like this? I thought we could talk about this stuff.”

“We can, Dad, it’s just…” Kurt trailed off. Where do I even begin? “I’m so confused.”

“Confused about what? About Blaine? Kid, you gotta know he’s nuts about you. Has been ever since you guys were in bow ties.”

“He still wears bow ties.”

“You know what I mean,” Burt said firmly, adding, “And I know you’re nuts about him, too.”

“That’s the whole problem, Dad!” Kurt exclaimed, jumping to his feet and starting to pace back and forth. “I’m in—I really care about him.”

“I’m not exactly seeing a problem, Kurt,” Burt said. “We all know you’ve been in love with him for years.”

“But I didn’t know! I didn’t know. And it’s just… It’s terrifying,” he said, scrubbing his free hand through his hair and down his face. There was a torrent of fear rising inside him like a tidal wave, and for once, he couldn’t help but let it out. “What if—what if we get back to Maine and he finds someone else, or what if he wants to go back to London, or what if he decides he wants to join April’s new band and he moves to New York and I’m just left behind again? What then, Dad?”

“Kurt, I’m only gonna say this once, so listen,” his dad said, voice low and controlled.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself. “Okay.”

“Get your head out of your ass.”

“Dad!”

“I’m serious. So what if he wants to go to London or New York or, Jesus, even Guam? What you guys have is special, and it’s rare. Don’t let it go to waste before you even give it a chance.”

Kurt knew that his dad’s words were meant to comfort him, energize him into doing something proactive about his situation, but they only made him feel worse. It wasn’t as simple as just letting himself ‘not waste it’—he needed to save something for himself, because what if he took the leap only to find out that there was no net waiting to break his fall? What if he let his heart be cradled in such nomadic hands only to find that it was stolen away from him completely and he wound up left with nothing?

“I don’t know if it’s that simple,” he finally said, his voice much smaller than he wanted it to be.

“Because you won’t let yourself see the end of the movie,” Burt said heavily. “You’re just making the most of the scene you’ve got in front of you.”

That’s all I know how to do, Kurt thought, remaining silent.

“Just think about it, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

“You promise?”

Kurt nodded, feeling oddly like he’d just been hit with a sucker punch to the gut, and said, “I promise.”

“Okay, then,” Burt said, seemingly satisfied. “And you boys are okay otherwise, you’re having fun?”

“Well, I’m not having a lot of fun right now, what with the maze and all,” Kurt joked, gesturing around himself despite his father being nearly two thousand miles away. “But otherwise, yes. We’re doing great.”

“Glad to hear it. Now go kick his ass,” Burt said. “No one keeps Hummel men from their food, especially not on Thanksgiving.”

“Will do, Dad,” Kurt said around a laugh. “I love you.”

“You love Blaine, too.”

“Oh my god. Are you five?”

“Well?” Burt prompted.

“Yes, Dad. I love Blaine, too,” Kurt finally admitted. “And… And thanks.”

“Anytime, kiddo. You know that. Love you.”

As Kurt ended the call, feeling oddly comforted yet more confused than ever, he noticed a string of text messages in his notifications bar, along with an email alert.

Blaine (8:01pm) – I just realized I haven’t kissed you all day. It’s driving me crazy.
Blaine (8:04pm) – Are you mad at me? You’re mad at me. Come let me make it up to you?
Blaine (8:10pm) – Where are you?
Blaine (8:12pm) – Oh god, are you lost? This was a bad idea, wasn’t it?
Blaine (8:19pm) – Sweetheart?

In spite of everything, Kurt’s stomach twisted pleasantly. He smiled a little, and resolved to get moving again once he’d read the email.

It turned out to be another of those pesky anonymous messages signed by the mysterious ‘F,’ a response to his brief video post from earlier in the day wishing a happy Thanksgiving to his ever-increasing number of followers. It contained a YouTube link, but just as he moved to tap it open, something grabbed him around the waist and knocked him sideways.

He shrieked and struggled as he hit the ground, panicking and lashing out as much as he could, but within moments he realized that it was Blaine pinning him down with an impish grin.

“Asshole,” he spat as the anxiety subsided, pushing Blaine off him and staggering to his feet.

“Just came to see what was taking you so long,” Blaine said, slinging Kurt’s backpack over one shoulder as Kurt brushed himself off.

“We’re in a fucking maze and I got fucking lost,” Kurt retorted, and tugged his jacket straight with a huff.

Undeterred, Blaine simply took Kurt’s hand and led him out of the dead end. As they made two more left turns and then a right, Blaine almost jogging in his apparent eagerness, Kurt sent up a silent thank you that, even in the bleakest of places, Blaine always managed to find him.

The picnic Blaine had set up was a sight that took Kurt’s breath away. He’d laid out two blankets in an artful, overlapping diamond formation, at the center of which was the brown paper bag of groceries they’d gotten from the Whole Foods in Oklahoma City. Next to it was a small stack of plates and cups, along with a bottle of hard cider. The picturesque setting was surrounded by tiny votive candles, set at intervals around the perimeter of the square.

“So am I off the hook?” Blaine murmured, squeezing Kurt’s hand as he took it all in.

“I—how did you have time to do all this?” Kurt asked, swallowing the declaration of love that rose in the back of his throat, clamoring to get out like a new butterfly struggling to emerge from a cocoon.

“Well, uh… I sort of—looked at the maze on Google Earth…”

“You planned this? For me?”

Blaine shrugged, absently scratching at the back of his neck. “I figured since we can’t spend Thanksgiving with our families—“

Kurt cut him off with a swift kiss, whispering against his lips, “You’re my family.”

Blaine shifted on his feet, shooting him an uncharacteristically shy, bitten-lipped smile and gesturing toward the picnic. “Shall we?”

When they were seated, Kurt between Blaine’s legs and Blaine’s arms around his waist, he pulled the grocery bag closer and found that Blaine had already made up the turkey and cranberry sandwiches Kurt had suggested that morning. He passed one back to Blaine, and carefully unwrapped his own to take a bite.

“Oh my god, these are perfect,” he got out around a moan, the cranberry bursting sweet and sharp across his tongue and bringing out the flavor of the turkey.

“They are pretty good, even if I do say so myself,” Blaine agreed.

“Oh, hey—music?” Kurt asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him that he’d never followed F’s latest YouTube link. Setting down his sandwich for a moment and retrieving his phone, he held it down and out of Blaine’s sight to tap the link, murmuring, “Marcie sent me a link to something. Brace yourself in case it’s awful.”

But it was far from awful—a soft, acoustic song with a gently uplifting intro that made a sense of fleeting contentedness settle over Kurt like a warm blanket.

“I know this song!” Blaine said brightly, swaying a little from side to side.

Kurt cleared his throat. “Sing it for me?”

“In the morning when I wake, and the sun is coming through,” Blaine began, “Oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness, and you fill my head with you.”

The song was about a love not yet cast in iron and left to cool, about words unspoken and truths unconfessed; Kurt knew exactly why F, whoever they were, had chosen to send it his way. The nudging from all sides was growing unbearable, the repeated instruction one that he couldn’t bring himself to follow under the weight of his own fear.

Instead, everything feeling the bittersweet side of too right, he picked up the chorus and ooh’d his way through in a harmony to complement Blaine’s smooth tenor. They sounded good together.

When the song’s last bars faded and they were left in the silence of night, candles flickering at the base of the hedge walls and casting them in a cage of shadows, Kurt twisted in Blaine’s arms and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart,” Blaine said softly.

“Happy Thanksgiving, B.”

Distance: 8,848 miles

*

Next: Nebraska

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 7.3/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 15 Dec 2013 20:32:46 GMT

Day 065: Tuesday 20th November, 2012
Look Down (Oklahoma)

“Come on, it must fit in somewhere.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Blaine, really? We’re talking about Rain Man.”

As soon as they walked into the lobby of the Route 66 Museum in Clinton, Oklahoma, it immediately felt like passing into the days of a bygone era. The Rolling Stones’ cover of Route 66 was playing over the P.A. system, and as Kurt caught sight of the classic red Chevy parked in front of the curved windows, Blaine watched him light up from the inside out.

“Oh my god,” Kurt breathed, slowly approaching the car with his hands flexing at his sides. “This is a 1957 Chevy Bel Air. What I wouldn’t give to own one of these.”

“Is grand theft auto still a felony?” Blaine stage-whispered, and Kurt cast him a wistful look.

“You’ll just have to buy one for me when you’ve wrapped on your first big-budget shoot,” he said, his gaze full of reverence as he returned it to the vintage car.

Blaine hummed non-committally, for once not wanting to talk about his intended career path. More and more as of late, it was starting to feel like the wrong fit for him. He still loved the prospect of directing, but now that he was no longer surrounded by film day in, day out, he found that his passion for it was muffled somehow. The second Hugh had approached him with the idea of fronting the new band, creating and performing their own music—in New York, no less—something had seemed to click.

He’d ignored it until Kurt had shut down on him once again. All day before the Cheer Up Charlie’s show, Blaine had been sure Kurt was going to say something about them: their arrangement; his own feelings; anything. But he hadn’t, and now Blaine needed to have some kind of contingency plan for what happened when they got back to Maine. Whatever it was, it couldn’t involve staying there and pretending to pick up the threads of a life he’d all but kicked to the curb and forgotten about.

“Ready?” Kurt asked, pulling him from his thoughts. Blaine nodded, and after signing the guest registry and paying their admission fee to the chatty proprietor, they set off on their self-guided tour.

If Blaine had thought the glass-tiled front of the museum had looked cool, it was nothing compared to progressing their way through the museum itself. Each room was themed around a different decade in the highway’s history and featured exhibits of vintage cars reaching as far back as the thirties. It was more like an art gallery than a museum. The history of the place was overwhelming and Blaine drank it all in, his eyes roaming over old-style gas pumps and a wall full of postcards from all of the states through which Route 66 wound its way. The rooms were interconnected by a series of tunnel-like hallways, the walls plastered with newspapers, headlines proclaiming MARILYN DEAD, PRESIDENT KENNEDY IS SLAIN, and THE WAR IS OVER!

“I’m glad we have Leona,” Kurt said after they’d taken turns posing with the VW camper covered in sixties hippy designs. “I don’t think we’d have made it this far in one of these.”

“Yeah, being on top of each other like that all the time…” Blaine trailed off, shooting him a wink.

“Please, like you’d complain about me being on top of you.”

“Never said that I would.”

“In fact, I think it’s your favorite thing,” Kurt continued loftily, bending at the waist to examine a model car inside a glass case—a yellow 1967 Ford Mustang, Blaine read from his position opposite. He glanced through the glass at Kurt and took in the fascinated look in his eyes, his blue irises reflecting the yellow of the model car and suddenly taking on a singularly unique shade of green that Blaine hadn’t seen in fourteen years.

“And what makes you think that?” Blaine asked in a low voice, even though he could see from just a glance that there was no one else around.

“After all the times we’ve slept together, what wouldn’t make me think that?” Kurt asked, though it was more a statement than a question. Slowly, he circled around the case to back Blaine up against it, brow furrowed as his eyes drifted down Blaine’s body and closed. He cocked his head to the right, tensed his shoulders, and let out a low, “Mmm.”

“What are you—“ Blaine began, but Kurt silenced him with a finger pressed against his lips. Eyes still closed—clearly trusting Blaine to keep watch—Kurt looped his arms around Blaine’s neck and pulled their bodies tightly together.

“Fuck,” Kurt whispered, the fingers of one hand carding through Blaine’s hair. “Right—right there… Fuck, Kurt, harder…”

“Oh my god, I do not sound like that,” Blaine protested, but Kurt’s breathing grew shallow and harsh, hitching in his chest as his arms shivered and he crowded Blaine even closer to the glass case. The corners of it pressed between his shoulder blades almost painfully.

“Just a little more…” Kurt pleaded, his voice pitched high and desperate. Blaine’s face burned as he continued, “Come on, fuck me, make me yours.”

“Kurt, you have to st—“

When Kurt opened his eyes, his pupils were blown wide, and Blaine fell silent. Kurt leaned down, so close that their lips were a hair’s breadth apart, and without breaking eye contact whispered, “Please, please—“

“Someone’s coming,” Blaine blurted, and Kurt abruptly stepped back, hands falling to his sides.

As if nothing had happened at all, he went back to looking at the exhibits, casting only one salacious look over his shoulder and stating, “No one’s coming.”

Blaine felt like he’d been knocked over sideways. How could this Kurt—his favorite Kurt, all sultry tease and subtle love—have eluded him for so long? Because what they had was love; Blaine could see it, now. Yet still he waited, because it was all he knew how to do when he’d put the object of his affection up on a pedestal without any idea of how to climb up and stand beside them.

He waited for the descent, the press of a kiss that tasted like love, the vowels and consonants that would spell it all out, knowing all the while that they would never come. And really, what reason could he have to think they would? History seemed to repeat itself for Blaine Anderson—at least where his unrequited crushes were concerned. He’d mooned after Jamie, one of the guys working at the Subway on Pleasant Street, for the entire summer before he’d left for his internship. He had put the guy up on a pedestal and never done a goddamn thing about it, because how could anyone reach so high as to touch an idol?

And this thing with Kurt was so much more than an unrequited crush. If the feelings were so much more powerful, didn’t it follow that the likelihood of it turning out the way Blaine wanted was even less unlikely? The fear of it was paralyzing.

Do you honestly believe that this is just a road trip thing? he wanted to ask as he followed Kurt through the last hallway and out into the foyer. Blaine watched his fingertips trail along the wall just as they trailed along his own skin in dark clutches of night, and wondered, What if we’d met in another life? What if I was different, braver, more sure that I’m even worthy of you? What then?

“Gift shop?” Kurt asked lightly when Blaine caught up with him. “I’m thinking a shirt from this place might not be so bad.”

“Yeah?” Blaine asked, his mood brightening.

“Just this once.”

Later that day, long after darkness had fallen and they had both glutted themselves on one another, Blaine left Kurt sleeping. Unable to drift off himself, he padded out into the living room in socks and pajama pants, pulling on his hoodie as he went; the nights were turning colder.

With music quietly playing in the background, Blaine caught up on the news and replied to a few emails he’d been meaning to get to, exactly none of it distracting him in the way he’d hoped. Every thirty seconds or so, his eyes drifted to the half-closed bedroom door, and he realized just how lonely it could be on the road.

After only a moment’s hesitation, he opened his blog and began a new post.

I think I need some advice, guys.

Blaine considered his next words carefully, fingers poised over the keyboard. He sighed quietly, the sound barely carrying further than the laptop.

The thing is… The thing is that I know you’ve all been able to see it. How I’ve been feeling, how I’ve been falling, even if I couldn’t. You’ll have to clue me in to how you do that one of these days. But the point is that I really don’t know what to do about it, any more than I did the night I realized that… That I, Blaine Anderson, am in love with Kurt Hummel.

He stopped short, the cursor blinking at him almost tauntingly as he took in the words he wanted to vocalize but couldn’t, fear holding his heart captive when it should have been Kurt. Blaine had thought them over and over, at least once per waking minute in the days since the meteor shower, but hadn’t let them out. It had been… Nice, at first, having the thrill of something secret and new—old, he kept reminding himself, but newly realized—to hold close, to keep just for him. But what had felt like a feather between his fingers at first now felt like a weight around his neck, full of responsibility and ruin.

