Day 007: Sunday 23 September, 2012
A Hand Unheld (Massachusetts)

"But it's Jaws. It made history!"

"Unless you want me clinging to you like some sort of barnacle, veto."

"Alright, fine. Mona Lisa Smile it is."



Kurt (11:21am) – IMG_20122209_4976.jpg
April (11:23am) – Rude. Where are you guys and why do you both look so attractive right now? I'm still in my sweats.
Kurt (11:24am) – That was yesterday, walking along Charles River in Boston. Massachusetts is beautiful! And hey, you deserve a lazy day. I saw the video from last night, you guys were fantastic!
April (11:25am) – Are you kidding me? It was fucking ridiculous. Damn Hugh and his obsession with obscure British indie bands.
Kurt (11:26am) – For what it's worth, you sounded great. Will you guys be in Boston at all?
April (11:26am) – Jen's trying to get us a gig at some bar in the North End. Why?
Kurt (11:27am) – Make sure you go to Mike's Pastry for cannolis. But for the love of god, hide the fucking box when you're out.
April (11:30am) – ...am I just supposed to guess why?
Kurt (11:30am) – Just trust me.

Blaine's eyes had been fleetingly coming to rest on Kurt at intervals since the previous day by the river, and Kurt wished more than anything as he turned his gaze out of the window for the umpteenth time that he could narrow his field of vision to nothing but the asphalt ahead of them and simply not notice.

But he couldn't do that any more than he could forget Blaine's stupid, throwaway comment. It was nothing, and Kurt felt stupid for being so fixated on it, and what he needed most was not to be shown a living, breathing reflection of what he saw every time he looked in the mirror: a kid playing dress-up in an old man's skin, a faintly haunted look in his eyes that spoke of too many things never dealt with, regarding himself with pity as he arranged his armor. And with pity was exactly how Blaine was looking at him.

"You sound like your mother, you know," Kurt said fondly, in response to Blaine using an old phrase of his mom's.

"It's getting worse," Blaine admitted somewhat sheepishly. "I guess there's something to that old saying, after all."

"That we're destined to become our parents?"

"That we're destined to become our mothers."

And just like that, Kurt had stiffened, the tension setting his spine arrow-straight quicker than the crack of a whip, and his head had spun from how quickly he had been suddenly eight years old all over again, the light from Blaine's living room spilling out into the hallway, a yellow rectangle framing his dad as he had knelt down in front of Kurt and taken his shoulders. His grip on the blue and white string around his pastry box had tightened until it cut into the creases of his fingers, and he had closed his eyes, inhaling slowly.

"I swear to god, I want to shoot everywhere in this state," Kurt said, pocketing his phone and settling back into his seat his left leg crossed over his right. He picked up the camcorder from the dash, the plastic casing warm from where the midday sun was bearing oppressively down upon the R.V., and flipped out the screen to go through some of Blaine's footage from the previous day. He had to do something to break the tension.

"It certainly has something," Blaine agreed, and Kurt scrolled back through the footage until he found the panoramic view of Charles River that Blaine had taken from their vantage point by Harvard Bridge. Even with such a state-of-the-art camcorder, there was no capturing the full magic of the blue-backed skyline and the sun sparkling out over the water—it was breathtaking, cinematic, a place where anything could happen. A place where he wanted to make things happen. The location was a cinematographer's dream.

"Doesn't it? I feel like I've had this blank canvas put in front of me. I don't know why they don't use this place more, there's so much untapped potential."

"I can see you there. Back in Boston," Blaine said lightly, absently tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of Bittersweet Symphony pouring through the speakers.

"You can?" Kurt asked, trying for nonchalance.

"You suit cities; that's all I'm saying. Don't think I've forgotten the Philadelphia trip."

"I thought we agreed never to talk about the Philadelphia trip."

"Well, you know, before the whole public indecency thing... I've never really seen you like that. It was like you came alive; I don't know how else to put it. And here even more so. You're all color."

Kurt chuckled and shook his head, trying not to notice the way his lips seemed to strain to keep hold of the smile when Blaine's eyes caught his across the center console, and the mirth faded back into that same hesitant, considering look.

"Kurt, about yesterday... I wasn't—" Blaine began, his voice holding the same regretful tone as it had the day before, right up until he'd been interrupted by two petite brunettes, holding hands and glancing at the Mike's Pastry boxes he and Kurt had been carrying, the ones that contained the second halves of the cannolis they'd been unable to finish in one sitting. The girls—tourists, there for the weekend from London—had easily been the twelfth or thirteenth time he and Blaine had been stopped and asked for directions, even as far away as they were, and while Kurt was busy trying to keep himself from screaming, Blaine had directed them to the nearest train station, telling them to get off the T at Haymarket and head to Hanover Street.

