Day 004: Thursday 20 September, 2012
A Curious Kind of Closeness (Vermont)

"Kurt, seriously? You've never seen Beetlejuice?"

"...No?"

"Okay. We're watching Beetlejuice, and because it's Tim Burton, you're not allowed a veto."



The farther away from Maine they drove, the more Blaine felt a sense of dust settling around him. Granted, there was only actually one state between them and the place he'd called home, but being on the road was freeing in a way he hadn't quite expected. He'd been able to make something of a home in London, but the living situation had been sticky for a while, having to get used to the quirks of roommates that were all the polar opposite of Kurt. Since the day his dad had left seven years earlier, Blaine had simply felt adrift and anchorless, no matter the lengths he went to in order to find that elusive sense of belonging he only ever felt around his best friend. There were no good first impressions to make, no fa�ades to keep up, no pretenses or misconceptions. It was easy, and no matter the distance that stretched ahead of them with its miles of untapped potential, he felt a descending peacefulness.

Yet he couldn't sleep.

Trying not to toss and turn too much lest he wake Kurt, who was stretched out next to him in the recovery position, he had been counting sheep for nearly an hour. They had only gotten halfway through the movie before Kurt's yawns had grown so frequent that his eyes had begun to water, and had decided to just go to sleep.

"I know it's your turn, but unless you're planning on carrying me out there, the idea of me moving right now is pretty much a non-starter," Kurt had said as he sank back against the pillows, one arm thrown over his eyes. Blaine had simply laughed, prodded him in the ribs, and taken his laptop out to the living area. By the time he had returned, Kurt's breathing had slowed and deepened. Blaine had watched him from the doorway for a long moment, biting his lip with the indecision, before caving and crawling beneath the covers, turning onto his front and burying his arms beneath the pillow.

He had thought about their two days in Vermont: the giddy excitement he had felt at finally getting to visit the Ben & Jerry's factory like he'd never been allowed on family trips growing up; the way Kurt had bounced on the balls of his feet when they'd walked past a sign for Apple-y Ever After and when Blaine had suggested they split a hot fudge sundae in the scoop shop; the beautiful and history-rich art at Shelburne Museum; the long walk they had taken up to the Waterbury dam and back, debating shooting with film versus digital—contrary to his technology-savvy, early adopter nature, Kurt was a staunch advocate of the classic art of film, whereas Blaine had always preferred the level of detail that could be achieved with digital. It was one thing that they could never agree on, but for which they would one day have to find a compromise if they ever wanted to work together.

The clock beneath the wall-mounted TV at the end of the bed read 2:37 a.m., and Blaine sighed quietly, finally giving in and getting out of bed with slow, careful movements. Sliding the bedroom door shut behind him, he padded out into the living area and collapsed onto the couch, wincing at the cold leather against the backs of his thighs, bare save for his boxer shorts. Squinting against the sudden burst of light as he called his laptop out of hibernation, he reached up to switch on one of the spotlights over the couch, deciding that it was probably time to update his blog.

He had started it on a whim, signing up the day before the gig at The Cannery, and sent the link to a few friends in London with whom he had been exchanging semi-regular emails since being back stateside. He knew he'd be lucky to even get a reliable Wi-Fi connection every day, and he was a damn good pen pal—short, phone-typed responses simply wouldn't do, so he figured that a blog would be a decent substitute. He uploaded pictures and small video clips using his phone app every day, but it had taken until now for him to find a window of time large enough to sit and order his thoughts enough to write about them.

Greetings from Little River State Park, Waterbury, VT, he wrote once he had signed into the park's network. I'm a little afraid that all this excitement is already proving too much for me, since it's nearly 3 a.m. and, to quote the artist, I can't get no sleep.

Things so far are great—the road really is a fantastic place to be, especially when you've got a kick-ass playlist that includes plenty of Pink. Kurt and I (see, Lucy, I can use proper grammar outside of merry England!) have had a fairly chilled-out trip so far, hanging out at Hampton Beach and doing a few things around Vermont we've both wanted to do for years but never had the chance. I'm sure we both looked right at home with the rest of the kids on our tour of the Ben & Jerry's factory, all wide eyes, gasps and giggles. It's a wonder we didn't start whispering behind our hands or, God forbid, passing notes.

If any of you guys ever get the chance—though, really, why you'd choose Vermont out of all the places in the U.S. you could visit would be something of a mystery—I'd definitely recommend checking out Shelburne museum if only for the folk art collection. The level of detail and craftsmanship in some of the pieces there is truly breathtaking, particularly the Fire Engine weather vane. I completely geeked out over it and I don't even care.