I wonder if you were all taking bets on how long it’d be before I realized or owned up to it. Sorry to anyone who lost out, he wrote, halting between sentences as he tried to work his way around to the point. The point is that, for a while, I was doing okay. I even kind of thought that Kurt might feel the same, or at least be on the way to it. I mean, god, he told me back in Minnesota that he’d thought he was caving, which was why he—well, you know. So it’s not like I’d be completely off-base, right? And all day on Saturday he kept looking at me like I put the sun in the sky, and I was so sure that he was going to say something.

But he didn’t. I mean… Why would he fall for me anyway, right? He’s just. He’s everything. Everything.

I talked to Hugh at the gig on Saturday night, and he told me that a few of them are forming a new band once their tour’s over and moving to New York to see if they can make it. He wants me to go with them, sing and write, and the first thing I thought was, What about Kurt?

Should I hold on? Should I wait, half-expecting to get my heart broken? Should I just take this for exactly what it we’ve said it is, take everything he’ll give me and let the timer run out?

What should I do?

After Blaine hit the ‘submit’ button, he closed his incognito window and shoved the laptop away. He stretched out his legs and arms, the deep ache of satiation in his limbs reminding him just how rough they’d gotten earlier, and despite the heaviness of what he’d just been putting into words, he couldn’t help but smile a little to himself.

He turned to curl up on his side, arm tucked up under his head, and closed his eyes. But it was no use—sleep was eluding him, just as it had been toward the beginning of the trip. Idly, he wished that Kurt might wake up of his own accord and suggest making warm milk. Blaine could never get it to taste quite the same when he made it himself.

When a few minutes had passed with no respite, Blaine sighed heavily, picked up his phone and stood, making his way to the cab and dropping himself into the driver’s seat. Resting both arms over the steering wheel, he leaned over it to look out into the wooded clearing at the center of the semicircle formed by the other few R.V.’s and campers in the park. There was a group of people gathered around the fire pit, all drinking from red Dixie cups and paired off with blankets wrapped around their shoulders.

He and Kurt still hadn’t had a campfire, and Blaine ached to know what it would be like, now that they were… Whatever they were. Their campfires used to be legendary, all-night affairs that only ended when the embers were dying out, and Blaine had always found himself entranced by the inherent romance of sitting by the dancing flames and speaking with hushed voices and shadowed eyes. There was something intrinsically special about that aspect of their shared childhood, and Blaine longed to recapture it.

His woolgathering was interrupted when his phone buzzed in the cup holder, and he swiped his thumb across the screen to open the new email that had just arrived.

It was a comment on his blog, submitted anonymously and signed only with the initial F. There was no text other than a YouTube link. It only took a moment for Blaine’s curiosity to get the better of him.

Having never really been a fan of the artist’s work, the corners of his mouth twisted when he saw Cary Brothers’ name beneath the video window, but the song—Ride—was one that he hadn’t heard before, so he let it play. After all, there must have been a reason that ‘F,’ whoever they may be, had sent it to him.

The song had a slow guitar intro, quiet at first and full of melancholy; almost immediately Blaine sat up straighter in his seat, setting his phone back into the cup holder and letting his palms cup his knees.

“You are everything I wanted; the scars of all I’ll ever know,” Cary sang, “If I told you you were right would you take my hand tonight? If I told you the reasons why, would you leave your life and ride?”

Blaine’s eyes slipped closed, exhaustion settling over him like a blanket of snow. He felt himself becoming slowly buried beneath it, the only light above him an unattainable one—he could reach up toward it, but saw only the silhouette of his own hand eclipsing the source of his warmth. The song wrapped itself around him until he knew nothing but its soaring, echoing measures, and he wondered what would happen to him and Kurt if he decided to go to New York.

Knowing what he now knew about how his absence during his internship had affected Kurt, he felt selfish for even considering it. But was it really so selfish for not wanting to be beholden to something that was finite? Then again, how could he give up everything they had discovered between them over the course of this road trip, not to mention all that he had worked so long for?

A shuffling behind him alerted him to Kurt’s sudden presence, and warm, sleep-heavy arms curled around his shoulders.

“I thought you hated Cary Brothers,” Kurt mumbled sleepily as he rested his cheek atop Blaine’s head and swayed a little from side to side.

“Someone sent it to me,” Blaine said.

“One of the guys in London?” Kurt asked, and Blaine nodded absently, grateful for being given an out before having to scrabble around for it himself. “What do you think?”

Pretty accurate, Blaine thought, but bit his tongue. “I like it.”

Kurt hummed, still swaying as the tips of his fingers drifted up and down Blaine’s chest. He tensed when Cary sang again of the what if’s, and as the song faded into silence, he whispered, “You should come back to bed.”

“What’s in bed?”

“Someone who won’t really mind if you wanna have sex half-asleep.”

“I was hoping that’d be the case,” Blaine said, chuckling.

“It’s like one mind,” Kurt replied, and straightened up.

As Blaine turned and stood, he drank in the sight of Kurt—relaxed like he rarely was during daylight hours, his Henley and sweatpants rumpled and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked far more inviting than the mess inside Blaine’s head, so he left everything behind in the cab—his phone, his thoughts, his reliance on lyrics to put into words what he couldn’t—and simply let himself be led.

Distance: 8,584 miles

*

Next: Kansas

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 7.2/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 11 Dec 2013 21:46:26 GMT

Day 062: Saturday 17th November, 2012
Torch Songs (Texas)

“What about Boys Don’t Cry?”

“That title’s clearly lying. You know I’ll be sobbing by the end if that’s what it’s called.”

“You cry at everything; I’m used to it by now.”

“Okay, here goes,” Kurt said, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. “I know you probably have a lot of questions and this is going against literally everything we said, but Blaine… I’m in love with you, and I think… I think you love me back. I don’t know what this means for us, and this is probably the last thing—“

“Who are you talking to?”

As Blaine opened the bathroom door and poked his head inside, Kurt almost jumped out of his skin. “No one,” he said quickly, turning back to the mirror and making a show of checking his hair.

“You look fine, come on,” Blaine urged him, and grabbed his hand to pull him from the bathroom.

“Just ‘fine?’” Kurt asked breathlessly, tugging on Blaine’s hand. ‘Fine’ definitely wasn’t enough to describe his outfit: a tightly fitted, seagrass green shirt with his white double-breasted jacket, and mulberry purple jeans that hugged his ass and thighs. As Blaine stopped, Kurt turned in a slow circle on his toes, looking at Blaine over his shoulder. “I think you can do much better than ‘fine,’ mister.”

“Kurt, sweetheart,” Blaine began, cupping his jaw, “you look about a hundred thousand times better than ‘fine,’ but if I spend too much longer staring at your ass in those jeans, we’re not going to make it to the gig.”

And there it was again, that affectionate little nickname Blaine had given him that twisted up Kurt’s stomach in a pleasant coil of rushing love. He leaned down for a fleeting kiss, taking what no longer felt stolen, simply good and easy and right.

“Anyway, you haven’t said anything about my outfit,” Blaine chided him in a tone of mock-seriousness, and performed his own spin on the spot. “Well?”

Kurt took him in in his pale grey swallow-print shirt, maroon shawl collar cardigan and cuffed dark wash jeans. Buttoned just so, the cardigan accented the breadth of his shoulders and the nip of his waist perfectly. “You look like…” he trailed off. “High school you. You look really good.”

“Having jailbait dreams?” Blaine drawled.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Come on, Mister Punctual. Wouldn’t wanna be late, now would we?” With that reminder, he spun on his heel, grabbed his phone and keys, and swept out of the R.V. with an undeniable spring in his step.

Nothing was going to bring Kurt down today, not even the fact that they were parked at a Walmart. He barely gave the sign a second glance as Blaine caught him up and they strolled past, making their way into downtown Austin.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Blaine asked, nudging his shoulder while they walked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Kurt replied airily.

A little of the day’s heat still lingered, taking the edge off the cool breeze coming up behind them; for once, Kurt felt as if he was being carried comfortably along rather than riding the back of a hurricane and holding on for dear life. He felt buoyant, jubilant, excited. His chest clenched every single time he pictured that softness around Blaine’s honeyed eyes, the one that spoke of affection and desire and, yes, love. Kurt had known that look as soon as he saw it, more transparent than plate glass and plain as day.

Blaine was in love with him, and he loved Blaine back, and now… Now it was finally time to come clean.

He’d planned it all down to the last painstaking detail. The colors he would wear—green for luck, white for renewal, and purple for transformation—what he would say, how he would do it. He’d even texted April to change his song from All These Things That I’ve Done to one that he felt better summed up his feelings. It was to be a call, and knowing that his solo performance was going to come before Blaine’s, he could only hope that Blaine would respond in kind.

When they arrived, they found the gay bar a flat one-story building painted sky blue and off-white with a looping neon sign proclaiming Cheer Up Charlie’s. The band was already set up under the giant, suspended marquee in the courtyard.

“Disturbing new development,” Kurt said in a low voice, nudging Blaine’s side and gesturing toward where Liam and Daniel were huddled together behind the stage, heads too close and smiles too wide as they talked. Liam was wearing a tie-dye tee bearing the slogan, Keep Austin Weird. Kurt hoped it was an ironic choice.

“Didn’t April say they were barely speaking the last time we were all together?” Blaine asked, sounding utterly confounded, and Kurt nodded.

“Yep. Something about Green Day, I think? Either way—“

“Guys, you’re here!”

Kurt whipped around to be greeted with a hug from April and a characteristically shy half-wave from Marcie before Blaine lifted her off her feet and spun her in a tight circle. She was blushing when he set her down, and fiddled with a few strands of hair that had fallen out of her sleek up-do.

“What’s with Liam and Dan?” Kurt asked without preamble, and April rolled her eyes.

“Really? That’s the first thing you ask about,” she said flatly. “What about, ‘Hi, best friend! It’s been too long, and I feel awful about not calling you for longer than five minutes since Michigan, and how’s your throat now, and oh my god, that outfit looks incredible on you!’”

“Okay, I get your point. I’m sorry,” Kurt said, raising his hands in submission. “I do feel awful, and that outfit does look incredible. How is your throat?”

“That’s better,” April said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m still getting over it, so no singing for me for a few more days. And by the way, the Liam and Dan thing is your fault.”

“What? My fault?” Kurt asked.

“She told them about you and Blaine,” Marcie interjected.

“What, and they thought it was a good idea?” Blaine asked, chuckling. His eyes danced with humor as he glanced at Kurt, slowly looking him up and down. At Marcie’s nod, he added, “Well… It does get lonely on the road…”

“Yeah, okay, loneliness was a factor in you two finally getting it on,” April scoffed.

“April,” Kurt warned.

“If that’s your story, stick to it. I don’t care,” she said airily. Kurt’s jaw set and he took her by the elbow, leaving Marcie and Blaine exchanging a glance while he steered her toward the fence that bordered the courtyard.

“I need you to stop,” he said, and April just rolled her eyes again.

“Kurt, come on. I know you, and I know Blaine, and this thing you have going on? Anyone with eyes can see that it’s more than just—“

“I’m in love with him,” Kurt interrupted, and her eyes went wide. “What, like you’re surprised?”

“No, I just never thought I’d get you to admit it,” she breathed, and grabbed his hand. “Kurt, this is so exciting! Does he… I mean, of course he feels the same way, the way he looks at—oh my god, have you told him yet?”

“I’m planning on doing it tonight,” Kurt said, gaze sliding to Blaine and Marcie as they wove their way through the crowd toward the bar. “So just… Take it easy, okay?”

“Oh my god, of course,” she said, nodding her head so quickly it was almost comical. “Are you nervous?”

“Hummels don’t get nervous.”

April leveled him with a single look. “Kurt, are you nervous?”

Kurt swallowed, and gave her a tremulous smile. “Terrified.”

“Piece of advice,” April began, “do not break eye contact with him when you’re singing that song. After that, you probably won’t even need to tell him.”

“You’re really sure he feels the same way,” Kurt stated. He felt like a teenager all over again, but couldn’t help needing the extra reassurance.

“You forget that I know what song he picked,” April reminded him with a wink, and linked arms with him to lead him toward the stage. “Now. Let’s rock the shit outta this place, and get you your man while we’re at it. You game?”

“Bring it on.”

Five minutes later, all members of The One With The Band were assembled: Hugh behind his drum kit; Drake on bass, and Daniel and Liam furnished with guitars off to his right; Kurt shared the two backup microphones with April and Marcie to the left, and Blaine took center to open. The main lights dropped, the only remaining illumination provided by the giant screen behind them, undulating between deep and pale shades of blue. The crowd noise had mostly died down to a muted murmur punctuated only by a few coughs and throats being cleared. The quiet was enough to have Kurt’s stomach churning.

A single glimpse of Blaine’s reassuring smile, and the nerves were gone.

A fleeting brush of their reaching fingertips, and Kurt was gone.

There was no introduction this time, simply Liam counting them in and strumming the introduction of their opening song: After Hours. It was fun and energetic, and sure to get the crowd moving. As Hugh joined in and the lights came up, Blaine stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his back straight, and both hands curled around the mic.

“This door is always open, this door is always open, no one has the guts to shut us out,” he sang. “But if we have to go now, I guess there’s always hope that Charlie’s will be serving after hours.”

The crowd cheered at Blaine’s inclusion of the bar’s name, and Kurt couldn’t help but grin, even despite his distaste for April’s over-the-top, cheesy back-up choreography: tapping their watches and bobbing their heads side to side in time with the beat as they provided vocals on, “Time means nothing.”

It was a fantastic choice to open the show—bright and bouncy enough to engage the audience but not showing off everything the band could do, not yet. That would be saved for the finale, when they closed the show with their own creation, a part for everyone and insanity abounds.

During the final refrain, Blaine removed the mic from its stand and strutted across the stage, slotting himself in between Kurt and Marcie and snaking his arm around Kurt’s waist. When Blaine sang, “We’re all right where we’re supposed to be,” Kurt responded with, “Time means nothing.” And when he was back at his mic stand, the song drawing to its close, he only momentarily broke his rapport with the crowd to sing directly to Kurt, “Say that you’ll stay.”

Isn’t that my line? Kurt wondered in distraction, listening without a full mind as the guys played through the song’s final bars and the crowd burst into applause louder even than what they’d received in Ann Arbor.

“Cheer Up Charlie’s!” Blaine exclaimed into the mic, raising his arms. “A very good evening to all of you! We’re absolutely thrilled to be here in Austin, so thank you for having us. We’re playing two sets tonight, and we’ve left some song lists scattered around because we’ll be inviting a few of you up here to jam with us in the second set, so don’t be shy! If there’s a song you want to sing, write your name on a slip and bring it on up.

“My name’s Blaine,” he continued, and then gestured to each of the other band members in turn, “behind me on drums you’ll see Hugh, over on guitar and keyboard you’ll see Liam and Dan, on bass we’ve got Drake, there’s April on vocals, and Marcie on trumpet.

“And next up, ladies and gentlemen, we have… Kurt,” Blaine said, voice soft as he motioned Kurt over to the mic.

He went with weak knees and trembling hands, not knowing how much of it came from his adrenalin rush, and took the stand with a kiss to Blaine’s cheek. Blaine’s hand lingered at his waist for a moment, and then was gone. Kurt was alone under a spotlight, and it was almost as terrifying as the thought of offering himself to Blaine, flaws and all.

Kurt watched him climb down from the stage—his anchor, his touchstone, his reason—and glanced over at April, who smiled at him reassuringly. He could only hope that the song he had chosen to encapsulate everything managed to resonate in the way he wanted it to. It said it all, and said it all with hope. From his point of view, at least.

