"Come on, Blaine. How many times did you demand that your parents take you to see it at the movies? I've heard you quote it in everyday conversation."

"Alright, fine. You win. I guess it's a classic, after all."

"You can never go wrong with Robin Williams getting sucked into a board game."

The next morning, after he had awoken to Blaine moving quietly around the bedroom as he got dressed for a run, Kurt retrieved his yoga mat from the narrow closet and set it out in front of the couch. With his favorite feel-good playlist floating through the speakers of the iPod dock, he warmed up gradually, easing into the familiar stretches of his favored routine. He tried to clear his mind and sink into the peace of repetitive extended breathing, but Blaine's affirmation the previous night still weighed heavily on him, calling up memories that he'd been examining for the better part of the last three months: Blaine bowing to his grandfather's coffin one last time; Kurt's fingers rubbing back and forth in the crook of Blaine's elbow as they left the church; the words Blaine had said as they sat with their backs to the trunk of the cherry tree in Blaine's back yard, ties loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up in an attempt to combat the mid-afternoon June heat.

"Let's go somewhere. No, wait, let's go everywhere. He left me the R.V., so let's use it. Take a road trip with me."

Kurt, who had been systematically shredding a still-damp tissue in his lap, had barely been surprised by the suggestion. Blaine was always looking for a place to call home—he'd spent their last year of college across the Atlantic interning under Oscar-winning director Dmitri Serafino, in fact— but that he'd come up with the idea a mere six days after his return to Maine had thrown Kurt for a loop, so much so that he had found himself agreeing with barely a thought.

And now, here he was on his last morning in Maine, waiting for Blaine to return and provide an arrow to his compass. As he transitioned from a standing half forward bend into a firefly pose, the exertion causing sweat to bead at his temples, Kurt wondered if it was a smart decision to put so much of his stock into Blaine's nomadic hands. Maybe there was some part of him that still needed convincing after all, never mind that they were already almost past the point of no return.

No, he thought, exhaling to a count of five. No, I'm here, and I'm doing this.

He moved smoothly back into standing half forward before switching through to downward-facing dog, relaxing into the stretch in his back and thighs. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed this—he'd been too busy enjoying the benefits of his own flexibility instead.

"Well, that's quite a view."

Kurt twisted to the side, looking back past his own legs at where Blaine stood just inside the door, curls sticking damply to his forehead and the front of his heather gray Bowdoin tee dark with sweat. Kurt hummed non-committally, but wiggled his ass from side to side all the same. "I work hard for this ass."

"I know you do," Blaine said as he edged past, Kurt sinking and pulling back into upward-facing dog. "But you're really working out to Bowie?"

"I'll have you know that this song is a classic, and Bowie is one of the true artists of our time."

"Our parents' time, maybe," Blaine replied, leaning against the unit below the sink and draining the remaining contents of his blue Camelbak. "Since when did you start doing yoga again, anyway?"

"It was a slow summer," Kurt said, releasing the pose and moving to stand—he'd been almost finished, and the quiet was broken.

"Didn't look that slow the day I got back from London," Blaine quipped, and Kurt glared through the rising heat in his cheeks, incensed at how efficiently Blaine could make him blush.

"I think you mean the day you started cramping my style again," he shot back, and bent to retrieve his mat from the floor.

"Come on, Kurt. You must already have been pretty hard up if you finally gave in to Pick-Up Line Guy," Blaine continued, stretching his arms out over his head with a satisfied smirk. Kurt paused halfway through rolling up the mat, watching the muscles shift beneath Blaine's skin, and he felt it all over again: the tug, tug, tug of dull want that had been lying mostly dormant somewhere in the bottom of his gut ever since the day Blaine had come home, broader and better defined and more worldly. Every single day since, Kurt had been asking himself how one person could change so much in the space of a year. "What was it that finally did it for you? Was it the library card one?"

"Blaine—"

"What about, 'People call me Chandler, but you can call me Tonight'?"

"Blaine, we've had this conversation a million times already. Can you just drop it?" Kurt asked hotly, tucking his mat under his arm. Really, it was just that Chandler had happened to be at the same Pride parade and the same post-parade party as Kurt had been, and somehow dancing had morphed into staying out all night, into breakfast at Brunswick Diner, into finding themselves stretched out on Kurt's bed as early-morning summer sun filtered through the drapes. "It's not like I got to finish the job anyway, what with you barging in on us."

"Hand or blow?"

"Do you know the difference, or should I draw you a diagram? Though, you know, practical demonstrations are always fun. And if I'm as 'hard up' as you say..."

Blaine finally raised his hands in surrender, acquiescing, "Fine, fine, you win!"

"Good," Kurt said, nodding. "Now go take a shower; I can smell you from here."

Blaine saluted him with a wink, and soon enough Kurt was left alone in the living area, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth as Blaine's voice singing Golden Years carried over the shower.

