Day 49: Sunday 4th November, 2012
White Noise (Illinois)

"God, how many times must we have watched it?"

"Lots of times, and that's because it's flawless and perfect."

"...Sounds like we've got our movie!"



In Blaine's second year of college, he and Kurt both took a video editing class to fulfill one of their core requirements. The final project of the semester was to take a well-known song and use it to create a short film in the style of a music video, but to either flip or reinterpret the original meaning of the song.

Blaine had chosen Mr. Brightside by The Killers, and it didn't take him long to come up with his idea. Within a week he had papered the college with posters headlined, If You've Ever Been Cheated On, Help Out a Fellow Student by Reading This! In hindsight, it was a bit of a dirty tactic, but he'd gotten an overwhelming response. His idea for the music video had been to film students from all different majors and areas of the campus lip-syncing the words to the song, and edit it all together to tell the story not of the song itself, but of the aftermath, the lingering trauma, and the fruitless wish to one day get even.

No matter how much Blaine begged, Kurt had refused to participate in the main part of the video, insisting upon Blaine retaining his artistic integrity by only using subjects who had been cheated on. He had, however, agreed to perform his fire poi routine as part of the video, to give it the atmosphere of orchestrated yet raw chaos Blaine was hoping to achieve.

On his last day of filming, Blaine had been out on the quad looking through some of his footage when Kurt found him. He'd looked troubled, but at first Blaine thought nothing of it, as Kurt had been bitching about the difficulties he was having with his own music video—a doomed love story between an assassin and her mark, set to Nelly Furtado's
Try—for days already.

And then Kurt had said, "You don't need to double up on April's lines anymore," and Blaine had frozen at once, not missing the meaning behind his words. They had filmed Kurt's lines that same day, and later, Blaine's professor had praised him for the surprising but effective artistic choice of making the mesmerizing fire poi performer the last shot of the video, and therefore, the overall subject of the video's story.

In those days, Kurt had talked about somehow getting even with Max. And the closer they got to Chicago, where Max had moved after graduation, the more nauseous Blaine felt—he knew exactly what was going to happen, and was powerless to stop it. There was momentum building behind it, driving a wedge—however hopefully temporary—between them, and as they turned into a residential neighborhood, Blaine couldn't help but think of the look in Kurt's eyes in his two close-up shots in the video. The light in his eyes had been dull and muted, overtaken by something incommunicably sad, and it was a look that Blaine had hoped he'd never see again.

Until they'd almost been hit by that wooden beam inside the train station in Gary, he hadn't.

It had stayed there ever since, even throughout the previous day when they'd been pounding the pavement and seeing the sights of Chicago proper. Kurt had been quiet, eyes not lighting up the way Blaine had been hoping and expecting when they took pictures of their distorted reflections in The Bean, and he'd been almost unresponsive during grabbing a quick bite and a coffee at the top of the John Hancock building, even when Blaine had attempted to start a game of 'What Would We Film Here?' It was then that Blaine had realized exactly what Kurt was doing, and he wondered if a little of the light in his own eyes had been snuffed out.

Kurt cut the engine outside a small, cozy-looking brick-built house with a hunter green front door. He turned to face Blaine, but Blaine trained his gaze on a spot somewhere in the middle-distance, for what could he say? What could he do? Nothing. There was nothing. Kurt was going to do whatever he felt like he needed to do, regardless of whether Blaine gave him a reason not to. What reason could Blaine come up with, anyway? It wasn't like Kurt owed him anything—perhaps in another life, he would have. Perhaps in another life, they wouldn't even be here.

"I'm staying in the R.V. tonight," he said gruffly.

"I thought you might," Kurt replied, and then, hesitantly, "How did you know?"

Blaine snorted derisively and shook his head. "The last time we did anything was back in Michigan. You're warming up; I get it."

"B..." Kurt trailed off, his voice soft and tinged with regret.

"It's fine," Blaine said shortly, unclipping his seat belt. "Come on. Let's go."

He was halfway to the door when he felt Kurt grab his arm and spin him around; Kurt kissed him roughly, fisting his hands in Blaine's hair, and it felt like an apology that Blaine didn't have the wherewithal to brush off or turn down. Instead he kissed Kurt back just as forcefully and sucked in a breath of hollow air when he pulled back, then bolted from the R.V. before he had the chance to do something he'd regret, like lock the door and drive off with Kurt little more than a hostage.

The front door was opening before they even made it up the steps, and God, Blaine had forgotten just how intensely he disliked everything about Max Whitley, from his overly preppy fashion sense to his too-bright smile.