Hugh took up the percussive introduction; Kurt let his eyes slip momentarily closed and drew in a centering breath. This is it, Kurt, he thought. This is where it begins.

“You and I, blurred lines, we come together every time,” he began, fixing his gaze upon the middle-distance. He couldn’t look at Blaine, not when he still had an entire song to get through. “Two wrongs, no rights, we lose ourselves at night. From the outside, from the outside everyone must be wondering why we try. Why do we try?”

The song was soulful, not something that Kurt was used to singing, and though his upper range was still somewhat unpracticed, he found it easy to let his voice run over the notes in a comfortable flow. Being up on stage and feeling Blaine’s eyes on him, singing for him and letting one hand grip the mic and the other drift up into his hair, Kurt felt… Sexy. Powerful. Like he could do this.

“Baby, in our wildest moments, we could be the greatest, we could be the greatest. Baby, in our wildest moments, we could be the worst of all.”

He swayed in time with the beat, his eyes finally coming to rest upon Blaine as he sang, “What could bring bad luck? I’ve been looking at you too much.” Drawing Blaine in was easy, and keeping him was easier. Their charged eye contact only faltered over, “We walk, we walk the line. Looking back I miss it, our wildest moments. Are you thinking what if, what if we ruined it all?” but recovered quickly enough for Kurt not to let the knot at the top of his stomach travel too far up and make him start biting his tongue again.

The song was a contradiction, lyrics that illustrated the war Kurt had been waging against himself for longer than he could ever truly know, but no more. They could be the worst, but they could also be the greatest. All he had to do was leap, and hope that Blaine was there to break his fall.

By the song’s end, Hugh playing him out with the same drums that had begun it, Kurt was flying. He grinned and took his bow, smiled in response to the covert wink April threw his way, and accepted another passing kiss from Blaine as he took his place in backup once more.

“Just you wait,” April whispered, leaning close enough to bump her shoulder against his as the next song began. “He’s closing the first set with it.”

“You’ll love it, Kurt,” Marcie said from his other side. With a wistful glance, she added, “He’s really special.”

Kurt glanced down at her fondly—she might as well have a flashing neon sign over her head that declared, ‘Crush!’ But she was young, and more importantly, wasn’t taking it to the creepy place. “Yeah, he is,” he replied at length, and hooked his pinky finger around the one she offered.

The remainder of the first set passed by in a blur. The stage was a bubble upon which lights were trained—Kurt could hear the crowd, even see some of their silhouettes beneath the marquee, but he was in a world where nothing existed save for the music and the love put into performing it. Before he knew it, April was ushering everyone off the stage, save for Blaine, Hugh, and Liam.

This is it, Kurt thought as April squeezed his arm. Blaine looped an electro-acoustic guitar across his body and took a seat on a tall wooden stool before his microphone. Please, B. Please tell me you feel the same.

As Blaine began to strum the opening bars of a song that Kurt didn’t recognize, he leaned forward to speak into the mic. “Alright, folks. After this, we’ll be taking a quick break so that you can all recover from the power of our awesome—just kidding. But we’ll be back in fifteen minutes. This one is called Easy.

“What’s a boy to do when you tell your tale? And it never fails, I just end up feeling bad for you,” Blaine sang, and Kurt’s blood ran cold. He grabbed April’s hand and held on as tightly as he dared. “With your hang-dog eyes, you can bring me down; now I’m wrapped around your whole hand, stop looking so surprised.”

“What the fuck,” he hissed at April, who did nothing more than simply hold up a finger, her dark eyes still trained on the stage and her smile stretching wide.

“You make it easy, you make it easy,” Blaine continued, his voice strong and assured and undercut with a tenderness that took the edge off Kurt’s anxiety.

What are you trying to tell me? he wondered desperately, and then Blaine began to sing of someone forgetting what they were hiding for, someone being easy to adore even though they wanted to run away, and it all became clear as crystal. It was a response to Kurt’s call; it was all or nothing; it was a plea. Wasn’t it?

“See?” April said into his ear, and he looked at her dazedly. “See what I mean?”

He nodded dumbly, and his heart leapt into his throat when he turned his attention back to the stage. Blaine was watching him with intent and an astounding conviction as he sang the words, “Look what you have done. I can do the same, two can play this game; you’ll no longer be the only one.”

The rich, smooth timbre of Blaine’s voice only grew stronger as he dove into the final chorus, and Kurt’s resolve increased tenfold. No more fear, no more excuses, no more tip-toeing around a future he couldn’t possibly know would ever arrive. He was going to tell Blaine that he was in love with him, and Blaine would tell him that he hadn’t fallen in love alone, and they would go back to the R.V. and Kurt would finally find out exactly what “I love you” tasted like as he breathed it into Blaine’s mouth.

“Thank you, Cheer Up Charlie’s!” Blaine cried, wrapping up the song to rapturous applause. Kurt glanced out over the crowd and could see almost every single person in the gay bar—both men and women—gazing up at him adoringly. He wondered again why this wasn’t what Blaine was doing every single night. “We’ll be back in fifteen, so don’t go anywhere!”

And then Kurt was moving, pushing his way back up onto the stage where Blaine was clapping Liam and Hugh on the back in turn, and he took a deep breath, about to ask Blaine to go somewhere they could talk in private, and—

“So what do you think about doing this for a living?” Hugh asked, eyes trained on Blaine, and the floor fell out from beneath Kurt’s feet.

Blaine openly gaped at him for a second, and Kurt just stood there, hands by his sides.

“What do you mean?”

“The band’s breaking up after this tour,” Hugh said, “and a few of us are moving to New York to start a new thing, see if we can make it. April doesn’t wanna sing lead, Will’s staying back home for good now, and we were going to try and find someone there, but dude… We already know you, and you’ve got exactly what we need.”

There was a roaring in Kurt’s ears, and he could barely hear Blaine’s sputtering response as he looked between Kurt and Hugh. He felt like an idiot, working himself up all night to tell Blaine that he’d seen the look in his eyes, because now he was seeing an entirely different look—like Blaine had seen his entire future flash in front of him, a future that was brighter than anything Kurt could possibly offer. He was going to go to New York and start making the music that still lingered in patches across the skin of Kurt’s back—it was a reaffirmation of the nomad Kurt had been afraid of when he’d agreed to come along for the road trip, and he was back standing in the shadow of a mountain.

“Just think about it, okay? You don’t have to give me an answer now,” Hugh was saying with a tone of finality, and as he passed them to join the rest of the band at the bar, Blaine turned to Kurt and opened his mouth.

“You should do it,” Kurt blurted, cutting off whatever Blaine was about to say.

“Sure, just waste my entire college education,” Blaine replied derisively, but it was too late. Kurt already knew that Blaine wanted to go more than anything; he’d been shifting for weeks already. They would get back to Maine at the end of this road trip and it would be over. It wasn’t like Kurt was just going to up sticks and move to New York—he had a career of his own to think about beginning, and the last time he’d checked, being a groupie wasn’t exactly a viable profession.

“Well, like Hugh said… Think about it,” he managed, pasting on a smile that he hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. “You’re different when you perform. Something about it just seems right.”

Blaine scoffed and shook his head, and guided Kurt off stage with a hand in the small of his back.

“So what did you think?” Blaine asked as they stood at the bar waiting to be served, nudging his shoulder.

Kurt swallowed. “You were really good,” he replied, mouth dry.

“Hey, what were you gonna tell me earlier?”

“When?”

“I asked you why you were in such a good mood, and you said you’d tell me later,” Blaine clarified.

“Oh, that. Nothing, really,” Kurt breathed, turning his gaze on the crowd for the moment it took him to collect himself. Nothing, except that I love you. Nothing, except that I would do pretty much anything to hear you say that you love me back. Nothing, except that I’ve been daydreaming what my life will look like in five, ten, fifteen years, and in every single one there you are by my side, holding not just my hand but all of me.

Kurt didn’t say any of that. How could he? Blaine deserved to have nothing standing in his way, whatever decision he made about his future. He deserved to be free to have his name up in lights, not tied to Maine while Kurt tried to figure out where he was going and how he was going to get there.

April caught his eye as she wound her way through the crowd, and gave him a questioning thumbs-up. He simply shook his head, and scuffed his shoe against the bar’s poured concrete base.

“Where do you go?” Blaine asked around a chuckle. Kurt cut off his train of thought and looked at him in question, and he continued, “When you get that faraway look in your eyes.”

“Are you saying that I’m vacant?” Kurt replied, dredging humor from reserves he’d have thought depleted.

“No, no. No, it’s… You look like you’re in this whole other world, some place I can’t find you.”

“I don’t go anywhere.”

“Not even sometimes?” Blaine pressed.

“Maybe, I…” Kurt trailed off, finally letting the question have the weight that Blaine obviously intended. And he saw that it was true—for weeks he’d been skirting the edges of a brave new world, dancing within reach of possibility and metamorphosis, but now came the reality check. Now came the break of day, chasing away the artifice and bathing everything in fact. He shook his head, and finally answered, “No. No, I’m always here.”

Blaine smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Good.”

Yeah, Kurt thought sadly. Good.

Distance: 8,108 miles

*

Next: Oklahoma

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 7.1/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 08 Dec 2013 20:41:17 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.

This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 5pm EST/10pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).

Previous chapters here.

Day 060: Thursday 15th November, 2012
Redamancy (Louisiana)

“Who knew so much was shot in Louisiana?”

“Well, it kind of has to be Benjamin Button, right?”

“Yeah, I think it has to be.”

“Okay,” Blaine said, setting everything down onto the blanket and sitting back. “We have beignets, we have hot cider, and we have… About fifteen minutes before we should be able to start seeing them.”

“Merci beaucoup,” Kurt replied, his diction barely flawed, and accepted the small cup of cider that Blaine poured for him. Kurt’s eyes remained on him as he took a sip, tipping his head back a little to expose the long column of his neck and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Blaine licked his lips, and chose to busy himself with transferring their beignets to paper plates. There was a pleasant fizzle of anticipation simmering away beneath his skin; all day, Kurt had been throwing every single trick he possessed at him, almost like he was still trying to pay him back for Arkansas.

Which had been unintentional. Mostly.

“We should come back here one day for Mardi Gras,” Kurt mused absently, taking a bite out of a beignet and glancing up at the sky. Save for a few clouds lingering in the distance, it was a crystal clear night—perfect for watching the Leonids as they skittered through the stars.

They weren’t the only ones sitting on the roof of an R.V.—it seemed like almost everyone in the Pontchartrain Landing Park was out tonight. Their sites all in a line overlooking the marina, the other campers were gathered in couples and groups, laughing and eating and listening to music.

“Is this a thing people do in Louisiana?” Blaine had wondered aloud, just after sunset when he and Kurt had parked in their reserved site, bellies full of creole jambalaya and crawfish étouffée from the French Quarter. People were already up on top of their vehicles and singing raucously along to someone’s iPod playing the True Blood theme. Kurt had taken it in with a barely-concealed sigh, and rolled his eyes when Blaine had joined in.

Then they’d both heard mention of a meteor shower, and suddenly everything had made sense.

“Wow,” Blaine said after taking a sip of his own cider. “Can you get the recipe for this from Toby?”

“I think it’s his mom’s recipe, but I can ask,” Kurt said. “It’s pretty special, right?”

“Let’s just say, I’m glad we got extra,” Blaine murmured, and reached out to thumb away a few specks of powdered sugar at the corner of Kurt’s mouth. Eyes lingering on Kurt’s, he sucked on the tip of his thumb.

“What are you doing?” Kurt asked on an exhale. He wrapped both hands around his cup and linked his fingers together.

“Exactly what you’ve been doing all day,” Blaine shot back with a grin, just as the group of girls three vehicles away starting playing Bad Things for the third time that hour.

“Oh my god,” Kurt muttered under his breath.

“Good news,” Blaine said, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and producing his iPod. He offered Kurt one of the ear buds. “We also have music.”

“You’re my favorite,” Kurt announced, and Blaine smiled as he scrolled through his playlists, hitting shuffle on the one titled, ‘Mellow Magic.’

“Lie down,” he said, INU’s Captured weaving its quietly building introduction around the moment. With a little maneuvering, they managed to arrange themselves so that they were lying on their backs, legs stretched out in opposite directions and heads pillowed on each other’s shoulders as they looked up at the sky and waited for the show to begin.

At least, Kurt was looking up. Blaine’s head was tilted half toward Kurt’s, taking in the silhouette of his profile. The scent of his cologne was still lingering faintly around the collar of his shirt and it coiled into Blaine’s senses, wrapping him up in a phantom of home.

They had been on the road for two months already, with less than seven weeks left to go. Blaine could almost hear the clock tick-tick-ticking their seconds away, and he wanted more than anything for their road trip to go on far longer than another forty days if it meant that they still got to be caught in this snow globe that they themselves shook, over and over and over until the slant of the land sent them sliding all too closely to the truth: this wasn’t just a road trip thing.

But the boundaries were set, and so Blaine committed himself to taking in as much as possible.

“You’re going to miss it if you keep staring at me like that,” Kurt said, shifting onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. “What’s got you so preoccupied?”

“Do you remember that night you got your license and we drove out to Coffin Pond?” Blaine asked after a moment.

“Yeah…”

“And we saw the SWAN comet and named your car?”

“Odette! I miss that car,” Kurt said wistfully, before asking, “What about it?”

“We’ve got less than seven weeks left,” Blaine said, pausing to clear his throat. “Don’t you think it’s time we named the R.V.?”

Kurt hummed a little, reached up to scratch at the side of his jaw, and said, “I propose ‘Leona.’”

“Leona?”

“Odette for the SWAN, Leona for the Leonids,” he clarified.

“Leona,” Blaine repeated, rolling it around in his mouth as he shifted to mirror Kurt’s position.

“Do you think your grandfather would have liked it?” Kurt asked quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Blaine said, all wistful melancholy. “Leona it is.”

“You’re going to make this a thing, aren’t you,” Kurt grumbled with a long-suffering air. “Do I have to go get that bottle of champagne and smash it on the side?”

Blaine let out a bark of laughter and, location and surroundings be damned, leaned forward to press his lips to Kurt’s.

“Blaine,” Kurt sighed into his mouth, his hand cupping Blaine’s jaw so firmly that he didn’t know whether Kurt was pulling him closer or pushing him away. Eventually his patience won out; Kurt dropped his elbow and gave in with the softest of moans. The angle was awkward but Blaine made it work, shifting so that he could part Kurt’s lips and dip his tongue inside. He tasted like cider and sugar.

Tick-tick-tock, he thought. Down counts the clock.

Loud cheers startled them apart, and Blaine immediately looked up to see the first of the night’s meteors streaking across the sky; they looked like shooting stars, but had no wishes to grant. What would he wish for, even if they did? More time, of course, but that was a given. Or perhaps… Perhaps it wouldn’t be for more time—perhaps instead, he would wish to stop time, right here and now, so that he could live suspended in this moment until he could say, “Take me to the next place, and the next, and I’ll go wherever you want me to follow as long as my heart is in your hand and your hand is in mine.”

“Do you ever wish you could stop time?” Kurt whispered.

Glancing down at him, Blaine replied, “Mind reader.”

“One of my many talents.”

“If you could freeze frame any moment from your life, what would it be?”

