Day 045: Wednesday 31st October, 2013
The Reclamation Project (Michigan)

"So what you're really saying is I have to choose between Beyonc� and George Clooney?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"...Fine. Dreamgirls."



His spirits high, Blaine looked over his outfit in the mirror, turning this way and that. He was wearing tight black jeans that hugged his ass and thighs, a simple, fitted black tank, and the oversized, fine red feather jacket Kurt had made specifically for him. In the hopes of achieving a 'devil may care' look, he had outlined his eyes in smudgy black eyeliner and styled his curls a little messier than usual. As he glanced at himself one last time, he decided that he'd met his self-imposed objective. He looked good, and he felt ready to get up on stage and rock the house.

Blaine was calling it 'The Reclamation Project:' They would go to The Alley Bar in Ann Arbor, where Hugh and April's open-mic live karaoke outfit was playing, and somehow, Blaine would get Kurt up on the stage to sing. He was banking on the fact that Kurt had never before backed down from a challenge and hoping against hope that he wouldn't break his streak, even with something as contentious as Kurt's singing.

His plan had been forming ever since he'd caught Kurt mouthing the words to a song as they got ready for their night out in Lexington. It had solidified even further when he'd heard Kurt humming in The Lima Bean upon his return from the restroom, and Blaine had almost gone under as a wave of fondness and excitement crashed over him. It was then, following a brief text exchange with Hugh, that his plan had become iron-clad.

And then Kurt stalked out of the bathroom looking every inch the glam rock star: a plain white tank, skinny leather pants and a leather jacket with studded shoulders. He'd completed the look with a bright pink star framing his left eye, and had somehow worked pink and blond streaks into the front of his hair.

Blaine felt as if he'd had the air punched out of him, and all other thoughts were driven from his mind entirely.

"What?" Kurt asked flatly upon catching him staring.

"Happy Halloween, indeed," Blaine said, with an aborted gesture towards Kurt's outfit. "I see what you mean, now. About the pants paying for themselves."

"Best three hundred dollars I ever spent," Kurt quipped, sashaying his hips as he moved closer. He tugged gently on the shoulders of Blaine's jacket, smoothed his palms down the front, and asked, "This still fit okay?"

"Perfect. It's perfect," Blaine breathed, taken by how the pink make-up had managed to bring out a startling blue clarity in Kurt's eyes.

"If only we didn't have somewhere to be..." Kurt trailed off, scanning Blaine's body from head to toe and shaking his head.

Since hearing from both of their families earlier that evening, he and Kurt had been in considerably brighter moods than the past two days. Hurricane Sandy had been and gone. No major damage had been sustained at either family home back in Maine, and Blaine had received a text from his dad just before dinner to report that he and Alison were safe and well, having gone to their cabin at Saint Mary Lake at the last minute. They could finally let loose and breathe again.

"Well," Blaine began, ducking his head and looking up at Kurt from underneath his eyelashes, "we've still got fifteen minutes."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, eyes landing on Blaine's mouth. "Excellent," he murmured, and pushed Blaine backwards into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.



Twenty-five minutes later, as Blaine's phone buzzed angrily in his pocket, they walked into the bar. It looked to be packed almost to capacity, people crowding around tables decorated with black candles and along walls strung with cotton spider webs. Not a single person was dressed in civilian clothes; as Blaine briefly scanned the crowd, he counted four zombies, a sandman, three mummies, Starsky and Hutch, Daisy Duke, a banana, five witches in various stages of undress, and the eleventh Doctor—complete with bow tie and fez. The atmosphere was thrumming with the low undercurrent of a thrill that Blaine could attribute only to Halloween parties, something caught between loud fun and quiet fear, despite knowing better.

"Elmo!" came a croaky voice to his right, and Blaine grimaced.

"Hey, Flower," he greeted April, turning at the same moment Kurt did.

"I've missed you guys so much!" she exclaimed, and let out a peal of laughter as Kurt grabbed her around the waist, picked her up and spun her around. Blaine felt a rush of excitement—at the very least, Kurt's good mood was promising.

"What is up with your voice?" Kurt asked her without preamble, and April rolled her eyes.