"Blaine, it's fine. Really," Kurt said, cutting him off and reaching over to cover Blaine's hand with his own. He shot him a tight smile, wishing and hoping and praying that Blaine would just let it go, file it under the list of things that Kurt didn't want to talk about, and move on.

Blaine returned his eyes to the road, nodded after a brief pause, and as he began turning off the freeway, said, "okay."

A few quiet minutes later, they were parked in the small beach parking lot behind Devon's on Commercial Street in Provincetown, the scent and sound of the ocean waves chasing after them as they made their way around to the front of the restaurant. Kurt took in the weathered white siding of the building next door, the paint no doubt battered from the wood by the salty sea air. A few couples were seated outside beneath the black awning, and Kurt couldn't help but let his eyes linger a fraction too long on two boys sharing a stack of blueberry pancakes, proudly holding hands across the table. When one of them looked up at him over his boyfriend's shoulder as Kurt and Blaine passed, strands of red hair falling over his eyes, Kurt offered him a small smile and continued on inside.

"Did you see the two boys holding hands out front?" he asked Blaine, when enough silence—save for the old Donavon Frankenreiter song playing inside the restaurant—had passed since placing their orders that it began to feel uncomfortable, like Blaine was just itching to bring it all back up again so that he could try to fix it or something equally as frustrating.

"Adorable, right?" Blaine answered, sliding his hand palm-up across the tablecloth and waggling his fingers.

"I'm not holding hands with you," Kurt said, pulling his napkin from the table and setting it across his lap simply to give his hands something to do other than give in to the urge to grab onto Blaine and hold tight. He took a small sip of his iced tea, hoping that the cold would help clear his mind, because this was beginning to prove problematic—it was Blaine, for Christ's sake. Blaine, his best friend of sixteen years and emphatically nothing more—feelings never led anywhere good, and as Blaine himself always said, sex just complicated things. Though when Kurt started putting 'Blaine' and 'sex' in the same train of thought, he didn't know.

"Aw, Kurt," Blaine whined, giving Kurt his best wounded puppy expression. Kurt turned his eyes upward, concentrating on the exposed white beams of the ceiling and the checked, cylindrical light fixtures suspended over the tables. "Come on, everyone else is doing it."

"Those are the exact words you said to me in Philly, and look how that turned out," Kurt said archly, glancing around at the other patrons. Granted, there were a smattering of couples, straight and gay, throughout the busy restaurant who were holding hands, but they didn't exactly form a majority. "And besides, not everyone else is doing it."

"But they could if they wanted, and isn't that the point?"

"Can we just talk about how you've already started making plans to retire here, instead? Because I saw the look on your face down by the beach."

Finally withdrawing his hand with a sigh, Blaine shifted his gaze from side to side and fiddled with his fork. "Not true."

"So true, Blaine Anderson. Come on, you don't think about what it's going to be like to be old?"

"All the time."

"I knew it."

"I think it's going to be fantastic. Who really wants to be forever young?"

"Ask an old person."

Blaine snorted. "I guess. But picture it, Kurt—a lighthouse down by the beach, a little artist's colony..."

"Sounds pretty perfect," Kurt said, "and just like you."

"Well, you'll be there too, right? Someone needs to be in charge of exhibitions, because my organizational skills are for shit."

Kurt laughed, his first genuine laugh since the day before, and felt himself relax back into his seat, the residual tension draining from the top down, until he could feel it soaking through the bottoms of his shoes and down into the floor to dissipate completely. "Of course I'll be there. Someone has to bring the fabulous," he said, leaning in conspiratorially for a moment.

"Eggs benedict?"

Kurt glanced up at the waitress he hadn't even noticed approaching and nodded—the smell of hollandaise sauce intermingling with applewood smoked bacon was heavenly, and he swallowed thickly as his mouth began to water. He hadn't realized quite how hungry he was until the food was placed in front of him, and suddenly he felt ravenous.

"So what's the plan for tonight?" Blaine asked, tearing off a small piece of his French toast with his fork after the waitress had discreetly slipped their bill onto the table and excused herself.

"Go to the site, watch our movie, get ready, and then head to A-House," Kurt answered succinctly.

"Ah, so that's the real reason you brought the leather," Blaine teased. "The Halloween costume was just a convenient cover."

"The place has three bars, Blaine. And if you don't watch it, I might have to tie you up and leave you there for the bears to feast on."

"But..." Blaine trailed off with a look of faux-puzzlement. "How did you know I like that?"

Kurt just laughed, shook his head, and took another bite of his eggs. Despite the little moments of temptation, the curiosity to see what it would be like, Blaine was still just Blaine. Dorky, charming, affable Blaine: his best friend and nothing more.



Distance: 683.8 miles