Kurt considered the question for a long moment, and then said, “This one’s up there, but… I think I’d have to go with performing in Ann Arbor. I could live in that one ‘til I’m old and gray.”

“You’ll never be old, Kurt,” Blaine assured him, trying not to feel disappointed that Kurt hadn’t picked a moment featuring him.

“What, you think I plan on dying young? I have way too much visual magic to work in my lifetime, thank you very much,” Kurt said primly, and looped his arm around Blaine’s neck. “Will you still be there, Band-Aids and all?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I’m old. Will you still take care of me, like Daisy took care of Benjamin?”

“Well, I'm not—“ Blaine stuttered and stopped. He wanted to tell Kurt that he wasn’t in love with him like Daisy was with Benjamin, but the essence of the words evaporated from his tongue like water vapor on a blisteringly hot day. No, I am. I’m in love with you.

A key in a lock. Click, click, turn, and click. The tumblers fell into place, a door creaking open in their wake. Nothing about the moment was remarkable, and yet everything was: Blaine had fallen, landed, and settled in love—all without ever feeling it.

How couldn’t I have known? Blaine thought numbly, all thoughts of their conversation forgotten as he was sent reeling and tumbling and trying to trace it all back to something, some logical point that would explain how friendship and lust had turned to something irrevocable. But he couldn’t—Kurt had long since stolen his heart, and at once Blaine realized that it hadn’t ever really been his own, not since they were riding bikes to the end of the street and trading shy smiles before ever even learning each other’s names.

His daze was broken when Kurt ducked into his line of sight and quipped, “It’s a simple question, mon ami.”

At that, Blaine's throat closed up for an entirely different reason. That word, ‘ami.’ A friend: all Blaine had been, all Blaine would go back to being after they returned to Maine.

“Of course I would,” he finally replied in a bitten-off voice, managing a tight smile as he added, “Band-Aids and all.”

“Aw,” Kurt cooed, and when he leaned up to kiss him again, it felt like he had somehow reached past Blaine and up into the ebony sky, stealing meteors to breathe into his veins. When he pulled back, teeth nipping Blaine’s bottom lip, he asked, “Are you cold?”

“Not really.”

“It’s chilly up here. Let’s go inside.”

Blaine nodded dumbly, and floated silently through packing up their cups and plates and blankets, none of it even registering. All he could think was, I love you.

Kurt’s smile disappearing past the edge of the R.V. as he climbed down the ladder: I love you. Kurt taking Blaine’s iPod and docking it in the bedroom, clicking over to Kiss Me by Ed Sheeran: I love you so much. Kurt undressing them both, his eyes a dark cerulean storm and his smile faint as he pulled Blaine under the covers: God, I am so in love with you.

The guitar and vocals were low and quiet, barely even audible over the sounds of the people still gathered in their groups outside, but as Kurt lay his head on Blaine’s shoulder and hummed into his skin, he caught the words, “With a feeling I’ll forget, I’m in love now.”

I’m so fucked.

“What?” Kurt asked, looking up at him. Blaine could have punched himself in the face, not realizing he’d been thinking aloud. “Why?”

“I’m just—exhausted, is all,” he said, rubbing at his eyes for effect.

Kurt sat up suddenly, eyes sweeping Blaine’s bare arms and chest. “Blaine, you—you’re shivering; are you sure you’re not cold?”

“No, I’m not cold,” he replied, and it was only as Kurt’s gaze caught his own, lingering with a penetrating stare, that Blaine realized his mistake. He kept his face as impassive as he possibly could, but when Kurt’s eyes widened infinitesimally, he knew the game was lost.

Kurt had been telling him for years that his face read like an open book in large print; there was no way in hell that he hadn’t been able to figure it out.

But instead of bolting or even simply turning away, as Blaine was expecting, Kurt’s features arranged into a small smile that didn’t look at all forced. He leaned over and pressed a drawn-out kiss to the skin just over Blaine’s heart. Why do you have to make it so easy?

“We should get some sleep. Long drive tomorrow,” Kurt said, quietly puncturing the tension. He pulled himself flush into Blaine’s side and laid his head back on Blaine’s shoulder, every point of contact a warm revelation.

“Yeah, okay,” Blaine murmured, winding his arm around Kurt’s shoulders. He held on as tightly as he could, brought the moment closer, complicated and fleeting as it was. With a sigh, he said, “Goodnight, then.”

“’Night, B.”

Distance: 7,598 miles

*

Next: Texas

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 6.5/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 04 Dec 2013 21:27:04 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.

This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 5pm EST/10pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).

Previous chapters here.

Day 059: Wednesday 14th November, 2012
Total Recall (Arkansas)

“Onto Arkansas…”

“You already know exactly what we’re watching: Walk The Line.”

“Well, of course.”

“Just got a text from April,” Blaine murmured from the passenger seat. “She wants to know what songs we want to do solo for the gig this Saturday.”

“Must be the text I just got, too,” Kurt replied, having felt his phone vibrate against his leg a moment earlier. “What did you choose?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Has she sent over those two new ones yet?”

Blaine nodded, presumably tapping out a response. “Yeah, I just got the email. How crazy is it that they’re writing their own stuff now?”

“Well, it’s only the one she wants to close the show with,” Kurt corrected him. “The opener’s a We Are Scientists song. But yeah, it’s crazy. They’ve never been serious like this before. In fact…”

“What?” Blaine prompted.

Scratching absently at his jaw, Kurt considered his words for a moment. “When we talked yesterday, April kept talking about Alaska being the last big show, and then she was saying that not everyone in the band was joining in on writing the new material. Ever since Will had to quit for good… I don’t know, it just… It got me thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“I think they might be breaking up after this tour. Or like, if they’re not breaking up then a few of them are starting a new band,” Kurt said. He sat forward in his seat, resting his forearms on the steering wheel, and as he glanced out of the windshield and caught sight of the blue and white sign declaring, Welcome to Arkansas, The Natural State, he said, “Alright, we’re in Arkansas. Johnny Cash, and crank it.”

In his periphery he caught Blaine’s affectionate smile, and within moments, Folsom Prison Blues was pouring from the speakers. Blaine tapped his thumb and drummed his fingers against his thigh, singing along quietly and harmonizing to Johnny’s timeless vocals.

“Why didn’t you go into music?” Kurt asked as the thought occurred to him, lowering the volume so that he didn’t have to raise his voice.

Blaine looked thoughtful for a moment, and then replied, “A lot of reasons. I mean, you know I love film and directing.”

“Right, but you love music just as much, if not more. And you’re just as good at that.”

“I don’t know, I guess… It was Dad’s thing, you know? I kind of wanted to distance myself from all that, not to mention that you were doing film, too.”

“Don’t tell me you did film just because I was doing it,” Kurt said, shooting him a look.

“Narcissist,” Blaine teased; Kurt stuck out his tongue in response. “If I’m honest, it was one reason. Just not the whole reason.”

Kurt nodded, mostly to himself. They lapsed into silence, and after a few moments Kurt turned the volume back up, unsure what to do with this new piece of information. He was beginning to feel like both he and Blaine were oddly displaced in their own lives, like they were caught between two distinct phases: the first having ended the day they left Maine, and the second not yet begun.

He still saw the signs pointing toward his career as a director of photography, but he was beginning to think that Blaine was approaching a crossroads. It had been a subtle and gradual shift, so much so that Kurt was only just starting to notice the change, but no longer was Blaine discussing their movies with his usual passionate and analytical fervor. Instead, he was tending to focus on the sound and music, picking out pieces of the score that struck him either as particularly fitting or at odds with the scene.

“I think my arm is getting sunburned,” he murmured absently, suddenly noticing that the skin of his left arm was feeling tight.

Blaine glanced over at him and grimaced sympathetically, just as the song switched over to I Walk The Line. “Do you want me to take over in a little bit?”

“Maybe,” Kurt replied. “Hey, do you remember that time I got sunburned at Hampton Beach and you ended up icing my legs for me?”

“I still don’t get how you can burn through SPF 70 in an hour,” Blaine replied, shifting in his seat to turn and face him.

“It’s called being pale,” Kurt being told him. “We can’t all have beautiful olive skin that doesn’t even know what a sunburn is.”

“Beautiful, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“No, really, tell me more,” Blaine said, crossing his arms and propping his chin in his hand.

Kurt remained silent—usually, this was territory that certainly warranted exploration, but while driving, was decidedly perilous.

At length, Blaine continued, “Because you know… ‘Beautiful’ is probably how I’d describe your skin, too.”

Kurt scoffed at that, and yet in the pause that followed—knowing that he was taking the bait, but quite unable to resist—he asked, “Since when?”

“Oh, since… Alabama, maybe? Is that where we were when I gave you that massage?”

“I think so.”

“Well, either way, since then,” Blaine said, waving his hand dismissively. “Let’s just say I was really glad when you said you didn’t want it to be a one-time thing.”

“You were, huh?”

“Yep. I mean, I wouldn’t have gotten to figure out all these things about you.”

“What things?” Kurt asked, wanting to punch himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Blaine trailed off, stretching his arms up over his head. He seemed to consider his words, and Kurt licked his lips with a dry tongue. “That tongue, for instance. I mean, I’d never have known you can do more with it than just tying knots in cherry stems.

“And we probably shouldn’t talk about exactly what you do with it,” Blaine continued, his voice hushed, like he was speaking in riddles and prayers. “We probably also shouldn’t talk about how badly I’ve been wanting you to drive off the road for the last hundred miles so I can drag you back to bed.”

“You wouldn’t exactly have to drag me,” Kurt said, lightly gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

Blaine chuckled to himself, low and dirty, and turned his gaze out of the window. But the seed was planted in Kurt’s mind, and while they drove on with only his Johnny Cash playlist and the rhythmic hum of asphalt to soundtrack their progress, his thoughts drifted.

Growing up, Kurt had always felt like he’d seen the world through a different set of eyes to everyone else. He seemed to pick out the tiniest details and take photographs to remember them by: the single droplet of water left on a window long after the rain had passed; the almost invisible, hairline crack in a cup from his mother’s tea set; the drooping end of the tinsel string where, try as he might, he couldn’t prop it up on a branch.

Yet Blaine was different. With him, the photographs Kurt took were far more sensory: the curve of his cheekbone under Kurt’s thumb; the softness of the skin behind his knee; the taste of his lips in the last seconds before falling asleep. They were the most precious pictures he’d ever taken.

They were also all tied up with the panorama shots: Blaine dancing under pulsing lights, the only enticing thing in a sea of what should have been enticing; Blaine splayed out and spent, a sheen of sweat covering his back after his third orgasm; Blaine waking up with pupils already blown wide and pulling Kurt on top of him for lazy morning sex somewhere in the middle of Kentucky.

By the time an hour had passed, Kurt was uncomfortably hard in his jeans; he couldn’t focus on any of Blaine’s comments about Arkansas being Walmart country or that Hot Springs supposedly had its own red-light district. Instead, he was focusing on the little things again, the lips and eyes and hands that knew exactly how to undo him, and he felt frenzied and desperate with craving.

His frustration hit its peak when Blaine glanced over and, upon noticing Kurt’s predicament, did nothing more than toss him a knowing smirk. It was the moment when Kurt finally decided to act on his instincts and drive them off the freeway, following the signs for Buffalo River National Park and barely keeping to the speed limit.

He was winding, tighter and tighter, until they were finally parked and he was able to grab Blaine by the wrist, yank him upright, and lead him to the bedroom without so much as a word passing between them.

Almost parodying their night in Philadelphia, a hazy picture in his mind that blurred around the edges, Kurt pushed Blaine down onto the edge of the bed and leaned over him.

“What do you want?” Blaine asked.

“This,” Kurt said, gesturing down to himself, “is your fault. So I want you to shut up.”

“Shut up and… What? Just take it?” Blaine clarified, and when Kurt nodded, his eyes grew dark with the edge of a challenge. He smirked again, lifted his chin, and said, “Make me.”

Kurt let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan, pitching forward and kissing him with no finesse whatsoever; sloppy tongue and lazy lips. Even as Blaine struggled against Kurt’s grip around his wrists, he hooked his legs around Kurt’s waist to pull him closer; Blaine was still daring him to chase, challenging him to deliver and betting that he wouldn’t, like the world’s most willing game of cat and mouse.

With only a few breaks in contact, reluctant to give up a single second of the release he’d been craving, Kurt managed to strip them both entirely naked. As he settled his body over Blaine’s, teeth raking the skin of his neck, there was a fleeting moment where he felt Blaine’s limbs go intoxicatingly lax and it almost made him want to stop, catch his breath, and make this last.

Kurt pulled back to drink him in, resting his crossed forearms across Blaine’s chest and letting them bear his weight. Blaine strained against his arms, raising his head off the sheets just far enough to whisper against his lips, “Do something useful.”

And with that, the moment passed as quickly as it had come, swept away by the heat and the fire that boiled Kurt’s blood.

“Useful?” he managed, mock-offended and screwing his eyes shut as his Blaine dragged his cock along the length of Kurt’s own; an appetizer when he wanted a five-course meal. He dragged Blaine further up the bed, straddling his hips and holding him down with one hand. “Fuck you, Blaine Anderson.”

“Go right ahead,” Blaine shot back, not missing a beat. His grin was roguish, defying Kurt to resist, and Kurt had had just about enough.

“You know what? I told you to shut up.”

“And I told you to make me. But if you’re not up to it—“

Quickly yet deliberately, Kurt put his hand over Blaine’s mouth, locking eyes with him as he moved to straddle his chest. There he waited until Blaine blinked up at him with wide, humored eyes and nodded. He worked the tip of his index finger between Blaine’s lips and tugged his mouth open, holding himself just out of reach and reveling in the heat of Blaine’s bare chest against the skin of his thighs.

When Blaine leaned up far enough to lick across the head of his cock, it was like relief being painted onto his skin, second by exquisite second. Blaine sank his mouth over the tip and sucked hard, eyes fluttering shut and a moan vibrating through Kurt’s sensitive flesh and up, up, up, a puddle of warm tingle in the pit of his stomach.

Kurt’s breath stuttered and hitched in his chest when Blaine slowly pulled off with a light, almost tentative rake of teeth along his shaft before going back to working him over at an agonizing pace that was nowhere near close to enough. He began working his hips back and forth, tangling his fingers between Blaine’s curls and pumping his cock between Blaine’s stretched lips; he spiraled into the sensation of tight, wet warmth around him, driven further lost with each snap forward.

He finally pulled back when his thighs began to shake underneath him, his breathing labored and ragged. Blaine looked up at him with a smug expression as he licked around his lips.

“I hate you,” Kurt got out on a ragged exhale, but he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth.

“Evidently,” Blaine agreed, schooling his features into a knowing, mock-sympathetic expression. “Why’d you stop?”

Kurt moved backward far enough to free Blaine’s arms, only to grab his wrists, pin them either side of his head, and fix him with a look. “Because I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”

“Oh, so you were about to come?” Blaine teased.

Kurt shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you? You need to stop talking.”

With that, he climbed completely off of Blaine and flipped him onto his front, holding him there with one hand on his back while he palmed a condom and their three-quarters empty bottle of lube from the nightstand. Blaine’s muscles shifted beneath his overheated skin and, after rolling the condom onto himself and slicking himself up, Kurt couldn’t help but scratch his fingernails along Blaine’s spine, leaving bright red trails in his wake.