"I have fucking laryngitis, so I can't sing," she grumbled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "That's why we're so happy you came tonight, because we were wondering—"

"Oh, no," Kurt interrupted, hands raised. "No, you know I don't sing."

"Actually, we were hoping that Blaine would open for us," April said, turning toward him and shooting him an imploring look. "Remember the show at The Cannery when Will's grandma was in the hospital, and we did Let Me Entertain You?"

Blaine nodded, smiling at the memory of the show. He'd had a blast performing with them, even more so than The Spinning Cogs, and he couldn't wait to get up on stage with them again.

"Of course I'll open for you," Blaine said. April grinned, and the stark white bones of her skintight skeleton costume stretched as she stood on tip toe to press a dry kiss to his cheek.

"Are you guys drinking?" she asked, nodding in the direction of the bar.

"Yeah, we just parked right behind the place," Kurt said, lazily waving his hand for Blaine to take as he followed her.

"Then the first round's on me. You're seriously saving my ass," April said earnestly, folding a twenty dollar bill between her first two fingers and holding it out over the bar. One of the bartenders—dressed all in red with a plastic pair of devil horns sitting atop his spiky brown hair—was by her side in an instant, and she ordered three tequila shots.

"So where are the guys?" Blaine asked as their shots were being lined up in front of them.

April rolled her eyes again, and said, "Probably all smoking in the courtyard. I had to come inside just to get a moment of peace. Can you believe that?"

"What's up?" Kurt asked.

"Oh my god, it's just... I love these guys, you know I do. But spending every goddamn day with them in a freaking bus is..." April trailed off, shaking her head. Attention wandering to the full shot now sitting before her, she raised it to them and downed it in one without so much as a pull at the corners of her mouth, Blaine and Kurt both following suit. "I mean, Will had to go home because of his grandma, and—okay, take today for example. Hugh has been on my ass about taking my fucking medication, which, I've been on birth control since I was fucking fifteen, okay? I know how to take a goddamn pill. Liam's barely spoken to Dan all week since he made some sort of joke about Green Day... I don't even know. Drake's constantly pranking the both of them, and it's escalated to the point where he's trying to recruit the rest of us, and Marcie's been freaking out all day long because the guys are trying to get her to sing tonight."

Blaine let out a low whistle and signaled the bartender for another round of shots, watching Kurt's face twist in sympathy.

"Just, I know you guys have your magical rainbow connection or whatever, but seriously. How do you stand it?" April asked, eyes flicking between them.

Kurt shot him a questioning look, and Blaine shrugged a little—they hadn't exactly discussed whether they were going to tell anyone about what they were doing behind closed doors, and though he'd spilled the beans to his mom, telling one of their friends was an altogether different matter.

Their look must have lasted a fraction too long, however, because April stepped closer to them with her eyes wide and scanning their faces. A slow and satisfied Cheshire cat grin blossomed across her face, and as she leaned back against the bar, she asked, "How long?"

"It, um... Depends," Blaine said, looking to Kurt for guidance.

"It happened in Philadelphia, and then again in Key West," Kurt said succinctly, "and practically every night since then."

April crossed her arms over her chest, announcing, "Well firstly, there is no fucking way I'm having sex with any of them. And secondly, Kurt Hummel, since when am I not the first person you text when you add a new ass to the pile?"

"Oh, maybe since the invention of your told-you-so dance?" Kurt shot back.

"Wait," Blaine intoned, turning to April. "You said this would happen?"

"July fourth. You guys have that whole Joey and Dawson thing going on... Always have," April said.

Before Blaine had a chance to dwell too long on her words—or the way Kurt ducked his head and avoided his gaze—April checked her watch and nodded towards the end of the bar where the band's equipment was set up on a small stage. "Come on, time for us to do our thing."

Just before Blaine was dragged away, Kurt's fingers coiled around the back of his neck and pulled him close for a bruising kiss. He captured Blaine's bottom lip between his teeth and pulled off slowly, then whispered into his mouth, "Break a leg, rock star."

With a bitten-off groan, Blaine left Kurt at the bar and followed April through the crowd. The rest of the band was filing in from the courtyard and each of them greeted him with hugs and smiles as they rushed to take their places on stage—this was how it always was with The One With The Band, and Blaine had long since grown used to their last-minute ways.