It was noon before they drove into Hampton, and Kurt had been watching the shadows grow longer and darker ahead of the R.V. as the sun shone ever brighter. The windows were rolled down, the fuzzy black dice hung from the mirror swinging back and forth in the cool breeze that whipped through the cab, and Kurt reclined in his seat, one hand on the steering wheel and his elbow resting in the window frame. Blaine's seat was tipped as far back as it would go, his crossed ankles resting on the dashboard, and he hummed quietly along to the radio.

Kurt's lips curved into an involuntary and easy smile as he ran his fingers back through his hair, shaded eyes flicking towards the GPS even though they'd taken enough trips as kids to Hampton beach that he could have driven the route in his sleep. It felt good to finally be out of Maine; until they'd crossed the state line, it had felt like he was simply gone for the evening, visiting friends in the next town over. His lingering apprehension notwithstanding, he had to admit that finally leaving home behind for a while was probably going to be a good thing—he was twenty-two years old now, and a college graduate wanting to work in the film industry. He would always have needed to relocate.

"We're almost there," Blaine said absently, twisting to drop his feet to the floor and pulling his seat upright before reaching into the spacious glove compartment to retrieve Kurt's folder. "Everything's in state order, right?"

"Are you questioning my organizational skills?"

"Never," Blaine answered with a light chuckle, flipping past the first few pages of the thick blue folder that Kurt had stuffed full with print-outs and reservations, until he found the one for their two-day spot on the waterfront at Hampton Beach State Park. "I can't believe it's been so long since we were last here. Remember? With those ridiculous sandwiches you made?"

"That was a good day," Kurt said fondly, nodding even as he recalled his disastrous first attempt at croque-monsieur. "Seven years, though."

"I know; it's insane. That was the day before, right?"

"The day before what?"

Blaine rolled his eyes and turned in his seat, folder splayed across his lap. "The day before we came out to each other. You know, when we almost made out before we remembered that it'd be totally weird?"

"Totally weird," Kurt agreed automatically, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose and returning both hands to the steering wheel. He could feel Blaine's eyes on him as he did so, and he couldn't help but shift in his seat. It was one of their many unwritten rules that they didn't bring up the one time that they had almost kissed; it really was just too weird to think about, and if Kurt was one hundred percent honest with himself, the more he thought about it, the more he would begin envisioning the lines blurring between them. It was safer for both his sanity and his sex drive that he didn't dwell on it too long. Despite all of his protests to April, he spent enough time surreptitiously checking out his best friend as it was. He cleared his throat, and unnecessarily asked, "The paperwork's all there, right?"

"Looks like," Blaine replied, pulling the sheet of paper from its plastic pocket and scanning it as Kurt continued guiding the R.V. along Ocean Boulevard. "Meet you down there?"

"Sure."

A few minutes later, Blaine was closing the passenger side door to the cab behind him, and Kurt eyed the camcorder he'd left on his seat for a moment before pulling back out onto the main road. There was an old Stereophonics song playing on the radio—not so old as to be considered part of their "old stuff" but old enough—and, fleetingly, Kurt opened his mouth to sing along. As soon as he did so, his throat constricted and it felt as if his tongue had swollen to twice its size, lying thick and useless in his mouth—just as it did every time he tried to sing outside of his room on a day where the house was empty. He shook himself, stuffing memories of singing The Dishes Song with Mom back into a box and taping it haphazardly shut. He set his jaw, flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, and drove on.

Being a mid-September Monday, the R.V. park was all but deserted, and an air of tranquility accompanied the never-silent beach quiet as he pulled into their reserved site and cut the engine, sinking back into his seat and breathing in the familiar scent of Hampton beach saltwater. The first lungful uncoupled with the smell of Bois de Voilette always made him ache, the hollow cut deep into his chest growing infinitesimally wider for a second that never failed to feel like falling, and he found himself rubbing the dip at the base of his neck absently, the chain of his Saint Christopher catching on his fingertips. He pulled it from where it lay beneath the collar of his fitted, short-sleeved black shirt and studied it closely, resting the disc in his palm so that it could catch the light of the lunchtime sun. The design was simple: a smooth silver circle bordering an engraving of a man with a walking stick carrying a child on his back, nothing outwardly religious about it.

Kurt felt ashamed for having been so surprised at receiving such a thoughtful gift from Blaine; over the course of their year apart, the number of little things Blaine would do for him had been assimilated into Kurt's own life, and by the time Blaine returned, Kurt had begun to take for granted the independence and self-reliance he had made great efforts to carve out for himself. After the first three months of barely-returned Skype calls, and emails that went unanswered for days—and though it wasn't exactly conducive to keeping his best friend close, even when said friend was three thousand miles away and busy almost eighteen hours a day—Kurt's sense of self-preservation had kicked in and he had simply learned how to be alone without being lonely.