“You don’t need to—“

“I know,” Kurt interrupted firmly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his shoulder as he leaned over Blaine and wound his hand back into his tight curls, damp with sweat at the nape of his neck. He nudged Blaine’s legs apart and pressed in slowly to start; Blaine let out a stuttering breath that sounded like a long-awaited release.

Kurt knew Blaine’s body well, how much he could take, how far he could push—these were the secret parts of him that Blaine had allowed him to learn, had given freely even though it was probably far more than Kurt deserved. But being wrapped in such velvet heat expelled all such thoughts from his mind as he drove into Blaine over and over, hands holding him down by his head and his shoulder—Blaine took it all so beautifully, muscles contracting and loosening beneath Kurt’s grip and breathy moans leaving him in punches.

“I… Fuck—harder, please…” Blaine begged, the words a broken whine that settled determinedly at the base of Kurt’s spine, the little bundle of nerves there firing sparks through his every cell. Kurt bit his lip against a loud moan; he was losing control at a rapidly accelerating rate, and wouldn’t be able to hold onto himself much longer.

Instead he held onto Blaine, hooking his hand underneath Blaine’s arm and up over his shoulder, the skin turning white where his fingers pressed into his flesh.

“Kurt, please, please—“

He covered Blaine’s mouth with his left hand, unable to take any more. Blaine was—undone, so utterly undone that it only spurred Kurt on, faster and faster until his hips were jerking forward of their own volition and he had to press his forehead to Blaine’s temple just to block out the look in Blaine’s eyes: open and vulnerable and brimming full of something that couldn’t possibly be.

Blaine bit down on Kurt’s third finger as he came, tensing and clenching around him, and it was that shock of pain that pushed Kurt over the edge, a base and debauched grunt the only sound that left his mouth as his body burst outward and back in on itself.

With the little strength he had left, he managed to carefully untangle himself from Blaine, peel off the condom, and collapse onto the cool and welcoming sheets.

“Old man,” Blaine whispered into his ear, the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he lay down next to Kurt and drew circles on his upturned palm.

“There’s only a hundred days between us, lest you forget,” Kurt reminded him. “I can still kick your ass.”

“I think you pretty much just did,” Blaine said, chuckling mostly to himself. A comfortable quiet fell, the only sounds those of their matching, labored breaths as they both regained their equilibrium. Kurt could just feel Blaine’s fingertips tracing patterns on the skin of his back; it was the ghost of a touch, but still there. “Your freckles are fading.”

“Hmm?”

“I said your freckles are fading.”

“Good,” Kurt grumbled. “I hate them.”

“I bet I could make you like them,” Blaine countered.

“Remind me that we don’t need to buy any more coffee for you,” Kurt said absently.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s buzzed after an orgasm and it makes me hate you a little bit so you neither need nor deserve coffee,” he rambled, not caring whether or not he was making sense when his entire body felt at once leaden and floating.

Blaine chuckled, and Kurt heard him fumbling through one of the drawers in his nightstand for a moment before letting out a triumphant, “Ha!” and moving across the bed to straddle Kurt’s waist. He winced a little at the jolt of sensitivity, and soon he began to feel a tickling drag across his back.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making music,” Blaine answered vaguely.

“Wait, are you—are you drawing on me?”

“Shh. I’m in my creative space right now.”

“Such a dork,” Kurt muttered, but pillowed his arms on his head and let his eyes slip closed—Blaine wouldn’t be dissuaded when he was in this sort of a mood, and Kurt didn’t have the strength anyway. Instead, he imagined himself looking down on them from above: Blaine bent over him, picking out melodies on wavering staffs and covering Kurt’s skin with quavers and crotchets and treble clefs until he felt like he was made of Blaine’s music.

Could you capture me in four minutes? Kurt wondered, idly feeling himself drifting toward sleep. Ten? Five hundred, twenty-five thousand? Would you have me for that long? Longer?

He came around some time later, fuzzy-eyed and cotton-mouthed, cheek pressed against Blaine’s chest. He could hear Blaine’s heartbeat, a steady thump-thump in his ear, and when he looked up, he saw a soft smile playing about Blaine’s lips. He’d pulled the laptop onto the foot of the bed where it rested, VLC Player open and Walk The Line paused at the very beginning of its opening scene.

“What are you so happy about?” he asked, rubbing at his eyes.

“I just love movies like this. I mean, I know the story’s been changed and exaggerated in places, but still… We’re watching history,” Blaine said, picking at a loose thread on the comforter. “What if… What if you met your soul mate but you were already with someone, like Johnny and June? Is there anything sadder? Someone’s heart’s going to get broken whatever you do.”

Kurt swallowed thickly, hearing that line from the movie playing in his head, and somewhere in that dark corner of his mind, he knew what Blaine was really asking. It was what they did in this boundary-pushing pas de deux of theirs. But Kurt couldn’t say it, couldn’t offer up his bleeding heart and ask Blaine to tell him he didn’t love him, like he was the June to Kurt’s Johnny.

“It’s sad,” he agreed. “But everything worked out for the best, in the end.”

“Right,” Blaine replied obliquely, and gestured toward the laptop. “Shall we?”

Kurt nodded, and reached out his foot to tap the space bar, shaking off Blaine’s words. They’d decided to be happy with this—they’d made a deal, and Kurt intended to hold up his end. Whether it was enough was a question to which he didn’t need the answer, because…

Because being cradled against Blaine’s chest, wrapped up in his black-magic words and red velvet heart with the afternoon light fading into dusk, Kurt felt as complete as he could ever imagine feeling.

And that was already enough.

Distance: 7,144 miles

*

Next: Louisiana

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 6.4/10]

dazzlebug — Sun, 01 Dec 2013 20:30:15 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.

This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 5pm EST/10pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).
Previously: -1 | ME | NH | VT | MA | RI | CT | NY | NJ | PA | DE | MD | VA | NC | SC | GA | FL | AL | MS | TN | KY | WV | OH | MI | IN | IL | WI | MN | IA

Day 056: Sunday 11th November, 2012
Slow Fix (Missouri)

“What about Winter’s Bone? Have you seen it yet?”

“No, I was on deadline from Dmitri the night everyone went out to see it.”

“Alright, so Winter’s Bone for Missouri. Onto Arkansas…”

It was only when the nights’ shadows began to extend that Blaine even realized they had gone beyond the halfway point.

The sun was rising later and going to bed earlier, and he and Kurt were both getting used to long stretches of dark drive time, keeping the lights dimmed in the R.V. after sunset, and leaving a pot of coffee brewing almost around the clock. Blaine’s mood, however, was still bright—brighter even than when Kurt had finally given in and kissed him that first time, his lips salted by the ocean air.

So much was changing. So much had already changed. But Blaine found that rather than chasing down the new until he could hold it between his cupped palms, turn it this way and that, for once he was content to pick it up only when it had almost passed by without notice.

“What are you waiting for?” Toby had asked during their dance at the wedding. It was a question seemingly out of the blue until he’d continued, “I see what you guys are trying to do, and I respect that, but seriously, what you have is too special to just piss away like this. So what are you waiting for?”

Blaine had stepped back, needing to feel for a second that he could still bolt if he wanted to, but instead he had composed himself, taken up the dance once more, and simply answered, “Him. I’m waiting for him.”

He glanced over to Kurt, sleeping in the passenger seat, and smiled to himself. He’d been driving for hours; his entire body was stiff, and his eyes felt dry and raw, but there was a pleasant sensation growing in the back of his mind. It felt like the slow awakening of a creature in hibernation, yet something about the approaching cold was drawing it out rather than sending it into a deeper sleep. Blaine didn’t know what it was, and usually the not knowing would be driving him to distraction, but not this time.

Kurt jerked himself awake in the passenger seat, his body going rigid and his hand flattening against the window. Blaine winced in sympathy as Kurt rubbed at his eyes and relaxed back into his seat with a shuddering sigh.

“Bad dream?” he asked.

“It was like—“ Kurt began in a sleep-choked rasp, stopping to clear his throat, “It was like some weird version of The Hunger Games but with congressmen. You were there. And there was so much blood.”

“Ugh,” Blaine replied. He suppressed a shiver and turned his attention to the GPS. “Well, we’re almost there.”

Kurt grabbed the GPS from its holder, studying it intently for a moment before programming something new into it. When he returned it to the dashboard, the Kathy Bates sound-alike they still hadn’t bothered changing instructed him, “In half a mile, turn left onto Legion Road.”

“You’ll see,” Kurt said in answer to Blaine’s questioning look.

When they pulled up outside The Dam Bait Shop, the headlights cast the faded wooden storefront in a harsh shade of yellow. Blaine glanced at Kurt sidelong, and asked, “Are you sure this is where we’re meant to be?”

“Yes,” Kurt answered, offering no further explanation.

“But it’s a bait shop.”

“Yes, Captain Obvious, it’s a bait shop.”

“So… What are we doing here? Are you taking me on a romantic fishing adventure?” Blaine asked, grasping at straws.

“There’s no such thing as a romantic fishing adventure, B,” Kurt replied with a sigh. Turning in his seat, he gestured toward the bait shop and finally explained, “This is where Dad took me when I was eight. After Mom.”

“Is that why you wanted to come here instead of Joplin?” Blaine asked gently, reaching over to intertwine their fingers.

Kurt looked at their joined hands, the corners of his mouth turning downward, and glanced once again out of the windshield, his brow furrowed. “Let’s go,” he said, exhaling and giving Blaine’s hand a single, light squeeze.

They drove on quietly, Blaine merging back onto US-54 and pulling into River View R.V. Park ten minutes later. The night was quiet, the air fresh and a little damp from that afternoon’s thunderstorm. While Kurt stayed still in the passenger seat, looking quite lost in his own thoughts, Blaine made quick work of getting them signed in and around to their parking spot.

After retrieving two blankets from the hall closet, Blaine shrugged into his thick Bowdoin hoodie and grabbed Kurt’s sweater from the back of the couch. Kurt was in the process of stretching out his arms and legs when Blaine approached him, and as he took in the blankets, raised an eyebrow at him in question.

“Grab your iPod and meet me on the roof,” Blaine said, shoving the sweater into Kurt’s hands and turning on his heel to go outside.

“The roof?” he heard Kurt ask, but the door closed behind him with a deep click before he could answer. Instead, he made his way to the back of the R.V., tossed the blankets over his shoulder, and climbed the ladder. The metal was cold under his hands, and the night carried with it a chill breeze that made him grateful for the hoodie.

He spread out one of the blankets and sat down, only having to wait thirty seconds or so before he heard Kurt gasping in the sudden cold. Blaine grinned down at him from his vantage point.

“Are you crazy?” Kurt grumbled, craning his neck back. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,” Blaine challenged him, remembering childhood nights where it had been all he could do to get Kurt into Cooper’s long abandoned tree house.

In the little slices of moonlight cutting through the clouds overhead, Blaine could see Kurt working his jaw for a moment before he made his way around to the ladder and responded, “Stony limits cannot hold me out.” When Kurt had climbed high enough on the ladder to be able to see over the top of the R.V., he grabbed Blaine’s wrist, pulled Blaine towards him and whispered against his lips, “Nor dorks like you, apparently.”

Something twisted and swooped in Blaine’s gut as he kissed Kurt, parting his lips and tasting peppermint. It sometimes happened at the oddest of moments, this sensation of being suspended, weightless and timeless in a world grown quiet save for their breathing and matching heartbeats. When he pulled back, he could see faint tremors in the cotton of Kurt’s fitted t-shirt that belied the racing beneath.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Blaine said, scooting back to make room.

With a grace in his long limbs that Blaine often envied, Kurt pulled himself up onto the roof and arranged himself to sit between Blaine’s legs, back pressing comfortably against his chest. Blaine shook out the second blanket and wrapped it around them both, his breath coming out in barely visible puffs of white.

“So are you going to tell me what we’re doing up here?” Kurt asked.

Blaine didn’t answer for a moment. He took the iPod from Kurt and, as he scrolled through the extensive library, countered, “Are you going to tell me what’s up?”

Just as Blaine found the song he was looking for—Swingset Chain by Loquat, a mellow track that had been a staple of theirs for years—Kurt exhaled heavily. He pulled Blaine’s arms snug around his waist and shrugged a little. “Just a few more ghosts to exorcise,” he said, and dropped his head back onto Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine paused in his scrolling. “Do you remember when Dad came and got me that April in 1999?”

“When you’d been staying at my place?” At Kurt’s nod, Blaine added, “Of course I remember.”

“Well, this is where he brought me. Lake Ozark,” Kurt said. “The drive down was so… I was so pissed off at him for leaving me for three months and then just coming to get me like I’d been at your house for a sleepover or something. I barely spoke to him. Until we got to that stupid bait shop.

“We were looking at the fishing poles, and he was talking to me about them, you know, telling me which ones were better. And then he just looked down at me and asked me, ‘So which one do you want, kiddo?’ And suddenly it was like, ‘Oh. I still actually have my Dad. I didn’t lose him and Mom.’”

“You came back different,” Blaine said quietly, pressing his lips to the hollow of Kurt’s neck.

“It was the first time in three months that I didn’t feel like I’d lost everyone,” he said quietly.

“You always had me,” Blaine said, rocking him from side to side.

“You with your Band-Aids,” Kurt reminded him, elbow gently nudging his stomach.

With an almost startling clarity, the image of an eight-year-old Kurt screaming at the sky rose in his mind’s eye. When Burt had given him the news about his mother, Kurt had bolted from the house, Blaine at his heels because he’d known exactly what Kurt had been thinking: Simba’s dad talked to him from up in the sky, so Kurt’s mommy would too, right?

“Why isn't she up there, Blaine?” Kurt had demanded, but there had been nothing that Blaine could think of to say. What could he have said that would have made it all better? It wasn’t like that time Kurt fell off his bike in the front yard and his knee got all bloody. There was nothing to clean up or put one of Cooper's cool dinosaur Band-Aids over.

The first time Blaine saw Kurt again after the funeral, however, he’d taken one of those Band-Aids and stuck it onto Kurt’s shirt, right over his heart. Even when Cooper yelled at him for stealing his Band-Aids, he’d carried on doing it every time Kurt got sad until they were at least thirteen.

“Why did you stop doing that, by the way?” Kurt asked curiously. “It always cheered me up, no matter how crappy I felt.”

“Are you feeling crappy right now? Because we have Band-Aids, you know. They’re just the regular kind, but—“

Kurt twisted around and kissed him firmly. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight when he pulled back. “No. Right now, I’m happy.”

Blaine wanted to ask, Is it because of me? Are you happy with me, would you let me keep making you happy? Would you trust me with your heart if I promise that you can?

Instead, he shrugged it off and told him, “Me too.”

“Good,” Kurt said. “So what are we doing up here?”

“We’re going to listen to a little music,” Blaine began. “We’re going to huddle for warmth like penguins, and then we’re going to make hot chocolate because I don’t know about you, but I’m completely over coffee. And then maybe we could watch our movie. Or we could have sex. Your choice.”

Kurt laughed; the sound was melodic yet too loud in the stillness of the night. “Is ‘all of the above’ an option?”

“Always. Why? Do you want to go inside now?”

Kurt took a deep breath and settled back against him, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands. “Maybe in a little bit. It’s nice up here.”

“I do have good ideas sometimes,” Blaine quipped.

“Those Band-Aids were one of the best ideas you ever had, you know,” Kurt murmured.

“I wanted to take care of you.”

“You always have.”

