Day 046: Thursday 1st November, 2012
The First Stage (Indiana)

"Seriously, did they ever film anything decent in Indiana?"

"Natural Born Killers doesn't look too bad."

"Yes, fine, whatever. Now talk to me more about how we're only 'loosely' planning to visit Pawnee."



Much to Blaine's dismay, Pawnee did not exist in the state of Indiana.

Wanting to preserve as much of the magic as possible—as much magic as there was to be had in Indiana, at least—Blaine had declared a rule that neither he nor Kurt were allowed to plan what they were going to be doing when they got there, simply that they were going to visit the town that was the setting of his favorite TV show, Parks & Recreation, and they would figure out the rest later.

When the GPS had told them, however, that there were towns by the name of Pawnee in Illinois, Oklahoma and Texas, but not in Indiana, their lack of plans proved to be something of a problem for Kurt. He had taken control of the navigation, locating a campground in Portage within minutes before setting about finding something for them to do nearby.

"Have you ever thought about directing a post-apocalyptic disaster movie?" Kurt had asked, scrolling through an article on his phone.

"Only always," Blaine had replied, which was how Kurt had decided to program the GPS to direct them to the disused and derelict Union Station in Gary.

The station was a husk; there was no other way to describe it. There were large boards blocking the main entrance but it was simply a matter of walking through a large gap in order to get inside, and Kurt found himself in silent awe of just how much wreck and ruin there could be inside a single building when outside, it had only blemishes. The main hall was littered with debris, there was obvious, yet old, fire damage lining the walls near the roof, and a lone armchair sat off-kilter in the center, its light blue upholstery shredded and torn.

He and Blaine separated to walk opposite sides of the perimeter—as close as they could get to it through the thick scattering of wood and metal, at least.

"Hello!" Blaine called from across the hall, and it echoed in a way that made the hairs on the back of Kurt's neck stand up.

"I don't like walking around this old and empty house," he sang out, and it still struck him how unfamiliar his voice sounded.

"So hold my hand, I'll walk with you, my dear," Blaine responded, smiling as he turned to cross the expansive floor.

Wood creaked above Kurt's head in the breeze that whipped through the exposed interior, and he kept singing to try and stave off the feeling of a ghost at his back. "The stairs creak as you sleep, it's keeping me awake."

"It's the house telling you to close your eyes."

"And some days I can't even trust myself."

"It's killing me to see you this way."

By the time they met in the middle, Kurt was mirroring Blaine's warm smile; they were somewhere they weren't supposed to be, and a frisson of a rebellious thrill raced the length of his spine as they sang in unison, "'Cause though the truth may vary this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore."

Laughing giddily, Kurt took Blaine's arms and wrapped them around his own waist, and Blaine hooked his chin over Kurt's shoulder as he turned back to face the direction from which he'd come.

Set into the wall, almost indistinguishable from the blackened and dirty wall, was a simple paneled door, inconspicuous save for the rusted padlock holding it shut.

"I wonder what's through there," he mused aloud just as he felt Blaine look up, arms tensing and tightening around him. Before he could register what was happening, Blaine was yanking him backward—less than a second later, a thick wooden beam plunged to the floor in front of them with a deep, resounding thud.

"Jesus," Blaine exclaimed loudly; Kurt couldn't tell which one of them was trembling, and he turned to wrap his arms around Blaine's neck, his breathing ragged.

"My hero," he said in an attempt to inject some levity, but the reality of it hit him all at once—if Blaine had been a second too late, or if he hadn't noticed at all... "You just saved our lives, fuck."

"Are you okay?" Blaine asked, his voice mangled and strung tight.

"I'm fine," Kurt answered automatically. Suddenly ill at ease, he wriggled out of Blaine's grasp—he was as far from fine as possible. In truth, he had never felt more powerless.



Kurt was back in the old train station, but he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. The inside looked completely different—still a husk, but as if it had been used in recent memory. The grouting between the white brick tiling on the lower half of the walls was turning grey and brown, the wood of the benches worn and faded. The beige flooring was cracked and raised in places, and in the upper corners of the room, black mold mottled the marble walls.

He expected to feel the same sense of trepidation and foreboding, but all he felt was an overwhelming sadness that this place had been forgotten. Blaine's grip on his hand was tight, though Kurt couldn't recall if it had been there from the start or if it had just appeared. He ran the fingers of his free hand along the backs of the benches, pressing into the dust and leaving behind fingerprints at intervals.

They turned to the padlocked door, and walked in a beam of sunlight that poured in from behind them. Kurt's shadow stretched in front of him—how curious it was that Blaine's was cast to the side.

"I have something for you," Blaine said, his voice hushed, and they stopped in the middle of the aisle as Kurt turned to face him expectantly. Blaine broke their tight grasp and held Kurt's hand palm facing upward; out of his pocket he drew an old-fashioned barrel key and pressed it into Kurt's hand. "Don't be gone too long, sweetheart."

Before Kurt could ask what he meant, Blaine softly dropped a kiss to the hollow of Kurt's neck, and then was gone.

Kurt weighed the key in his hand, trying to learn the measure and balance of it. While old-fashioned, it looked brand new, not a single mark tarnishing the brass. A knocking began, sounding like it came from behind the paneled door; Kurt strode toward it without hesitation, scrambling to fit the key in the lock as the knocking grew louder and more insistent.