And then Blaine had come home, sadness over the reason for his return weighing on him like a boulder and the very slightest of London affectations in his voice. He had come home, and suddenly there was Aztec couscous, and a blanket covering him when he started awake at 2 a.m., having fallen asleep halfway through the movie they had been watching, and the DVDs on his shelf that he'd been meaning to get to were back in alphabetical order. Kurt had barely known what to do with himself, struck dumb with the fear that he needed Blaine much more than he'd ever thought before their symbiotic relationship had been stripped away from him.

With a sigh, he tucked the pendant beneath his collar once more, unbuckled his seatbelt, and grabbed the camcorder from the passenger seat. Blaine's laptop was hibernating on the diner-style table at the far end of the couch, and as Kurt seated himself on one of the high-backed, flock-print chairs, he connected the camcorder up using the USB cable that was still plugged into the laptop from the previous night's charging.

The footage that Blaine had been taking out of the window was sparse, clips here and there of passing cars and scenery rushing by, with music omnipresent in the background and snatches of idle drive-time conversation. Kurt transferred it all to the hard drive and wiped the camcorder's SD card. He and Blaine had plans for the footage they collected, plans that involved the final result of a documentary movie that would net them an Academy Award, though they hadn't yet figured out the point of the documentary itself. Details.

Logging into the park's free Wi-Fi network, the signal strong even from the oceanfront pavilion where his parents' wedding had taken place, Kurt opened a new incognito window and visited his blog. Beneath the legend 100 Days of Kurt Hummel were only two entries; a short placeholder entry, and the text entry he had made the morning of his birthday. He'd promised himself no looking back, and so he didn't waste any time re-reading what he'd written, simply clicked through for a new video post, choosing the instant capture option. It was about a five-minute walk from the site office to their where he'd parked; he had time.

"It's day one, and we've just arrived in Hampton," Kurt began brightly, looking directly into the laptop's tiny but powerful webcam. "The sky's blue and the sun's high, which can mean only two things: two days on the beach, and lots of sunblock."

Kurt paused momentarily, gaze faltering and slipping to the mirror image of himself on the screen, and he reminded himself that, other than whatever followers he may pick up along the way, this blog was completely private. No one knew about it, not even April. It was his space to document his thoughts and feelings, something that he could call entirely his own. In light of the comeback his sense of codependence had made, he needed something that was just his, and this blog was it.

"Leaving home last night was... It was hard. Not just the goodbye part—I always knew that that part would suck—but knowing whether I was really doing the right thing. I think when we got to Arundel and I brought it up, Blaine realized how much he was asking of me to just take off with him. Don't get me wrong, I'm... I'm thrilled that we're doing this together. I am. But this isn't just some day trip to Vermont or even a week's vacation to the west coast. This is three months of nothing but the road and each other, and I'm a little bit terrified that home won't ever feel like home again. And a little bit more terrified that it'll feel too much like home and I'll never want to leave.

"Despite all that, though, I really am glad to be here. I mean, this place just has so many memories for the both of us. We both have family history here, and so many weekends spent down here since we were just kids, building sandcastles with seaweed-fortified battlements, right up 'til just before Blaine left for London. It's one of our places, and nowhere else would have felt right."

Kurt smiled in spite of himself, almost feeling like he should be lying on a leather couch. He didn't lay himself bare like this for anyone—except perhaps Blaine—and knowing that this video diary was just for him... There was an odd sense of freedom in it.

He knew he had to cut his stream of consciousness short, however, when he happened to glance through the windshield and saw Blaine approaching. Turning back to the screen, he said, "Well, better get going. The water waits for no man."

"Who're you talking to?" Blaine asked, stepping up into the R.V. and pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head, regarding Kurt with a curious look.

"No one, just... Thinking out loud," Kurt replied, tilting the laptop lid downward after closing the browser when he saw the upload confirmation.

"Anything interesting?"

"Always."

Blaine chuckled, and dropped the paperwork he was holding onto the passenger seat. "So, I figure we can take the laptop to the beach with us and watch our movie. And god, I'm so hungry. I passed, like, thirty restaurants on the way here and everything smelled fantastic. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, actually," Kurt said, his stomach grumbling quietly at the mention of food. He slid out of the booth and stood, the prospect of getting out of the R.V. and stretching his legs a happy one. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I was thinking Ocean Wok, since it's close. The calamari..."

Kurt groaned aloud, mouth already beginning to water. "Excellent choice."

"Or, you know, we could head up to the Urchin. See if they've added anything new to the menu lately," Blaine continued in a mischievous tone, and Kurt didn't miss the gleam of a tease in his eyes.

"Blaine, no. Anything but croque-monsieur."

Distance: 95.6 miles

*

Follow Kurt's blog here.