Blaine smiled and thought to himself, I always will. He tensed for a second upon catching the thought, but let go as it washed him in warmth. He couldn’t quite puzzle out whether the initial tension each time he had such a thought was the remnant of a lifelong habit or a warning sign.

Either way, it was something to which he was no longer paying attention. All that mattered was the man in his arms who, for the first time ever, giggled and joined him in singing the line, “I’m kind of afraid I’m codependent on you.”

Distance: 6,794 miles

*

Next: Arkansas

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 6.3/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 27 Nov 2013 21:36:13 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.

This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 5pm EST/10pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).
Previously: -1 | ME | NH | VT | MA | RI | CT | NY | NJ | PA | DE | MD | VA | NC | SC | GA | FL | AL | MS | TN | KY | WV | OH | MI | IN | IL | WI | MN

Day 054: Friday 9th November, 2012
Disparity (Iowa)

“But isn’t Field of Dreams about baseball?”

“Just trust me, Kurt. It’ll change your life.”

“Whatever you say…”

“Have you ever had one of those moments where you look at your life and just think, ‘what the hell?’”

Smiling, Kurt glanced around the inside of the barn. Everything was rustic and light, the roof beams strung with fairy lights and globe shades. They were surrounded by tables dressed in white, russet, and laurel green, with baskets of apples and greenery serving as the centerpieces. Waiters dressed almost casually were just clearing away the last remnants of dessert and leaving behind cups of hot cider.

Kurt leaned forward in his seat and took a sip from his cup, tongue darting out to chase a droplet at the side of his mouth before he answered, “Pretty much every day.”

“But seriously, what the hell? This day has been insanely surreal,” Blaine said. Kurt reached over to pat his knee reassuringly.

It had all started when they were driving along I-80 from Des Moines, on their way to the KOA campground in Adel.

An unseasonably warm day for Iowa in November—or so the weatherman had said—Kurt had pushed his sunglasses higher up his nose as he turned to look out of the window at the rolling fields and farmland passing them by. There wasn’t much to see, given that most of the harvests had already taken place over the course of the past three months. All that was left behind was tilled earth, taking time to rest before the freeze of winter and, then, the next planting in the spring. It had felt like watching a piece of the earth as it fell asleep, and were it not for the few other vehicles ahead and the suit-clad man walking along the side of the road trying to hitch a ride, Kurt could probably have fallen asleep with it.

“Look,” Blaine had murmured, gesturing to the hitchhiker, who had been waving wildly at each car and truck as it passed. Something about the man seemed… Familiar, somehow.

“No way,” Kurt had said. “We are not picking up a hitchhiker.”

“He doesn’t exactly look like a hitchhiker, though,” Blaine had reasoned. “He’s wearing a suit.”

“So he’ll be well-dressed while he kills us, how thoughtful,” Kurt had replied. “Just keep driving, B.”

It wasn’t until they were almost at the point of passing the hitchhiker that Kurt realized why he looked familiar—it was Andrew, one half of the couple whose engagement party they had attended back in New Jersey. And now, hours after giving him a ride to the wedding ceremony for which he was running late—“Long story short, major freak-out last night resulting in a disgusting amount of booze with the guys, who all thought it would be just fucking hilarious to drive my drunk ass out to the middle of a field and leave me without a car or a cell phone.”—Kurt found himself seated just to the left of the top table, dressed in his Sunday best with Blaine beside him, both of them half-jokingly named the guests of honor.

Kurt thought that ‘insanely surreal’ was probably the best way of describing it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice came over the speaker system, the ambient music fading out underneath it. Kurt turned to look at the top table, where both grooms were on their feet, and Toby was talking into a microphone. “Andrew and I would just like to begin by thanking you all for coming to be with us today; we know it was a bit of a trip for most of you, so we really appreciate you being here. And to the New Yorkers: we’re not even a little bit sorry for making you spend the afternoon at the Hillard family farm, so suck it up.”

Laughter broke out from the back of the room, and Kurt couldn’t help but smile at Toby’s easy humor. His blond hair was styled a little more neatly than usual but still a kind of organized chaos, and he was dressed in a charcoal gray suit offset by the light green of his waistcoat. The microphone was in his right hand, his left hand clutching Andrew’s.

“All of you know the story of how we got together, and of course Andrew’s told everyone our proposal story,” Toby said, and groans broke out around the room. He glanced at Andrew with a lopsided grin, and quietly continued, “It’s been, um… It’s been a long journey to get here. If I’m honest, I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to have this—not just in terms of who I fell in love with and where I come from, but also just… Me.

“And then one night, he walked into my bar and changed everything,” Toby said. He took a deep breath and Kurt watched him blink rapidly. He almost didn’t notice when Blaine took his hand. “Andrew, you’ve taught me to ask and to answer, to wait and to fulfill, to love and to be loved. My life began when I poured you that first Negroni, sweetheart. And I don’t want it to ever end.

“Thank you for finding me; thank you for seeing me, and thank you for sticking around even after you tasted my awful Eggs Benedict. Most of all, thank you for agreeing to be my everything,” Toby concluded. Not even a second after he lowered the microphone, Andrew cupped the back of his neck and tugged him down for a brief kiss.

Kurt looked away, feeling like an intruder, and met Blaine’s lingering eyes. Nowadays, he was used to that look of radiating warmth on Blaine’s face—he’d missed it after Chicago, and it had only come back after Lake Calhoun.

Since their fight and ensuing make-up sex—slow and languorous with a single vanilla-scented candle burning on the nightstand, Blaine’s hands traversing his body like a seasoned traveler who knew his path all too well—things had been remarkably uncomplicated between them. It was heady and new, and Kurt was able to finally appreciate it for what it immediately was. He was coasting on the feeling of being on the road with a wonderful man, transcending time and obligation and the need to be anywhere. Though he was tethered to something that he was beginning to realize was bigger than either of them, it no longer felt like a chokehold constricting his air supply—instead, it felt like roots.

“Always has to set a high bar,” Andrew mock-grumbled into the mic as he accepted it from Toby. Kurt heard low chuckles from around the room. “I have a laundry list of people to whom I’m grateful, but there’s just a few I’d like to thank in particular:

“To Mr. and Mrs. Hillard for managing to pull off a summer wedding in November—and in Iowa, no less. This place looks beautiful, and Myra: I’m sorry I ever doubted you,” Andrew said. “To Stuart and Jeff, for being the best groomsmen we could have asked for, even if you did leave me in the middle of a field last night.

“To Kurt and Blaine, our guests of honor, who saved me from having to hitchhike all the way here,” Andrew continued, pointing toward where they were sitting. Kurt felt himself flush under the attention. Blaine raised their joined hands in a semi-triumphant gesture, and Kurt could have sworn he heard a few coos from the back of the room.

“And finally, one last thank you to my late father. He taught me that you have to make the mistakes first so that you know how to recognize them, and…” Andrew trailed off, snaking his arm around Toby’s waist and speaking directly to him, “I know it took me a while, but once I knew, I knew.

“I love you,” he whispered into the mic, and dropped a peck of a kiss to the corner of Toby’s mouth. Kurt squeezed Blaine’s hand, though he didn’t quite know why.

One of the groomsmen—Kurt couldn’t remember which—stood and took the mic from Andrew to announce the first dance. Andrew led Toby to the middle of the dance floor, their matching gold wedding bands catching the light of the globes strung above, and all of the guests turned to watch as Diana Krall’s version of I’ve Grown Accustomed To Your Face from My Fair Lady began to play.

“This makes you think of your parents’ wedding video, doesn’t it?” Blaine asked quietly.

Kurt sat up straighter in his seat. The smiling couple quietly twirling each other around in his mind’s eye was suddenly so visible before him, he felt he could almost reach out and feel the fabric of their wedding finery. His mother’s best friend, Sarah, was singing I Could Have Danced All Night up on a tiny stage erected in the backyard of his grandparents’ house, and the only source of light spilled through the French doors in the dining room, casting long shadows that stretched into the saplings lining the fence.

He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself without words.

“What’s your first dance song?” Blaine whispered into Kurt’s ear, and Kurt shivered as the hairs on his arms stood on end beneath the fabric of his hastily-ironed white button-down.

“No idea,” Kurt replied. He watched Toby and Andrew begin to turn on the spot, their arms wrapped tightly around one another’s waists. They exchanged indiscernible words with soft smiles.

“Me neither,” Blaine said, and Kurt fixed him with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know; I guess it’s just something you work out together, you know?”

“I guess so,” Kurt said. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt and glanced at the two grooms again, looking like they were already removed from the barn, like they were dancing in their own private, walled-off world where nothing else existed but them.

It made Kurt think of the R.V., where it was nothing but him and Blaine and the asphalt ahead.

About halfway through the song, guests began getting up in twos and joining the couple on the polished wooden floor.

“Care to dance?” Blaine asked, breaking their grasp and standing in order to formally offer Kurt his hand. “This song could lend itself well to American smooth, if you’re up for it.”

Kurt regarded him for a moment. “I didn't know you could ballroom dance,” he said as he took Blaine's hand and let himself be pulled into position. “At least, you couldn’t at the last wedding I took you to. Or at prom.”

“You remember those lessons Mom had me take for cousin Laura's wedding when I was fifteen?” Blaine asked, looking suspiciously sheepish. He averted his gaze as they began to move around the floor.

“I remember coming with you to one and it being the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life,” Kurt said, eyebrows rising as Blaine confidently and easily led. “Still is, by the way.”

“Well... I guess I kind of enjoyed it, so I kept going back,” he explained.

“How did I not know this about you? I mean—“ Kurt stopped abruptly as a thought occurred to him. “This is what you were doing every Wednesday night? I just figured you were having your alone time.”

“You honestly thought that I scheduled time to jerk off?” Blaine asked incredulously.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Kurt reminded him.

“Once, Kurt,” Blaine groaned. “Once.”

Kurt giggled and gave himself over to the dance, the music, and most of all, to Blaine. After all, where better than to let himself belong—if only for one dance—than at a wedding? Diana’s singing was of a man who made the day begin, the tunes he whistled, his ‘good morning’ every day—not only that, but how it had all become second nature to her. And as she sang the words, “I’ve grown accustomed to the trace of something in the air,” Kurt realized that he, too, had gotten used to all of that with Blaine. They had somehow become each other’s good morning and good night.

He was already too far gone, but the atmosphere was heavy with love and magic, and Kurt found it difficult to care.

As the song ended and bled into an upbeat number that he didn’t recognize, they stepped apart and applauded the happy couple along with the rest of the guests. Toby and Andrew exchanged a glance, and made a beeline toward Kurt and Blaine.

“Mind if we cut in?” Andrew asked. Kurt shot Blaine a small smile before moving off with Andrew and relaxing into his looser hold. His hands were bigger than Blaine’s, his fingers softer and less weathered, and he had a couple of inches’ height on Kurt.

It felt like he was in the wrong arms, but he brushed it off. It was just one dance.

“Thank you again for what you did today,” Andrew said as they began a quick, semi-approximation of the foxtrot in time to the beat of the summery song.

“We weren’t exactly just going to leave you by the side of the road,” Kurt replied.

“Well, no, but… Everything needed to be perfect today, and you two helped make that happen,” Andrew said quietly, Toby and Blaine passing by on their left. “Toby, he—the reason I got so drunk last night… He has OCD. It’s gotten much better since when we first met, but last night he had to flick the lights twenty-four times before he left the house. It hasn’t been more than four in about a year, and I just… You know?”

Kurt nodded; he couldn’t quite imagine himself acting differently in the same situation. “In that case, I’m even more glad we were there.”

Andrew smiled at that and fell silent for a moment. Kurt glanced across the dance floor, catching a wink that Blaine threw his way. The song was fun and flirty, and it tugged at Kurt more than he would have expected, capturing his attention and focusing it all on watching the way Blaine moved with another partner: not too close yet not too far, and something not quite clicking in their rhythm. Kurt wondered if that was what Blaine had seen in Chicago.

“You still want him, huh?” Andrew asked wryly. Kurt met his gaze, but kept silent. “I know I’m not wrong.”

“No, you’re not wrong,” Kurt confirmed.

“But you still won’t do anything about it,” Andrew said.

“There you’re wrong,” Kurt corrected him.

Andrew’s eyes flicked between him and Blaine a few times, and then his grin cracked wide. “How’s that working out for you?”

“We’re figuring things out,” Kurt said at length. “It’s complicated.”

Andrew scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I keep trying to tell you—“

“It’s not complicated, I know,” Kurt interrupted.

“No, it’s not,” Andrew said. “Do you love him?”

“I’m trying not to,” Kurt answered without missing a beat, feeling more and more uncomfortable with each passing second.

“Why?”

“He deserves better. And I’m not so good at trusting people with my heart.”

“But Blaine’s not people,” Andrew pointed out, and all of the reasons Kurt had been conjuring in his mind sputtered into darkness. It was as if the words had suddenly become his enemy, loaded with meaning he didn’t always intend to put there. Why was he biting his tongue and feeling only pressure? Why was he biting at all?

Somewhere in the darkest corners of his mind—the ones he rarely felt brave enough to explore—he knew. No matter how much stock he set in movies and television shows, the characters and their journeys to love and redemption and happy endings, that was all they were. Fairytales didn’t happen in real life, and certainly not to him. He’d known that ever since he was nine years old, after all, when a boy in his class called Tyler had felt like the first word written after a long, painful, heartbreaking prologue he’d thought would never end.

Tyler had flushed Kurt’s handmade Valentine’s Day card down the toilet while their classmates looked on, jeering and calling Kurt names that he still didn’t like to hear repeated. He’d bitten his tongue then, the sharp pain pushing back the stinging in his eyes… And he’d never really stopped.

Once more Kurt glanced over, the lyrics of the song speaking of memories and Sunday mornings and summers spent listening to Bob Marley. He was just in time to see Blaine and Toby stop dancing, Blaine stepping back with an almost stricken expression on his face. Andrew seemed to notice as well, and they both made a motion to step toward the two men but caught themselves at the last second, exchanging a sheepish grin and shrugging it off. Kurt would get the story later, he thought, and with Blaine and Toby taking up the dance again after a moment, it was easy to do the same.

“Answer me one thing,” Andrew said. “Was it a mistake?”

Kurt bit his lip, considering the question. Maybe it was being surrounded by so much happiness and love; maybe it was the image of his parents—so clearly meant to be—dancing in the faded light; maybe it was even the burn of Blaine’s gaze from across the room… Whatever it was, it immediately made Kurt want to say, No. It’s not a mistake—how could it be when it feels so right, when it feels like I’ve been waiting for this my entire life? And then on the other hand, how could it not be a mistake? We can’t be meant for one another when I’ve fallen in love alone, when we’re supposed to be infinite but instead the end is already in sight.

“I thought it was, at first,” he finally answered.

Andrew nodded, seemingly satisfied, and Kurt let himself relax into the final few bars of the song. It ended soon after, Andrew thanking him for the dance and leaving him with a smile to take the hand of Toby’s sister just as she was trying to leave the floor. Toby himself was standing with Blaine in the corner closest to the speakers, one hand on Blaine’s shoulder. It reminded Kurt of when Blaine had still wanted to follow in Cooper’s steps and pursue acting, and Cooper would give him advice on how to impress directors and work with co-stars.

Blaine had won their two-person betting pool on how long Cooper’s acting career would last.

When Blaine found him a few minutes later, Kurt was admiring the table of wedding favors—packages of green apples, homemade caramels, and hot apple cider mix, all wrapped in plastic and tied up with twine.