I'll keep this short so as not to bore you too much, though rest assured that you'll probably wind up sick of the sight of Boston, Salem, and Provincetown over the next three days—we're heading for Massachusetts tomorrow morning (it's not tomorrow until you've slept).

Hoping you're all well and not too rain-miserable (did I mention that we're having some really beautiful weather here?).

After a quick read-through for any glaring grammatical errors—Lucy would tear him a new one if she found him slipping back into old ways just because he was back in the States—he hit Publish, closed the tab, and sat back on the couch.

"Why are you awake right now? It's ridiculous o'clock," Kurt's voice, gravelly and sleep-rough, came from the now open bedroom doorway.

"Old man," Blaine teased him, running a hand through his mussed curls as he took in Kurt's messy hair, bleary eyes, and the soft blanket wrapped around him. "I couldn't sleep."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Kurt, you're scary enough when you wake up in the morning, let alone in the middle of the night," Blaine said, dropping his head to the back of the couch, and Kurt sleepily raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm serious! You're legitimately terrifying. You open your eyes and all I can see is fire, pitchforks and death."

"Cute," Kurt huffed. He shuffled slowly towards him and collapsed onto the couch, leaning over the center arm and dropping his head against Blaine's shoulder. Flicking his eyes toward the computer to make sure that he actually had closed out of his blog—something he couldn't quite put his finger on had made him keep it a secret from Kurt, from everyone apart from his friends in London, actually—he closed the lid and shifted downward, Kurt's forehead pressing warmly against the skin of his neck. Kurt cleared his throat. "Did you want to finish the movie? Or... I could make some warm milk."

Blaine wrinkled his nose. "Warm milk? We're not kids anymore, Kurt."

"Shut up; you know it's delicious," Kurt protested, sitting up and arching his back, the pale expanse of his neck fully exposed as he tipped his head.

Blaine swallowed thickly, flashes of Kurt's now daily yoga routine rushing unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Something between them had changed since he had come back from London, the subtlest of shifts in their dynamic that had somehow given everything a humming undercurrent of a feeling he couldn't pin down. Mostly, he chalked it up to the fact that they were simply settling back into being them after spending a year apart, but the longer it wore on, the more he wondered if there was more to it.

The moment passed when Kurt added with a wicked grin, "And growing boys need their calcium."

"Not a growing boy," Blaine grumbled both indignantly and regretfully. Kurt simply swatted at his thigh and moved over to the R.V.'s narrow electric stove, retrieving ingredients and a small pan from the cupboard above. He paused in front of the fridge as he went to get the milk, shaking his head and chuckling despite himself at Blaine's—genius, in his opinion—reworked Jumanji quote using the refrigerator magnets: In the jungle you must wait, until your turn to masturbate.

"So did you want to finish the movie?" Kurt asked a few minutes later, rolling his neck from side to side as he stirred vanilla and nutmeg into the pan.

"Sure," Blaine answered, pulling the laptop back toward him and opening VLC. "But how and when did you manage to stock the cupboards so full? I didn't see you bringing in any of that stuff."

"I'm a stealth ninja and you'll never learn my secrets, Anderson," Kurt replied smoothly, shooting him the patented Hummel Eyebrow Arch—and Blaine knew much better than to argue with that.

He couldn't deny, upon tasting the first sip of warm milk he'd had in years, that it was indeed delicious. Kurt quickly rinsed the pan and spoon he'd used before returning to the couch, wrapping himself up in his blanket and dropping his head to Blaine's shoulder once more. Blaine skipped back a couple of scenes, to where Catherine O'Hara and Winona Ryder were arguing in their gaudily-decorated kitchen, and drank deeply from his mug after pressing play.

A few seconds later, Kurt reached up and quickly swiped his thumb across the skin above Blaine's top lip, then pulled it back and sucked it into his mouth, all without taking his eyes off the screen. Blaine froze for a moment, trying to reconcile being at once confused and oddly turned on.

"What was that?"

"Milk mustache," Kurt said simply. "You always get them."

Blaine couldn't quite relax after that, the remainder of the movie washing through him as he tried not to think too much about the warmth he could feel from Kurt even through the blanket separating them—he wasn't about to let a little sleep deprivation make a creep out of him. That's all it was, after all—it was a little too early in the trip to be calling it cabin fever—and it wasn't long before he was resting his head atop Kurt's, determinedly focusing back on the movie and not the softness of Kurt's thick hair against his cheek.

It was just Kurt, for God's sake.



Distance: 347.8 miles

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