Day 076: Saturday 1st December, 2012
Running on Empty (Idaho)

"My Own Private Idaho. No question."

"Kurt, I hate to break it to you, but... It wasn't actually shot in Idaho."

"...Fine. Napoleon Dynamite, then. But we're still watching My Own Private Idaho."



"Did you know that potatoes were first planted in Idaho in 1837?"

"What the crap is this fucker doing?"

"Kurt, calm down," Blaine said wearily, glancing up from his phone to see Kurt's eyebrows drawn together and his fingers tight around the steering wheel.

"I am calm!" he shot back, gesticulating wildly. "But he's the only other idiot on this godforsaken stretch of road and he's doing, what, forty-five? In the passing lane? No. Grandma Betty drove better than that."

"Well, it is raining... Do you want me to take over?" Blaine asked.

"We've got, like, twenty miles to go," Kurt reasoned. "What's the point?"

"The point is that you could blow me while I'm driving," Blaine replied, waggling his eyebrows when Kurt looked at him sharply. "What? You give excellent head. Can't blame a guy for trying."

"We've been over that," Kurt said evenly, returning his gaze to the road with a grimace. "Ugh. Fucking Idaho."

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

"What?"

"Well, I'd say more 'promiscuous' than 'ho.' That's all," Blaine said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Kurt glanced over at him again, and Blaine could see that he was fighting back a smile. "You're a ridiculous human being today, Anderson. Why did I ever agree to come on this trip with you?"

"Because I'm an excellent travel buddy, I don't hog the covers—that one's all you—and I'm also a font of useful information," he said, ticking items off on his fingers before picking up his phone again. "For instance, did you know that potatoes are, like, the perfect food? You could eat nothing but spuds for the rest of your life and you'd still get all the nutrition you needed."

"Spuds," Kurt repeated flatly.

"Po-ta-toes."

"Don't..."

"Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew."

"I swear to god, Blaine," Kurt groaned.

"You know, if we switched, I could drive through all of these puddles," he barreled on.

"For the last fucking time, if we drive through puddles we'll end up ruining the goddamn undercarriage."

"I'll ruin your undercarriage."

"What is with you today? You're like a petulant child! Let me guess, you got your license out of a Cracker Jack box—" Kurt stopped short as the R.V. shuddered and jerked underneath them, the headlights dimming and the engine chugging. Within seconds Kurt was reacting, turning them onto the shoulder and letting the R.V. roll to a stop. He slumped back in his seat and cut the engine. "Perfect."

"What's going on?" Blaine asked, perplexed.

"I'm about ninety-five percent sure we just ran out of gas," Kurt said, and unclipped his seatbelt to look at the dashboard. "Which also means that the fuel gauge is broken, and depending on what it is, I might not be able to fix it."

Thinking quickly, Blaine grabbed the GPS and searched for the nearest gas station. Soon enough, their Kathy Bates sound-alike was telling them that the nearest gas station was an Exxon in Roberts, nearly three miles away. "Looks like we're walking, then."

"But it's raining," Kurt groaned.

"So I'm ridiculous and childish today, and you're whiny," Blaine said as he stood up, stretching out his arms and looking down at Kurt with a smile. "Isn't that the trifecta?"

"'Ridiculous' is usually interchangeable with 'hungry,' but yeah, pretty much," Kurt huffed. "And I'm not whiny; other people are idiots and I'm sick of driving. Don't you think it's been kind of hard to get back into the swing since Montana?"

"Well, sure," Blaine agreed as he bent to retrieve an umbrella from the small closet behind the cab. "Why do you think I've been reading about potatoes for the last few miles?"

Kurt smiled wanly, then cast his gaze about the cab. "One of us should probably stay here."

"I'll go," Blaine said, patting himself down to make sure he had his phone and wallet.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'll be back before you know it. Maybe you can take a look at the gauge, see if you can figure out what's going on."

"Wait," Kurt said, and as Blaine looked up, Kurt closed the distance between them and caught Blaine's lips in a deep, lingering kiss that sent tingles up and down his spine.

"What was that for?" he asked when Kurt had pulled back.

"Going out in the rain to get gas," Kurt replied, his eyes trained on the front of Blaine's shirt. "Plus, you know. It's Idaho. You could die."