“So what other dances do you know?” he asked, nudging Blaine’s shoulder in an effort to distract himself from just how good Blaine looked with his tie loose and sleeves rolled to the elbow. “I’d bet good money that you didn’t just stop at ballroom dancing. Maybe salsa? Latin? Line-dance?”

Blaine paused for a moment, looking as if he wanted to talk about something else but ultimately thinking better of it. “I know the tango,” he said, fiddling with one of the favors.

“You know the tango,” Kurt scoffed. “Sweet, naïve, awkward, fifteen-year-old Blaine learned the tango? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Blaine countered, drawing himself up and grabbing Kurt’s hand to drag him back onto the floor just as The Cardigans’ Erase/Rewind began pouring from the speakers.

“You want to tango with me to this?” Kurt asked.

“Try to keep up, sweetheart,” Blaine quipped.

“I know how to tango,” Kurt huffed.

“Not like this, you don’t,” Blaine told him, pulling Kurt into their opening position. It was a close embrace—a striking difference from what he’d learned in his dance elective. He was used to arching his upper body away from his dance partner while maintaining contact at the hip, but Blaine had the position almost in reverse, their chests flush and heads close. Seeming to notice Kurt’s trepidation, Blaine said, “You learned the ballroom tango, if I remember correctly. But this is the Argentine.”

And with that, the dance began.

Kurt quickly picked up that the Argentine tango didn’t have any basic step. It was an almost completely improvised dance that relied on the follower picking up the lead’s unspoken cues. Blaine gently guided him through a basic sistema cruzado, and although the dance concept felt foreign to him after learning the fundamental choreography, Kurt found that it was easy to follow the cues of Blaine’s movement. His was a body that Kurt knew, arms that felt so right around him that he wondered again how he could possibly be wrong.

But I was wrong before, even when it felt right, he thought, improvising off the back of a sudden rush of flirtatious courage and hooking his foot around Blaine’s calf, dragging it upward. He leaned back, positioning himself into a controlled drop; Blaine led them backward for four steps in time with the beat, and as the song swung down into its chorus, Kurt straightened and took the lead in order to surprise Blaine with a dip of his own.

With Blaine’s hazel eyes shining in the light, his chest heaving and limbs pliable, Kurt suddenly understood—like he never had with his other partners during dance class—why they described the tango as an overtly sexual dance.

They continued at a comfortable pace but grew in speed and complexity, and Kurt noticed that more and more guests were moving off the floor to form a large circle around them. He felt momentarily embarrassed that they were stealing the focus, but they couldn’t very well stop now. Imbued with the same alien confidence he’d found on stage in Ann Arbor, Kurt showed off by embellishing a pasada onto the end of their promenade.

“I’m impressed,” Blaine said, smiling when they went back into a sweetheart walk just before the final chorus.

“Told you I could keep up,” Kurt replied, feeling pleased with himself.

“I never really doubted you,” Blaine said, glancing at their audience and leaning close to whisper, “I’ve always thought that this dance is a little like sex, and we both know you’re okay at that.”

“Just okay, huh?”

“Well, you know what they say…”

“Practice makes perfect?” Kurt supplied, before fixing Blaine with a mock-glare and reminding him, “This coming from the guy who was practically celibate?”

“Well, you can’t deny that I’m a fast learner,” Blaine said with an almost imperceptible wink. Kurt laughed as Blaine pulled him close again, throwing a few spins into their steps to give their impromptu audience something to watch. Echoing Kurt’s own sentiments from the bowling alley in Minneapolis, he said in a low voice, “I’ve missed us like this.”

“Stealing the show?” Kurt bantered.

“You know—“

“—what you mean; of course I do.”

Blaine took a breath, his hands flat against Kurt’s shoulder blades with their dance almost lost, and whispered, “I wish…”

“You wish what?” Kurt prompted, leading him through a series of crossing, pivoting steps with their chests pressed tightly together and heads held high. When he didn’t answer, Kurt pressed his forehead to Blaine’s temple and whispered, “Tell me.”

“I wish I’d told you about the dancing sooner,” Blaine said on an exhale, and nodded to their rapt audience.

“That’s all?” Kurt couldn’t help but ask. When had he stopped biting his tongue?

“That’s all,” Blaine confirmed, and Kurt’s attention on their conversation was lost as Blaine took the lead once more; he bent Kurt back in one final dip to end their performance. The applause was enthusiastic, and in his periphery, Kurt could see Toby and Andrew’s matching, infuriatingly knowing smiles.

And when he looked back up, Blaine was gazing down at him with eyes that reminded him of…

Of harbor lights, guiding him home long after nightfall.

Distance: 6,451 miles

*

Next: Missouri

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 6.2/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 20 Nov 2013 20:57:50 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.

This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays and Sundays at 5pm EST/10pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).
Previously: -1 | ME | NH | VT | MA | RI | CT | NY | NJ | PA | DE | MD | VA | NC | SC | GA | FL | AL | MS | TN | KY | WV | OH | MI | IN | IL | WI

Day 052: Wednesday 7th November, 2012
Clear-Air Turbulence (Minnesota)

“Oh my god, Prince. We have to watch this, Blaine, we have to!”

“You’re getting no argument from me.”

“Okay, so, Minnesota: Purple Rain. Onto Iowa…”

“Oh my god,” Blaine wheezed between bouts of laughter. Kurt was still splayed out on the shiny, waxed wooden floor in front of the lane, holding his stomach and eyes watering from his own giggles. “This was the best idea ever.”

They were at the Bryant Lake Bowl in Minneapolis, a curious place that somehow managed to be a restaurant, bar, theater, and bowling alley all at once. They had most of the bowling area to themselves, the only other people there a group of six hipster-looking students occupying the lane at the far end. Upon setting foot inside, Blaine had immediately fallen in love with the atmosphere of the place, understanding straight away why it was listed as an LGBT hangout.

For Blaine, it was an escape—a way to get out of his head and cut loose for a while without having to think too much about anything. It had all gotten to the point of being too intense, and he’d mostly gone beyond wanting to hash it out, because what was the point? Obviously, Kurt wasn’t ready for a relationship of any kind—and that was fine, because Blaine wasn’t asking for one. Particularly not now.

By sleeping with Max, Kurt had given Blaine the reality check he’d sorely needed, and now they could just move forward in the way that they needed to. They were friends first. Everything else had to come second.

“Okay, okay,” Kurt said breathlessly, struggling to his feet and brushing off the seat of his pants as he looked at the pins down the lane. “Did I even hit any?”

“Gutter ball,” Blaine called out around a chuckle, raising his voice to carry over the music playing in the bowling alley—a shuffled loop of the new Mumford & Sons album that Kurt and Blaine had both learned by heart over the course of the past month.

“What was it again?” Kurt asked as he came over, walking in time with the beat of Holland Road, and Blaine glanced down at the dog-eared laminate titled, ‘BLB Crazy Bowl.’

“One-Eyed Jack,” he said, “You have to turn around twice, cover one eye with your hand, and bowl. That’s how you ended up on your ass.”

“Right,” Kurt replied, blue-green eyes sparkling with some of that light Blaine had been missing in them. He bent over the scorecard and examined it briefly. “Look who’s winning. Two games to one.”

“So strange, especially since I haven’t beaten you since we were sixteen,” Blaine commented, prodding him gently in the ribs and leaning up to speak against his lips, “Stop letting me win.”

Kurt sashayed away with a wink and a wiggle of his hips, retrieving another bowling ball as he went, and Blaine bit his lip against a grin as he thought, There you are. I missed you.

Blaine watched him follow the instructions from the laminate, rapidly spinning twice in a way that looked again as if the music itself was his partner in a dance. Instead of covering only one eye as the card had instructed, he covered both and sent the ball rapidly spinning into the gutter—sure enough, he ended up falling on his ass for the second time in a row. His bright, musical peals of laughter were infectious, and Blaine leaned on the backs of chairs for support as he staggered over to help him up.

The group of teenagers at the other end of the alley were dancing and spinning one another in time with the song’s stringed refrain, and as Blaine held out a shaking hand to help Kurt up, Kurt glanced over at them.

“Dance with me,” he said, and Blaine complied immediately. It was almost too easy to assume a loose waltz position, letting Kurt lead them around in a slow, smiling dance that was more a shuffle of their feet than any discernible step. He dropped his head to rest on Kurt’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of his cologne and letting the music carry his heavy limbs.

With Kurt humming along to the vocalizations over the strings, the vibrations tickling Blaine’s cheek, he was at once struck by the unfairness of the situation, this state of in-between, of together-but-not. Should we even have started this? he wondered, a fleeting thought full of regret, but regret of what? Of starting, or of not starting soon enough? Because the thing was, Blaine would be Kurt’s in a heartbeat if he asked. He was already Kurt’s, and Kurt was… Wasn’t Kurt his, too?

“I’ve missed us like this,” Kurt murmured, reminding Blaine that no, Kurt wasn’t his—he’d gone out of his way to prove it in Chicago. And Blaine had done nothing to stop it, when he so easily could have. He’d practically given Kurt his blessing. Lips brushing the outer shell of Blaine’s ear, Kurt sang, “And I’ll still believe, though there’s cracks you’ll see.”

But of course Kurt was his. Kurt was his but refused to believe it, and though it was a supremely ugly feeling, it pissed Blaine off more than he could stand.

Abruptly breaking their hold and without meeting Kurt’s eyes, he asked, “Can we get out of here?”

Kurt paused, hands slowly falling to his sides, and said, “Sure. Let’s go.”

They’d left the R.V. in the small, mostly empty parking lot behind the Bowl, and Blaine wasted no time in jumping into the driver’s seat. He was pulling out before Kurt had even closed the passenger side door, and sighed inwardly in gratitude when Kurt remained silent.

It was a mere five minute drive to the waters of Lake Calhoun, a straight line up Lagoon Avenue, but to Blaine it felt unending. Anger was charting a fiery path through his veins and he needed to be near the water, to be able to look at it moving under the light of the half-moon and let its perpetual, unchanging ebb ground him again. It wasn’t Maine, it wasn’t the ocean, and it certainly wasn’t getting answers to all of his unasked questions, but it would have to do.

Thankfully, Kurt seemed to realize that Blaine needed some time to himself, and didn’t try to follow him out of the R.V. Blaine’s footsteps were dull thuds as he walked slowly along the narrow dock that jutted out into the water, and he sat down at the end, crossing his legs and closing his eyes.

The night was fresh and uncomplicated, the water calm and still, but his head was a mess of threads tangled up in music and movies and sex. Blaine placed his palms either side of him, flat against the wood of the dock in an effort to ground himself and let the anger drain out of him, worm its way through the wood and down into the water where it would dissipate, but the weight of his own unmet expectations pressed down upon him like a tangible weight that he couldn’t simply shrug off.

He wasn’t surprised when he heard the distinctive click of Kurt’s boots approaching.

“Blaine?” Kurt asked from a few paces back. “What’s going on?”

Taking a deep lungful of air, Blaine let his eyes slip closed, just briefly, before standing to face him. Quietly, he asked, “What are we?”

Kurt sucked in a breath through his teeth and pinched between his eyes, looking thoroughly sorry that he’d even asked; Blaine’s rage crested, and he let the wave take him.

“I’m serious. What are we, why are we doing this? Am I just your safe option because I’m here and willing?”

Kurt dropped his hand and stared him down with a look that made Blaine want to take a step back, but he held his ground. “In what universe would you be anybody’s safe option, Blaine?” Kurt spat derisively.

“I’m a pretty safe option for you,” Blaine retorted. “It’s not like you have to commit to anything with us because you already laid down the rules, right? Only I think I missed the part where you get to go fuck your asshole ex-boyfriend just to prove that all this means nothing to you.”

“You can’t be serious right now,” Kurt said incredulously.

“Oh, I’m deadly serious.”

“You really think the reason I did it is to… Fuck, Blaine. Do you even know me at all?”

“You know what? I’m not so sure,” Blaine shot back. “Ever since this whole thing started—no, ever since I got back, you’ve been like a different person.”

“That’s because I am a different fucking person!” Kurt shouted, throwing his arms out to the sides. “And I said I’m sorry for what I did! What more do you want from me?”

“I honestly don’t know anymore,” Blaine said, sighing. “I want you to tell me that this is just a road trip thing.”

There was a long, awful pause that clamored across the space between them, and then Kurt said quietly, “You’re caving.”

“Kurt, don’t—“

“You’re caving; that’s what this is all about!” Kurt exclaimed, and Blaine’s stomach dropped into his shoes.

“Stop it,” Blaine said, walking forward and setting them mere inches apart. “This is about you being selfish and reckless and a complete idiot for thinking any good would ever come of getting back into it with Max fucking Whitley.”

“I wasn’t getting back into it with him, Jesus!”

“Then what were you doing?”

“I was trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t caving!” Kurt screamed.

In the awful, silent seconds that followed, Kurt’s eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth. Not knowing what else to do with the peculiar rush that flooded his system, Blaine tore away Kurt’s hand and replaced it with his lips; he swallowed Kurt’s surprised whimper, licking into his mouth hungrily, and with little finesse. He could feel Kurt’s hands flail before settling, one against Blaine’s chest and the other molded to his neck.

Kurt’s teeth biting almost painfully into Blaine’s bottom lip, he realized that underneath it all, Kurt was still the same person—left to his own devices, however, he’d simply gotten better at hiding that person. But Blaine had found the crack in his armor, and he could feel it widening—in that moment, he knew: he could wait.

“Blaine, I—stop for a second, just—“

“Okay, okay, I’m stopping,” Blaine breathed, pressing his forehead to Kurt’s and cupping his jaw with both hands as they breathed in each other’s air.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Kurt murmured, his breathing ragged. “That’s not us; it’s never been us.”

“I know, I know,” Blaine said quickly, all the fight in him now gone to some far-off place. “I’m sorry, I just got so—“

“I know. I’ve been putting up with it for seventeen years, remember?” Kurt reminded him in a tentatively wry tone, and Blaine couldn’t help but smile. “Can’t we just… Be happy, and still have this?”

It doesn’t matter if he wasn’t caving, Blaine thought. It doesn’t matter if he wasn’t falling for me. Just that he thought he could be is proof enough. This is what we are, but maybe…

“What you did was really, really shitty,” he said.

“I know. And I’m so—“

“But okay.”

“Okay?” Kurt asked hesitantly.

“Okay,” Blaine said with a shrug. “We can still have this.”

“And we—“ Kurt stopped, clearing his throat and dropping his gaze for a moment. “We have to remember that we’re friends first.”

Blaine hesitated. “One condition.”

“I’m listening,” Kurt said.

“I know you well enough to know that you were safe with—with him,” Blaine began, searching Kurt’s eyes and receiving a nod. “But, look… We’ve been going out a lot and sure, we always look out for each other but what happens if one of us isn’t around for some reason? What if one of us gets too drunk to remember to be safe?”

“Well, not that I really want to think about that, but sure. It’s not impossible,” Kurt conceded, shifting from one foot to the other. “What’s your condition?”

“If we’re doing this, then it’s just us,” Blaine said. “No one else. Deal?”

“Deal,” Kurt agreed, nodding and holding out his index finger for Blaine to hook around his own—their old version of a pinky swear.

Blaine shook his head, and tapped his lips. “Here.”