Once all the members of the band were in place, the lights dimmed and the noise in the bar died down as all heads turned towards them. Blaine found Kurt's face at the back of the crowd just as Daniel sank into his stage stance at his keyboard, legs spread and knees bent, and began playing the introduction to their opening song.

"Ladies and gentlemen, zombies and ghouls," he spoke over the synthesized piano, spreading his arms wide, "we are The One With The Band, and we're thrilled to be here in Ann Arbor!

"We're a live, open-mic karaoke band, and we'll be opening and closing the show for you. You'll find copies of the song list around the bar, and we'd love for you to come rock out with us. So don't be shy about putting your name down—just hand your slips to either myself or Mystique here," Blaine continued, gesturing to his right where Marcie stood ready at her own microphone, her trumpet by her side. "For now just sit back, relax, and let us entertain you."

The crowd applauded politely, some cheering and raising their glasses as Liam strummed his electric guitar and brought a new edge to the music.

Locking eyes with Kurt, who was slowly pushing his way through to the front of the crowd, Blaine began to sing.

"Hell is gone and Heaven's here; there's nothing left for you to fear. Shake your ass, come over here, now scream," he sang, one hand curled around the mic and lips brushing it with every word. "I'm a burning effigy of everything I used to be; you're my rock of empathy, my dear.

"So come on, let me entertain you." Blaine's voice soared over the music, the lights bursting into life and Hugh joining in on the drums. It was then that the true rush began, his pulse quickening. He grinned across at Marcie as she provided the backing vocals, and winked at her encouragingly—she was already doing fantastically.

Kurt was at the front of the crowd, standing next to April and close enough to touch—instead, Blaine spread his arms wide again and circled his hips, making love to the song and the crowd throughout the second verse and chorus. Performing came to him like breathing, and whenever he found himself up on stage, it was almost like he morphed into the best possible version of himself: free, and unencumbered, and purely in the moment. The only other time he experienced anything similar was when he was directing, watching the action come together right before his eyes and knowing that he was witnessing creation.

The audience were all jumping by the time Blaine was singing the final refrain, feet spread and beckoning them closer with a repetition of, "come on, come on, come on, come on." He circled around behind Marcie and nudged her towards center stage for her trumpet solo, clapping his hands over his head as she brought the house down and the song to its end.

Applause erupted, and after taking a brief bow, Blaine randomly picked a slip from the handful he'd been handed by members of the crowd during the latter half of the song, and passed the rest to Marcie. "Okay," he said, panting heavily, "the first brave soul we're welcoming to the stage this evening is Mark, and he'll be giving us his take on ACDC's Thunderstruck!"

Blaine was practically carried through the crowd after he handed the mic over, Kurt and April flanking him all the way to the bar, where he drank deeply from the bottle of water shoved into his hands and took pause to throw an arm around Kurt's neck and kiss him firmly on the mouth.

"How was I?" he asked, voice raised over the none-too-shabby singing.

Kurt's eyes glittered under the bar lights, and his smile was just as bright as he replied, "You were wonderful."

"Seriously, Blaine. Pure sex," April agreed, nodding furiously. "If you weren't gay, I'd tell you to watch out."

Blaine laughed, and they settled onto stools at the bar to take in the evening. He probably wouldn't be singing again until the time came to close the show, and he had at least two hours to convince Kurt to get up on stage and sing. Now was the time to sit back, catch his breath, and continue nudging.

After five more songs, including a truly awful version of Sweet Caroline that had Kurt grimacing, Blaine wincing, and April lamenting the fact that she couldn't magically turn her water into wine, Marcie stepped down from the stage to take a break. She approached them almost shyly, keeping her eyes trained downward; when she reached them, Blaine pulled her tiny frame close.

"What can I get you?" he asked her, trying to catch the bartender's attention.

"Oh, um... I'm good, thanks, I have water up on stage," she said, glancing up at him from under her thick bangs where they fell in front of her eyes. "Did I do okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Kurt interjected incredulously. "You were fantastic! And not just your trumpet solo—which, by the way, was incredible—but your voice is great, too!"

"Really?" Marcie asked, twisting her fingers together. "Because I've been thinking that maybe I could sing, like, a whole song. By myself."

"Do it. Oh my god, you have to do it," Kurt urged her.