Blaine rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to Kurt's cheek before turning on his heel and exiting through the side door. Outside, he shook out the umbrella and put it up, drawing his wool sweater tighter around his neck with his free hand. The rain was coming down in torrents but the air was fresh—country air that smelt of farmland and reminded Blaine of his mom's ratatouille.

Catching himself, Blaine shook his head and kept walking. He was spending so much time looking back, these days—and that had never been him. There were things to consider, factors that would affect his future and what would happen when he and Kurt got back to Maine, but more than anything he found his mind wandering to their shared past and things he could have done differently to get them to this place sooner.

Blaine was certain of it, now: they belonged together. While the momentum of their trip had arrested for the past couple of days, Blaine's momentum for saying the words on the tip of his tongue, the words itching to get out, was building and building and building behind him. He was just waiting for the right time.

"Blaine!"

He started and whipped around at the sound of his name cutting through the pounding of rain on his umbrella. Kurt was running toward him cradling something wrapped in a plastic bag in his arms, clearly paying no attention to the fact that he was nearly soaking wet, and Blaine jogged back toward him to usher him underneath the cover of his umbrella.

"I thought you might be cold," Kurt offered, shoving the bag at him with a lopsided smile, and when Blaine looked inside, he saw the heather gray of his thick Bowdoin hoodie.

"You... Kurt," Blaine said, at a loss for words as he took him in, shirt plastered to his chest and his teeth chattering. He pulled out the hoodie and gave it to Kurt instead, ignoring Kurt's protests and telling him, "Come on, you're freezing. You need it more than I do."

He watched Kurt pull the hoodie over his head and tuck the bag into the pocket, and it was probably a good moment to say something, the inherent romance of their surroundings—rain pit-pattering and rippling the surface of the small reservoir to their right, the slight shadow cast over them by the umbrella—lending itself well to the fact. But he didn't feel... Ready. He was still testing the waters of their relationship, trying to see whether they really could have all of each other and still be them, still be the Kurt and Blaine who bantered and teased and flirted. His biggest fear was that they wouldn't, that they would morph into something neither of them ever wanted to be, even though what they had now felt like the purest thing Blaine had ever known.

So instead of, "I love you," Blaine said, "Let's go."



With Kurt by his side, the six-mile round trip didn't feel as long as the ninety minutes it took them. They had walked most of it in companionable silence, giggling and ribbing each other every so often as they huddled and bumped into one another beneath the umbrella made for one. On their return trip, Blaine had eventually just wrapped his arm around Kurt's waist and matched his stride, basking in the sweet smile Kurt had given him before ducking his head and adjusting his grasp on the gas can.

"I couldn't really see much when I looked at it, but once I get my tools..." Kurt trailed off when they were about a mile away from the R.V. "Let's just pray that it's a blown fuse."

"What else could it be?" Blaine asked.

"A broken circuit in the dash panel or a fractured float," Kurt said, "and we really don't want it to be either of those, because we'd have to call Triple-A. But... I honestly wouldn't be surprised if it's the float."

"Why?"

"Because the floats expand and contract depending on the temperature, and we've kind of been going from one extreme to the other. Just keep everything crossed."

"You're sexy when you talk mechanics," Blaine told him, squeezing his waist.

"Really, B? You're choosing now," Kurt said archly.

"What, you're allowed any number of lumberjack fantasies and I can't have this one little thing for you doing your grease monkey bit?"

"No, dork, I meant that we're walking by the side of the road where I can't just have my way with you."

"Well..."

"No. Just... Do something to distract me. But please, for the love of god, make it have nothing to do with potatoes."

Blaine thought for a moment, considering his options—keep winding him up until he pins me against something; confess everything because that'll definitely distract him, at the very least, and maybe then he'll pin me against something; recite an epic movie speech; sing him a song—and finally settling on humming under his breath, growing louder until he caught the tilt of Kurt's head toward him. The slow spread of a smile across Kurt's face was like rays of sunlight through a chink in the clouds, and before long he was joining in, his lower register grown richer in the weeks since Ann Arbor.

"Out here in the fields!" Blaine sang, throwing his arms wide and not caring when the torrents of rain began to soak them both. Kurt yelped, but to his credit kept up his humming of the piano part. "I farm for my meals! I get my back into my living!"