"Kurt! Blaine! Man, so good to see you guys," he greeted them, jogging down the steps and sweeping them both into a semi-awkward hug. Merely being in his presence was enough to remind Blaine of how lost Kurt had been with him: happy but not his happiest, trying for something like what everyone else had, and ultimately being betrayed when he didn't 'measure up.' While Blaine knew Kurt hadn't been in love with Max, he might have been on his way to it—and when Kurt loved, it was fearfully, and he held on with everything he had. It wasn't something to be thrown away or taken lightly, and that was exactly what Max had done.

"Good to see you, too," Kurt said.

"Let's go catch up, huh?" Max asked, though he left no room for argument as he motioned them both inside, and Blaine didn't miss the way his gaze raked up and down Kurt's form as Kurt passed him.

He gritted his teeth and said nothing—a practice he continued to employ throughout the entirety of the two hours Kurt and Max spent catching up, only responding when spoken to and just nodding along the rest of the time. He knew he was acting like a petulant child, but couldn't seem to help it—moreover, he didn't particularly want to.

At least there's beer, he thought upon finishing his third bottle in as many hours. The buzz in his limbs was the only pleasant thing about the afternoon's rapid fade into evening—which apparently took with it the need for such things as personal space and decorum.

They were sitting in Max's living room, three walls painted a neutral cream and the other a deep red that framed the large plasma screen. Before Blaine could protest, they were watching The Breakfast Club—the very same movie that he and Kurt had decided would be their movie for Illinois. He hadn't thought he could be any more pissed off, but the movies were their thing—particularly this one, which they'd watched so many times together that Blaine had lost count—not to be shared with anyone else. Especially not Max.

He tried not to wonder whether he was equating sharing the movie with sharing Kurt, and instead just kept on drinking. His mind became a wasteland, full of regrets and the faceless dozen men before him who had all taken the opportunity he had missed time and time again. He coiled deeper and deeper within himself, and the more beer he sucked down, the more things felt terribly, terribly wrong—so, of course, he just drank more.

Where the hell did I think I fit? Blaine thought bitterly. He was sitting at one end of Max's pristine leather couch, and every time he happened to glance over, Kurt and Max were sitting closer and closer together. What kind of nerve must I have had to actually think that I'm really and truly special, any different from the rest of them?

Shaking himself mentally, he made an attempt to focus once more on the movie, where Bender was telling Claire to stick to the things she knew: "Shopping, nail polish, your father's BMW, and your poor, rich, drunk mother in the Caribbean."

Would he have found himself here, on this couch, getting progressively more drunk if he'd just stuck to what he knew and not given in to this thing between them? Or would he be downtown at some club, a body wrapped around him as he let himself go, knowing no different because until Kurt, he'd never believed he was all that special to begin with?

No, he forced himself to think. No, stop this. He might make you feel special but it's not his job to do it all the time. Stop this.

When he glanced over, Blaine could see Kurt and Max's fingers brushing between the ever-decreasing space between their thighs. Then Max had his arm around Kurt's shoulders, and Kurt's eyes were fluttering closed; he let out a pleased hum as Max nosed along the side of his face.

Blaine squeezed his bottle so tightly that he was sure it would shatter in his grip, and leaped up as if the couch had burned him. Max and Kurt sprang apart for a second, and if it weren't for the terrible wave of nausea coursing through him, Blaine might have laughed at the way Max almost cowered behind Kurt. He always had been a complete chicken-shit.

"I'm leaving," Blaine managed to grit out between his clenched teeth, eyes boring into Kurt, who didn't quite seem able to meet his gaze. "I'll be in the R.V. You can come find me when you're done here."

He paused only for a moment—waiting for Kurt to say something, to stand up and take his hand and walk right out the door with him—before turning on his heel and striding purposefully out of the living room, down the hall, and out the front door. Head held high, he slammed the door behind him for good measure.

I should have talked him out of coming, he thought in vain as he climbed into the R.V. and pulled the door closed behind him. I should have seen him so much sooner than this. I should have kissed him the day we came out to each other, or any of the times I wondered what it would be like. I should have done so much more.

Already annoyed at himself for how much he'd had to drink and, therefore, not being able to get the hell out of Dodge—aside from the inside of Max Whitley's house, the last place on earth Blaine wanted to be right now was in his fucking driveway—he realized that he had nothing to do but wait for Kurt to...