"Is it that song I've heard you practicing with the guys? Is that why they wanted you to sing?" April asked, and when Marcie nodded hesitantly, she added, "Then I agree. Get up there and tell Hugh."

"I just... It's terrifying!" Marcie exclaimed, though her voice barely rose. "It's like holding out your bleeding heart in your hands and asking the audience not to laugh at you."

"Sweetheart, if you bring even a fraction of what you brought to the song we opened with, you'll blow everyone away," Blaine assured her, squeezing her shoulders until she grinned up at him and nodded.

"Okay, I'll do it," she said decidedly. "Although... April, will you come up on stage with me? Like, not to sing, obviously—I'd just feel better if you were there."

"Of course I will," April said, looping her arm through Marcie's. "Come on, let's go tell the guys."

Rather than watching the girls weave their way back toward the stage, Blaine watched Kurt. His eyes followed Marcie with a look so wistful, so lost, that it made Blaine's stomach churn—for the first time, he wondered if he was doing the right thing, if he should just let it drop. He didn't have to push Kurt, especially not when he'd already been making so much progress on his own... But there was an itch under his skin, an almost primal need to hear Kurt sing, that he couldn't help but bump Kurt's hip with his own when Marcie took her place front and center and Hugh counted them in.

"I bet you the next three tank dumps that you could never get up on stage and do what she's doing," he said carefully, head inclined toward Kurt but eyes fixed on Marcie as she slipped out of her own skin and into that of a performer, almost as if she was becoming the costume she wore.

"I bet you the next three tank dumps, plus a week's worth of dinners, that I could," Kurt replied, his tone holding only the merest edge of a challenge.

"Prove it," Blaine countered.

"What?" Kurt asked incredulously, turning to face him and shaking his head. "No, I—you know I can't sing."

"It's not that you can't sing; it's that you won't," Blaine said, and pointed to Marcie. "Five minutes ago she was shaking, and look at her now."

The song was a bouncy Ella Riot track with a synthesized eighties vibe; Marcie was bouncing with it as she sang her way into the chorus: "It could be so easy if you could feel what I feel now. Could it be you and me? I'm doing fine in the meantime."

Focus, Blaine thought, forcing himself not to get too caught up in the lyrics; instead, he snaked an arm around Kurt's waist and leaned up to speak right into Kurt's ear. "Come on, let me pick a song for you," he said cajolingly, singing along with Marcie, "It could be so easy."

"Why are you pushing this?" Kurt asked, sounding more tired than defensive.

"Because ever since we've left Maine, it's like I've been watching you wake up again," Blaine said. "Because we both know that you'll feel better if you do it. Because I think you want me to push you."

Slowly and deliberately, Kurt raised his bottle to his lips and took a long drink, his eyes fixed on Marcie as she danced and spun and jumped across the stage; Blaine waited him out, breath held.

"Sometimes I really hate that you know me so well," Kurt finally said, leaning into him. "I... Okay. What song did you have in mind?"

"Payphone by Maroon 5," Blaine said on an exhale, barely able to believe that his plan had worked.

Kurt nodded once, promptly downed what remained in his bottle, and walked off in the direction of the restroom, leaving Blaine excited and confused by turns. Thinking better of following him for the moment, he grabbed one of the band's slips from the bar and scribbled down Kurt's name and the song, and went up to the stage to hand it to April.

Her eyes went wide as she read it, and she gaped openly at him; he simply shrugged in response and headed to the restroom.

Kurt was washing his hands at one of the sinks, the sleeves of his jacket rolled to the elbow. He was obviously stalling for time, and Blaine suddenly wished he'd thought to bring him a shot of something.

"I stopped singing," Kurt said quietly. "And you know why."

Crossing his arms, Blaine leaned against the wall. "Because she wasn't around to sing with you anymore."

"After she was gone, it... I could always talk; that was always fine. You kept me talking. But whenever I tried to sing, it just... Nothing would come out," Kurt said, wincing and heaving a deep sigh. "What if I'm terrible? It's a really hard song."

"You're going to be great, I know it," Blaine assured him.

"Will you sing backup for me?"

"Of course I will. Come on, Twentieth Century Boy."

Kurt froze, looking around at him with something unreadable in his eyes. "What did you just say?"