Blaine pointed the umbrella at Kurt and gestured for him to take the next line, claiming the piano for his own.

"I don't need to fight to prove I'm right!" Kurt sang at the top of his voice, circling around Blaine on light feet and dancing just out of reach, as if they were singing were some flirty duet in the manner of Ray Charles and Betty Carter. "I don't need to be forgiven, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah..."

Blaine swung the umbrella by its handle and brought it to rest across his body, showing off his best air guitar as Kurt doubled over laughing. He wasted no time in taking up the next line of vocals: "Don't cry, don't raise your eye. It's only teenage wasteland.

"Sally, take my hand," he sang, offering his hand to Kurt and spinning him in place, "we'll travel south 'cross land."

"Put out the fire, and don't look past my shoulder," Kurt joined in, mirroring Blaine in dropping his chin to hit the low note. "The exodus is here, the happy ones are near. Let's get together before we get much older."

Not wanting the tension of the lyric to settle into their bones as they looked at each other, Blaine sprinted onward into the guitar solo, pulling as many stupid rock star faces as he could. He nodded at Kurt for a count of four and took a deep breath, spreading his arms wide as they finished, "Teenage wasteland, it's only teenage wasteland. Teenage wasteland, oh yeah, teenage wasteland. They're all wasted!"

"Oh my god," Kurt said breathlessly, wrapping his arms around his middle as he doubled over again. "Sometimes I forget what complete dorks we are. How are we supposed to find anyone that can put up with us? We're doomed."

"Ah, maybe," Blaine bantered, sliding his arm back around Kurt's waist and holding the umbrella up again, even though they were both wet to the skin. "But anyone who can't rock out to The Who isn't worth your time, you know."

"This is true," Kurt agreed, taking a deep breath and finally seeming to get his laughter under control. As they walked, already much closer to the R.V. than Blaine had thought, Kurt turned to look at him and cleared his throat. "I—"

"What?" Blaine asked lightly. Right, left, right, left, keep your fucking feet moving.

Kurt shook his head, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. "I'm thinking maybe Idaho's not so bad after all."

"As long as you've got the right music," Blaine told him, tamping down on his disappointment and turning it instead to fuel. He would be the one to break this stalemate, and now he could almost be certain of the response. It didn't matter that he knew how Kurt felt about him—feelings were, all things considered, the easy part. What was difficult was knowing whether Kurt would stop being stubborn long enough to confess those feelings.

When they reached the R.V., it was almost like watching Kurt step into a different skin, one with which Blaine had become well-acquainted over the summer while they spent time in Burt's shop. He quickly changed out of his wet things and into a clean t-shirt and jeans—all business, so Blaine busied himself by taking the gas can and filling the tank before heading back inside and plopping himself into the driver's seat to watch Kurt work.

Within a few minutes, Kurt had the fuse box under the glove compartment open, the cover flipped over in his hands so that he could look at the schematic. He arranged himself somewhat awkwardly so that he could duck underneath with a small flashlight clenched between his teeth, and as he pulled out a fuse and held it up to the light, he let out a muffled yet triumphant, "Ha!"

"Lady Luck on our side?" Blaine prompted, and in lieu of a spoken response, Kurt gave him a thumbs-up. He made short work of switching out the blown fuse for a new one, and at his second thumbs-up, Blaine switched on the engine and watched the gauge slide to a few clicks above empty. "You're the man, Kurt Hummel."

"Learned from the best," Kurt quipped, replacing the cover of the fuse box and climbing gracefully out from the gap into which he'd wedged himself. "I was thinking that we might as well change the oil while we're here."

"That makes, what—four changes since we left?" Blaine asked, switching off the engine again.

"Look at what happened today. It's just good sense," Kurt reasoned, brushing himself off before stepping between Blaine's knees and murmuring into his ear, "Anyway, I thought you liked it when I did my grease monkey bit."

Blaine groaned and made a half-hearted attempt at pushing him away, thinking better of it halfway through the motion and pulling him down for a dirty, open-mouthed kiss. "Let's be quick. We need to fill up the tank and get to the campground."

"What's the hurry?" Kurt asked.

Blaine knew he was teasing, stalling for time just because he could; he ran his hands up and down the backs of Kurt's thighs, squeezing just below the curve of his ass, and said, "You are."



Distance: 11,051 miles