"Ugh," Blaine groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face as if he could wipe from his mind's eye a sudden rush of flashbulb imagery: Kurt's bare torso; Kurt biting the very corner of his bottom lip; Kurt smiling wickedly as he wrapped his fingers around Blaine's length. Kurt, Kurt, Kurt, doing all the things they had been doing together but instead doing them with Max, a person who undoubtedly knew his way around Kurt's body just as well as—if not better than—Blaine did.

The thought made him itch, and he berated himself as he paced the length of the R.V., studiously avoiding even a glimpse of the bed. So fucking stupid, so fucking blind. You're an idiot, Blaine Anderson. An idiot who can't keep your best friend from doing something that'll hurt you both.

Finally, he collapsed onto the couch and pulled out his iPod. He hit shuffle, neither knowing nor caring what song was about to start, because it was all just noise anyway. Minutes passed—ten, twenty, Blaine lost track—and with how much alcohol he'd imbibed, he should, by rights, have been far drowsier. When Promise began to play, however, it shocked him back into wakefulness and West Virginia; sense memories tore their way along his body and he buried his hands in his hair just to give them something to do. But it was no use. He was pissed off and frustrated and, with images of Kurt rising unbidden on the backs of his eyelids, Kurt's moans ringing in his ears, he was getting hard, painfully so.

He hit shuffle again before giving in entirely and roughly shoving his hand into his briefs. As Mr. Brightside began playing, he wrapped his fingers around his length and started jerking himself for all he was worth.

Blaine remembered every last frame of that damned music video—by the end of the editing process, he'd never wanted to listen to the song again. But right now, working himself up into a frenzy of frustration and running after his release like it was being dangled in front of him, it seemed oddly apropos. The video cycled in his mind, Kurt's fire poi routine flashing circles behind his eyes and the faces of every single student he'd featured coming back to haunt him.

Within less than a minute he was panting and grunting, not caring what noise he made because he just needed to be done.

Before he could stop himself, he was picturing Kurt with all of them. His face was the only one with any clarity among the blur, frame after frame and angle after angle spliced together until the video in his mind was no longer a chaotic and beautiful performance of a fire poi performer, but something else entirely—something more closely resembling a nightmare.

His back arched upward with an almost painful snap when he came, an abandoned cry of Kurt's name wrapped around his tongue and the final frame of the video frozen in the forefront of his mind. It was that same look he'd never wanted to see again but, for some perverse reason, suddenly couldn't get enough of: the thunderous gray overtaking the usual deep blue of Kurt's eyes, a look that Blaine knew he would never deliberately put there himself.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking hell," he whispered, half-sobbing and shuddering as he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.

For a count of five, he let himself be lost, breathing raggedly and making no attempt to stave off the bile burning the back of his throat or the images of Kurt and Max together.

One, he counted. You have more with him than anyone else ever has. Two. So get it together. Three. Don't be a slave to how you feel. Four. Today you barely stopped short of pissing all over him. Five. You still have a right to be pissed off, but he's not yours to claim. He's made that clear.

Then, calmly, he switched off his iPod, went to the bedroom, quickly changed into clean underwear and sweats, sat back down on the couch, and closed his eyes for just a second.

The next thing he was aware of was the engine of the R.V. rumbling beneath him, but Blaine didn't bother moving; a quick check of his watch confirmed that he'd slept for a little under an hour and his head was already throbbing.

It was twenty minutes before Kurt pulled the R.V. into a spacious parking lot somewhere—Blaine hadn't exactly been paying attention, and he was finding it difficult to care all that much—and switched off the engine. Blaine looked up to see Kurt striding purposely towards him; he swung himself into Blaine's lap without missing a beat and threw his arms around Blaine's neck.

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered, raspy and strangled, and Blaine's stomach gave a painful lurch. "I'm sorry, B, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have... Fuck—"

Kurt cut himself short, pulling back just far enough to mold his lips to Blaine's; it was like a repeat of their earlier kiss, just before this rift had formed between them—only this time, Kurt didn't taste like Kurt. He tasted like sex and sweat and someone else, and everything was horribly, terribly wrong. Blaine leapt up from the couch and reared away from him, resisting the peculiar urge to laugh, and looked Kurt square in the eye.

"All this for a fuck-and-run?" he spat.

"B, it wasn't—" Kurt started, but Blaine held up his hand. He wasn't in the mood for explanations, good or otherwise.

"Don't," he said, moving towards the bedroom and turning his back. "Just don't."



Distance: 5,739 miles