"I—Twentieth Century Boy," Blaine replied, regarding him curiously.

Whatever the reason, the nickname seemed to light a fire under Kurt and he grabbed Blaine's hand, running out of the restroom with him in tow. Marcie had just finished her song and was taking a bow, her audience enraptured and applauding with whoops and cat calls. Kurt broke their grasp and made a beeline for April, whispering something into her ear. Her face lit up and she made short work of spreading whatever the message was to the rest of the band, and before Blaine knew it, she was at the mic and announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a special treat for you now. I've known this next performer since my first year of college, and while I've always had my ideas about him, I've never heard the little fucker sing. Ann Arbor, about to rock the house with T-Rex's Twentieth Century Boy, please give it up for Kurt Hummel!"

Taking his place at the backup mic with Marcie, Blaine couldn't help but grin—he should have known. Kurt glanced at him over his shoulder, face set in a stoic expression tinged with defiance; as Liam began playing the song's dirty and catchy introduction, Blaine watched Kurt grab the mic in one hand and its stand in the other.

When Kurt began to sing, arching his back and twisting to the side of the mic to look straight at him, Blaine stuttered over his backing vocals.

"Friends say it's fine, friends say it's good, everybody says it's just like rock and roll." Kurt was practically growling into the mic, his lower register unpracticed but strong and raw. If Blaine had been making love in his performance, then Kurt was laying himself at the foot of a temple in worship. "I move like a cat, charge like a ram, sting like a bee, babe, I wanna be your man."

Kurt took the mic from its stand and stalked across the stage toward Blaine like a predator with its prey in sight, and it was all Blaine could do to remember his part. "Well it's plain to see you were meant for me, yeah," Kurt sang, right into Blaine's ear, so close that Blaine was hearing his voice as it was rather than through the speakers. "I'm your boy, your twentieth century toy."

And then he was gone with a shake of his hips, strutting across the stage in those obscenely tight leather pants, turning back only once to blow Blaine a smug, triumphant kiss. He looked alive, more alive than Blaine had ever seen him, and he'd never been so sexy.

Kurt never stayed in one spot for too long, picking out members of the crowd to whom he would sing a line or two before moving on, and by the time he reached the final chorus of the song they were all begging and screaming for him, even some of the guys. Blaine watched them all with a tight ball of possessiveness in his gut, wanting nothing more than to grab Kurt and run with him back to the R.V., where he'd spend hours showing Kurt that he was the only one who knew just how to undo him.

"Twentieth century toy, I wanna be your boy. Twentieth century boy, I wanna be your toy," Kurt belted out, one arm raised into the air and stamping his foot. Marcie stepped up for her trumpet solo to close the song and Kurt began thrusting his hips forward in time with the beat—if it had been anyone else it could have looked ridiculous, but this was Kurt Hummel: tall, beautiful, yoga enthusiast, incredible in bed and, apparently, secret rock star. Blaine sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he was wearing such tight jeans, because he was nearing the stage of being hard that was almost uncomfortable, and the last thing he needed was anyone seeing exactly what Kurt did to him.

As the song ended, Kurt windmilled his arms and dropped into a crouch low on the stage with his palm slapped to the floor; the crowd cheered louder than they had for anyone yet—they wanted sex, and Kurt had given it to them, pure and undiluted.

Feeling suddenly exhausted and needing a moment to collect himself, Blaine scrambled down from the stage and pushed his way to the bar, where he promptly asked the bartender for two glasses of water.

As surreptitiously as possible, he reached down to adjust his jeans just enough to relieve some of the pressure. One way or another, Kurt was going to be his end; he was sure of it.

He was drinking deeply from his glass when he caught a flash of pink and blond in his peripheral vision, and he turned to see Kurt rushing toward him with a dazzling smile lighting up his features.

"Kurt! Holy hell, you were—"

Kurt reached forward and grabbed Blaine by the front of his jacket, hauling him into a fast and crushing kiss; when he pulled back, hands trembling, he whispered "thank you," over and over again against Blaine's lips.

Heart clenching in his chest, Blaine cupped the back of Kurt's neck, breathing heavily. Kurt pressed his forehead against Blaine's temple, and all Blaine could dazedly think was, mission accomplished.



Distance: 5,527 miles