Silence fell suddenly, the only sound slicing it apart the ominous creaking of the door as it swung wide open. The closet beyond was darkened and the air thick with age, its only contents a small, dainty music box perched in the center of the floor. It was a simple design: square, about six inches wide and four inches deep, and the dark wood of the lid was inlaid with a crescent moon, two stars, and two musical notes.

Slowly, Kurt wound the silver handle and opened the lid. Inside, a pearlescent ballerina turned in circles to, peculiarly, the tune of The Scientist by Coldplay—and all at once, Kurt was thinking of the kiss that never was, that should have been, that would have cancelled out all other kisses.

Lying on the bottom of the music box was a single train ticket, printed with Chicago as the destination. Carefully tucking the music box, still open, into the crook of his elbow, he pulled out the ticket and studied it curiously.

I know what's in Chicago, he thought.

Stepping out of the closet and glancing through the window of the waiting room, Kurt saw a train just pulling out of the station. He rushed outside into blazing sunlight, and an electronic screen suspended from the corrugated iron shelter told him that the train was bound for Chicago.

"Did you miss it, sweetheart?" Blaine asked, appearing at his elbow.

"Apparently so," Kurt replied.

"There'll be another one along shortly," Blaine said, easy confidence in his tone, and suddenly he was sitting on a bench and patting the seat next to him.

"But isn't this where I'm supposed to be?" Kurt asked as he sat down, perching the music box on his knees. Blaine smiled brighter than the sunshine that lit up the platform and settled his arm around Kurt's shoulders.

"You'll come back," he said, tilting Kurt's face towards his. "You always do."

"But tell me you love me," Kurt sang softly, imploringly, even as Blaine was closing the gap between them.

"Come back and haunt me," Blaine replied, his lips barely just brushing Kurt's, and—

Kurt awoke with a start, jerking upright with an aborted gasp and wondering where he was. His phone was beeping with an email alert, and he sank back against his pillows, scrubbing a hand through his messy bed-head. There was a cold, empty space in the bed next to him, and he glanced over to Blaine's side of the bed to find a note that read, Cupboards empty, went out in search of breakfast. Back soon, rock star.

It was too hot, the sheets tangled around his legs, and Kurt threw them off unceremoniously. He clambered out of bed with little grace, grabbing his phone and stumbling over to the closet to take out his yoga mat. Humming absently under his breath, taking solace from the simple pleasure of finally being free to let the music flow out of him, he spread out the mat in the living area and began his warm-up stretches.

The dream played on his mind even as he tried to push it away: why did he have to remember this one when it was rarer than a blue moon for him to recall his dreams? It was as if he'd been gazing at a surrealist painting, trying to discern the meaning behind it, and someone had come striding up to him and hit him over the head with the truth.

"Oh, take me back to the start," he sang under his breath, the final word disappearing into a growl of frustration at the memory of his fifteen-year-old self missing his first kiss, The Scientist playing in the background.

Blaine had been wearing those yellow pants that Kurt outwardly professed to abhor but secretly loved on him, particularly against the blue start-and-stop threads of his favorite comforter, and in a tremulous whisper Kurt had confessed his deepest, darkest secret with the words, "Blaine, I think—no. I know. I'm gay."

Blaine had laughed, traded Kurt's confession for his own, and then tilted Kurt's entire world view by slyly asking, "Wanna make out?"

Kurt had spluttered with a hot blush and eyes blown wide before Blaine told him to relax, that it was a joke, and then paused and said, "Unless..."

"Unless what?" Kurt had whispered.

"Would you—let me try something?" Blaine had asked in an uncharacteristically shy voice, and Kurt nodded automatically. Blaine moved closer, curling his fingers around Kurt's knees, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he leaned in. Kurt's heart had begun to race; he was about to get his first kiss, from none other than his best friend in the whole world... And just as his eyes had fluttered closed, he heard the front door burst open downstairs—Burt and Carole home from their date.

Afterward, they'd never spoken of it again, the matter too big for them to make sense of, let alone address. They'd simply reverted to what they'd always been to one another: best friends, pillars of support, and nothing more.

Kurt reached over to his phone and hit shuffle; as he sank into a relaxed sun salute, he let the music regulate his breathing and guide his thoughts into quiet reality:

He was absolutely, positively, emphatically not in love with Blaine. He couldn't be; Kurt Hummel did not fall in love. Moving through a series of simple poses, working purely on muscle memory, he didn't allow himself to wonder if that first missed kiss should have only been a near miss; if they'd been supposed to revisit the experience soon afterward and make something of it; if what they'd always shared was love—love that at first hadn't known it was love, and was now trying to be.

"It doesn't matter," Kurt said to himself, "because it's not love."

At his very core, he was angry with himself for letting his power shift. He'd disliked the person he'd become while Blaine was in London, but he liked this version of himself even less—what had he become, mooning after his best friend like a love-struck teenage girl? There was no way that he was in love with Blaine, that he'd been in love with Blaine all along. The very notion was laughable at best, because how could one person be that stupid? He wasn't that person at all—Kurt Hummel was nothing if not in complete control of himself. Calling it 'love' would give Blaine the power—real, terrible power—to break him.

Kurt was simply out of his element, and what he needed to do was find a way to step back, recalibrate, and take back the person he used to be.

He could still feel the thick, crisp paper of the train ticket between his fingers, and as he moved from a high lunge to a low, bringing his hands together in front of his chest with his eyes closed, he knew where it would happen.

It would happen in Chicago.



Distance: 5,714 miles