With one eyebrow raised, Kurt stepped forward and sealed the deal with the requisite kiss, settling his arms atop Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine immediately pulled him closer, rocking back on his heels and sending himself stumbling off-balance. Not realizing how close they were to the edge of the dock, he simply giggled into Kurt’s mouth and set his foot back to steady them, only to send them both tumbling over the side.

The water was an icy assault, but beneath the surface lay silence and a similar sensation to the drift between waking and sleeping—suspension, and a gradual slip-slide into a welcome embrace. Kurt was still holding onto him, their legs tangling as they both tried to right themselves, and with one strong kick, they broke the surface.

“It’s fucking f-freezing, oh my god,” Kurt hissed, teeth chattering and water running from his hair in shining rivulets. “What the h-hell did you do that f-for?”

Blaine couldn’t help it; he took one look at the chagrined expression on Kurt’s face and burst out laughing. Kurt punched him in the shoulder.

“It’s not f-funny,” he insisted, but soon his own reluctant laughter was mingling with Blaine’s.

The light of the half-moon was reflecting off the water and casting their surroundings in muted shades of gray and navy, the lake an endless, obsidian depth beneath them. Hands moving slowly through the water, Blaine found Kurt’s legs and hooked them around his waist; even through layers of soaked clothing he could still feel the warmth of Kurt’s skin. Skin that’s still mine, he thought, smiling as he treaded water.

As Kurt’s laughter faded into silence and he looked down at Blaine with quiet contemplation, Blaine let himself drop so that the water lapped gently at his chin.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Given our current predicament, I’m not so sure,” Kurt replied, but the fond crinkle at the corners of his eyes gave away his true answer. “Why do you ask?”

“I wanna try something,” Blaine said.

“I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I can get hard like this,” Kurt said. He gestured around them, the tips of his fingers trailing the surface of the water and forming ripples that spread outward.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” Blaine said, and at Kurt’s raised eyebrow, he continued, “Kiss underwater.”

“Such a romantic,” Kurt replied with a roll of his eyes, and Blaine just had enough time to suck in a breath before their lips connected and they dipped below the surface.

They sank slowly, mouths joined and limbs entwined; once again Blaine let the quietness claim him as he focused purely on the thrilling yet somehow odd sensation of it all. Seeming to sense Blaine’s reluctance to move his mouth lest he cause either of them to fill up their lungs with water, Kurt took Blaine’s face in his hands and gave him his air instead. It made Blaine pleasantly dizzy, and he snaked a lazy hand through the water to tangle his fingers in the drift of Kurt’s hair.

It felt like a first breath, and over all too soon as Kurt unwound his legs from Blaine’s hips and kicked for the surface.

“Was it everything you imagined it’d be?” he asked, chest heaving in the water and hands trembling against the nape of Blaine’s neck.

It was better, Blaine thought, buying himself time by shaking the water from his curls. Licking his lips, he grinned up at Kurt from beneath his water-logged eyelashes, and said, “I think our technique could use work.”

Distance: 6,174 miles

*

Next: Iowa

Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 6.1/10]

dazzlebug — Wed, 13 Nov 2013 20:36:31 GMT

Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.

This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays at 5pm EST/10pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).
Previously: -1 | ME | NH | VT | MA | RI | CT | NY | NJ | PA | DE | MD | VA | NC | SC | GA | FL | AL | MS | TN | KY | WV | OH | MI | IN | IL

Day 051: Tuesday 6th November, 2012
One Minute to Midnight (Wisconsin)

“Hey, pass me the torque wrench?”

“Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration, don’t fail me now.”

“Oh my god, The Blues Brothers. I haven’t watched that in years!”

Kurt (08:53am) – [Sent to: ALL CONTACTS] Have you voted?
April (9:12am) – Yes, dummy. Remember we all did our absentee ballots at the same time?
Toby (10:32am) – We managed to coordinate lunch breaks so we can head over together—thanks for the reminder.
Marshall (11:01am) – Of course! Thanks again for all your help with the door to door this summer. Now we wait.
Zoe (11:11am) – Got my sticker and everything. Make the right wish!
Blaine (12:59pm) – On my way back, got into a debate with an anti-O. They were out of the sandwich you wanted so I got you an Italian Club instead. Need anything else while I’m out?
Jen P (1:44pm) – IMG_20121106_9368.jpg; voting lines around the block! :)
Dad (4:19pm) – Taking a quick break before I head back out. Had about twenty so far, mostly people still getting over Sandy. Now relax, you’ve done enough.
Carole (4:54pm) – Never realized all of this driving around would be so exhausting! Don’t know how you two do it! Getting them all to the polls has been worth it though, even if just for some of the characters I’ve met today. Missing you and Blaine, hope you’re taking care of yourselves.
Finn (5:02pm) – Just got off work and heading straight to the polling station. Good luck tonight, dude.
Blaine (6:00pm) – Where are you? It’s starting!

Kurt smiled crookedly, anticipation fluttering at his insides, and pocketed his phone. He was standing outside Madison’s, a bar on King Street, having a much-needed moment to himself after what had been a thoroughly crazy day. It felt freeing beyond measure to have things to occupy his mind, to keep him from thinking too much about how he’d been behaving, and how he’d now spent two lonely nights out on the couch because he couldn’t quite bring himself to address what had and hadn’t passed between him and Blaine.

He’d thought that what he’d done in Chicago was at least partly about revenge, but it hadn’t been about that at all—it had been about proving something he thought he knew about himself but that turned out to be a gross mistruth; an itch that he’d needed to scratch, but when he finally did it wasn’t satisfying in the least. And then he’d seen the hurt in Blaine’s eyes, and his stomach had flipped like a pancake, and he’d known without question that he’d fallen in love with Blaine sometime beyond memory.

But how was that fair? How was it fair to fall in love only to be forced, through circumstance and the rules he’d laid down, to fall back out of it again just as quickly?

In light of everything there was to be done, he and Blaine had reached some sort of unspoken détente, declaring without words a moratorium on their issues so that they could concentrate on following up all of their summer efforts toward both President Obama’s re-election campaign and the campaign for marriage equality in their home state. And today was the day that all their efforts would hopefully come to fruition.

He sighed once, allowing himself a moment’s grace. Somehow, he would make things right between them, but tonight was not the night.

When he stepped inside, Blaine waved him over to the bar with a rueful half-smile. Kurt wound his way through the tall tables and stools crowded with people, grimacing as he passed by a group of students crowded around a small, wall-mounted electronic jukebox playing Amy Winehouse’s You Know I’m No Good, and made his way towards Blaine.

“Have they called any yet?” he asked, sliding onto an empty bar stool and taking a sip of the cocktail Blaine slid across to him.

“Indiana and Kentucky for Romney, Vermont for Obama,” Blaine replied succinctly, tilting his head toward Kurt but not looking away from the screen over the bar that was playing NBC News. He rested his elbows on the bar, clasping his hands and absently chewing on his thumbnail; nerves were practically radiating off him in waves. Tentatively, Kurt slid his hand over, fingers splayed and wiggling to catch Blaine’s attention. It felt a little like it had back in Provincetown: a hand reaching out for more where there had never been more. Only this time, it was Kurt trying to push back unturnable tides.

When Blaine finally took his hand, though, Kurt thought that maybe together they could do it.

“What about Question 1? Any news?” he asked, referring to the bill on Maine’s ballot that, if passed, would grant marriage equality to same-sex couples.

Blaine shook his head and took a large gulp of his beer, then grabbed a napkin and wiped across his mouth. “What if—“

“B,” Kurt interrupted, breaking their grasp to loosely work his fingers up into Blaine’s curls. “This is our year.”

At last, Blaine gave him a real smile. After he’d briefly leaned into Kurt’s touch, and after Kurt had bitten his lip against the urge to kiss his smile wider, they joined hands again and settled in to watch.

The hours passed at a crawl, and the tension only grew as more and more people filtered into the bar. Despite the air conditioning and the cool temperatures outside, it quickly became hot, and before long, the scents of beer and body odor were lazily permeating the air.

At 7:00pm, they cheered as Maine was called for Obama along with Illinois, Rhode Island, Connecticut, Delaware, and Maryland. At 8:30pm, the entire bar erupted with triumphant whoops as Wisconsin went blue. And at 10:54pm, when early results showed marriage equality ahead in Maine, Blaine’s unfailing grip on Kurt’s hand suddenly became so tight that it almost hurt. His expression was clouded as he looked at Kurt, his gaze piercing.

Suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of Blaine’s scrutiny, Kurt shifted in his seat and signaled the bartender for another round.

“Do you think you’ll ever capitalize on it?” Blaine asked.

“Capitalize on what?”

“Marriage equality,” Blaine clarified. “If we get it, I mean.”

“Of course we’ll get it,” Kurt said, repeating, “This is our year.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?” Blaine probed.

“I mean, I’d like to think there’s someone out there who could put up with me ‘til death do us part, but…” Kurt trailed off with a shrug.

“There is someone, you know,” Blaine said, as matter-of-factly as if he was commenting on the weather.

“What are you saying?” Kurt asked slowly.

Blaine took a long, deliberate drink from his bottle, and squarely met Kurt’s questioning look. “There is someone who can put up with you. He’s been doing it seventeen years already.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” Kurt said weakly, his stomach twisting into a tight knot. There was no way Blaine could be saying what Kurt thought he was saying—not with their rules, and especially not with what Kurt had done.

“Just that,” Blaine replied, his voice infuriatingly mild.

“What about you?” Kurt asked, shifting in his seat to more fully face Blaine.

A soft, barely-there smile had the corners of Blaine’s mouth twitching, and at length he responded, “If the time was right, if he was the right guy… Yeah, I think I’d like to get married.”

“Proposal?” Kurt prompted, resting his chin in his hand. For all the trouble he had with the word ‘love,’ and despite the fact that he’d vehemently deny any such accusation, buried beneath his layers upon layers of armor and resistance was a young man who, try as he might, couldn’t help being a romantic.

“Something simple,” Blaine answered, looking thoughtful. “Quiet and intimate, just the two of us. Not on an anniversary or a birthday or Christmas. Definitely not on Valentine’s.”

“You or m—him?” Kurt forced out, quickly covering his slip and clearing his expression as much as he was able. He couldn’t keep letting his mind run away with his tongue, he couldn’t—it felt too much like cheating himself. He cleared his throat, and added, “Would you be the one getting swept off your feet or the one doing the sweeping?”

“I hadn’t ever really thought that far ahead,” Blaine admitted, picking at the label on his beer bottle where the condensation was causing it to peel away from the glass. “Either way you end up pretty vulnerable.”

“Isn’t that the point of love, though? Being vulnerable but being okay with it?”

“No. It’s being vulnerable but trusting the other person not to betray that vulnerability.”

Kurt found himself nodding even at the same moment as it hit him with blunt, bruising force exactly what Blaine was talking about. It was an unexpected segue, but a segue nonetheless—perhaps now was the time to make things right, after all.

Not a second after he opened his mouth to speak, everyone in the bar cheered. Kurt’s head snapped up to look at the television screen, where he saw a smartly dressed blonde anchorwoman holding her earpiece and saying, “Once again, that’s Iowa, California, and Washington for President Obama. I’m just waiting for confirmation…“

A deathly quiet enveloped the inside of Madison’s, and without giving it a moment’s thought, Kurt leaned over to press his forehead to Blaine’s temple, eyes slipping closed as he waited. Blaine squeezed Kurt’s knee and left his hand there; Kurt covered it with his own, and took a deep breath.

“And with two hundred and seventy-four electoral votes, we are now calling this election for President Barack Obama.”

The force of Blaine’s hug, arms thrown tightly around him with Blaine’s face buried in the hollow of his neck, almost toppled Kurt from his stool. He grabbed the bar with one hand to right himself and then held Blaine tightly, thoughtlessly pressing a fleeting kiss into his hair.

Looking around the bar, he saw other couples and groups of friends hugging, exchanging high fives and fist bumps, and there were even two girls by the door to the restrooms wiping away each other’s joyful tears. The group of students sitting by the jukebox had changed the music to Proud by Heather Small, and Kurt grinned despite himself, letting himself revel in the simple, uncomplicated, unbridled elation of the moment.

Blaine had always been so expressive that Kurt never had difficulty reading his emotions on his face—an exaggerated downward quirk of his mouth when trying not to laugh; a tilt of his head and furrowing of his brow when giving sympathy; a slight but unmistakable widening of his eyes and a flush of anticipation in his cheeks when getting turned on—but when Blaine broke their hug, clearing his throat and awkwardly settling his open hands on his thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them, Kurt had no idea what to say or do. The water was flowing fast between them instead of beneath the bridge, but did he need to simply divert it or build the bridge from the ground up? At this point, either action looked likely to require a Herculean effort, and skills he couldn’t be sure he possessed.

Thankfully, the rest of the evening passed in a blur of exchanging goodwill and congratulations with the other patrons of the bar as they all waited for Romney’s concession and Obama’s acceptance. By 11:59pm, in the midst of the merriment surrounding them, Kurt had almost forgotten about Question 1.

One minute to midnight, and the news ticker at the bottom of the television screen suddenly read, ‘Breaking News.’ Kurt sat up straighter on his stool, his hand automatically gravitating toward Blaine’s. A replay of Romney’s concession speech cut to the same blonde anchorwoman from earlier, her make-up looking like it had been retouched.

She was smiling as she reported, “And while we’re waiting for President Obama’s acceptance speech, Maine has this evening made history as the first state to vote by referendum to back marriage equality.”

It was as if he and Blaine had formed their own private vacuum of two: sound ceased to exist, and the air was hard to come by. There were tremors in Blaine’s hands, almost imperceptible at first but growing until he was shaking violently, his eyes still glued to the television screen.

“Hey,” Kurt said, squeezing his hand. “Hey, look at me. B, look at me.”

Blaine’s eyes swam and shone, even in the dimmed light of the bar, and for a moment he looked as if he didn’t recognize Kurt. Then his expression cleared, and he pitched forward to take Kurt’s face in his trembling hands and kiss him: softly and tenderly, like a first kiss at the end of a first date, at the beginning of the rest.

God, I love you, Kurt thought, stretching himself into the kiss and welcoming the feeling of Blaine’s full lips skating over his own in long bursts, not caring at all that they were in public and acting like the very people he’d professed to hate all the way back in Florida.

Blaine inhaled sharply and broke away, eyes remaining closed for a moment. Kurt glanced to their left to see the bartender watching them with a wry smile.

“I’m guessing you guys are from Maine?” he asked, taking their empties and putting them behind the bar. At Kurt’s nod, he continued, “Champagne’s on the house if one of you proposes.”

Blaine snorted, and it all came screaming back. “Unlikely when we’re not even an item,” he said, a weariness in his voice that Kurt hated with every fiber of his being.

“Could’ve fooled me,” the bartender said, and moved off to serve some customers further down the bar—or rather refuse service, considering the way they were already practically falling over one another.

Surprisingly, the assumption didn’t irritate Kurt like he was expecting it to. The way he and Blaine interacted with one another, he couldn’t exactly blame someone for thinking they were together. Quite rightly, people believed what they could see—but in a way, Kurt mused, that also blinded them.

He, on the other hand, was seeing clearly—perhaps for the first time. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and that was to pursue his atonement, clear the air, and wipe away this heaviness that had come between them. It was almost too intense for him to bear.

“Told you it was our year,” Kurt said, and Blaine shot him a sheepish grin. It looked freer than Kurt had felt all night, and he thought that maybe the tide was turning anyway.

Distance: 5,900 miles

*

Next: Minnesota