Day 010: Wednesday 26 September, 2012
Not for the Faint of Heart (Connecticut)

"Hmm. I've never seen that one before. April always used to rave about it, though."

"And All About Eve is a classic..."

"Nah. Let's try something new."



"What did I say to you this morning?"

Kurt paused with the last bite of pizza halfway to his mouth and regarded Blaine through narrowed eyes. His gaze was too focused, like the beam of a laser zeroed in on him, and his face entirely too bright and open. It was what Blaine looked like when he was trying to overcompensate for something, when he was intentionally playing dumb and acting like something huge hadn't happened, keeping his head down and hoping for it all to be swept beneath the carpet like the family issues that had plagued his home life throughout his childhood and teenage years.

It was maddening. Kurt was the product of an open home, where the issues were discussed at length—much to everyone's embarrassment, at times—and resolutions reached. He was also not someone who often shied away from confrontation. He was quick-witted with a razor-sharp tongue, and when there was an argument to be had, he knew how to stand his ground and usually come out on top.

The thing was that there was no argument to be had over whatever the hell was going on with Blaine. A confrontation of sorts, yes, but a confrontation he had no idea how to approach. In order to do so, he would have to first work through his own thoughts and feelings about what had almost happened between them on the platform. He'd realized that he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of Blaine closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to Kurt's in a kiss that he hadn't even known he'd been anticipating until they were mere inches apart. Facing up to that was going to open up an entire can of worms that he wasn't in any way prepared to deal with just yet.

"Something about the rooster," he finally answered, taking his bite of pizza and chewing it slowly, savoring the rich blend of herbs, spices and tomato. Neither the movie nor the website had been lying—the Mystic Pizza was heavenly. Coupled with the cozy, warm and inviting atmosphere, right down to the eclectic radio station blaring Sneaker Pimps and Sigur Ros, it felt like this place was probably the worst kept secret in all of Connecticut.

"Right. That stupid rooster," Blaine muttered, and Kurt pursed his lips against a smile—the crowing had started at around five a.m. and hadn't stopped for at least an hour. He vowed that, despite the undeniable pleasantness of getting an early start, it was the last time they would park the R.V. anywhere near a farm.

"I was only half-listening, to be honest," Kurt said, wiping his hands on his napkin and setting it over his cleared plate.

"I don't blame you," Blaine said, and echoed Kurt's movements before crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his elbows on the table top. "So you remember what happens today, right?"

"Blaine, can we not?" Kurt pleaded, dropping his head into his hands. "I'm already suffering pre-traumatic stress disorder."

"I swear to god, sometimes you're more melodramatic than a Chekhov play," Blaine countered.

"Yes, well, Chekhov was never subjected to the horrors of Walmart," Kurt said. "And up until five seconds ago I was doing a great job of forgetting all about them."

"Aw, poor Kurt," Blaine teased him in a wheedling voice before finally relenting, pulling out his wallet and paying their bill, and leaving what looked like a generous tip. "Okay, let's talk about something else. Favorite... Favorite scene from the movie."

"The pub, the one that looked like a house," Kurt said, shrugging into his jacket. He followed Blaine down the stairs that led out of the restaurant with one last glance around to commit every inch of the place to memory. "Did it remind you of the Cannery, too?"

"If you're thinking of that one time we tried smoking, get out of my head."

"I totally was. What about you? Favorite scene?"

"I don't know, I mean... I can't really pick just one. I liked the story about the guy who built the house for his wife," Blaine said as they made their way around to the parking lot at the back of the building. "You know, no one does that anymore. Build a house for their husband, or wife. It's all down payments and escrow and mortgages. Isn't there something kind of romantic about building a house with the person you love? Choosing everything together, right down to the roof tiles?"

"First you have to decide where home actually is," Kurt replied. As they reached the R.V., he unlocked the passenger side door and tossed the keys to Blaine—he wasn't about to drive himself to his own demise, after all. "But yeah, I can see how that'd be romantic."

"Did I just hear you say the word 'romantic' unironically, Kurt Hummel? Is the ice finally melting?"

"I only said that I could see how it would be romantic, not that I thought it was."

Blaine said nothing—he didn't need to; his grin said it all.

"Just shut up and drive. Let's get this over with."



Their route down I-95 passed all too quickly, and the pit of dread in Kurt's stomach only grew bigger the closer to New Haven they got. Before he was ready for it, the pre-programmed voice of the GPS was cheerfully telling them that they had reached their destination.

"We need to change the GPS voice," Kurt said, making no move to unbuckle his seat belt when Blaine cut the engine. "I'm going to have nightmares about it for months after we get back."

"She sounds kind of... Kathy Bates in Misery, doesn't she?"

"Oh my god, thank you. I've been trying to figure it out ever since we left."

With no response from Blaine aside from a brief, quiet laugh, Kurt fell silent and glared through the windshield at the sprawling building at the other end of the parking lot.

"You know, it might not be as bad as you think," Blaine said gently, slowly unclipping his seat belt as if Kurt were some kind of flighty animal with a low startle point. Kurt snorted before letting out a long-suffering sigh and following suit.

"I've seen the People of Walmart blog, Blaine. I know exactly how bad it's going to be."

When they were almost at the automatic sliding doors, Blaine fished his phone out of his pocket. "Let's turn this into a game," he said. "The winner is whoever gets the most People of Walmart-worthy pictures."

Kurt smiled weakly, took a bracing breath, and followed him inside.

His first impression was that perhaps Blaine was right. It wasn't entirely hideous—bright and open, and it at least smelled clean. It seemed that they'd timed their visit well, for there wasn't an intolerable amount of people milling around, mostly mothers with infants.

"Got one," Blaine murmured, surreptitiously snapping a picture of a middle-aged balding man in a white t-shirt and what looked suspiciously like pajama pants. He had his back turned to them as he walked towards the housewares section, and Kurt raised his eyebrows when he took in the clear plastic hanger hooked over the back of his collar, two identical white t-shirts just hanging there as he went about his business.

"Oh my god. Let's just get this over with," Kurt muttered, and turned to grab a cart.

Thankfully—due in part to the amount of times they'd fallen back on lazy student ways and eaten out instead of cooking—their grocery list was short, and by the time they found the alcohol their cart was only half-full. Kurt had taken over full control of the cart when it had become obvious that Blaine couldn't be trusted not to loiter around the baked goods, and they'd made good time. He might have even gone so far as to have said it wasn't an entirely unpleasant pit stop.

And then they reached the end of the aisle, and Blaine's knobbly elbow was digging sharply into Kurt's side, tearing his attention away from the tequila—yellow, never clear—that he'd discovered an affinity for during freshman orientation at Bowdoin.

"Blaine, what the—"

"Look at the baby."

Kurt turned back to let his gaze follow where Blaine was pointing, his expectations so set on seeing an infant sweet enough to make his teeth hurt that at first he didn't even notice. When the sight before him finally registered, his eyes went wide.

Halfway down the opposite aisle was what looked like an abandoned cart with a baby of about nine months, clad only in a diaper, lying sideways across the child seat. The top of its head was pushed up against the metal bars of the cart, and as they watched, it rapidly cried itself awake. There was no one else in the aisle, no sign of a mother or father or even a nanny anywhere.

"Did someone just abandon it?" Blaine hissed.

"God, I hope not. Especially not in a Walmart."

"What if they did? Kurt, we can't just leave it like that..."

"And we can't just touch someone else's baby!"

"We could at least go sit him up. Look how uncomfortable that must be," Blaine reasoned, and Kurt had to admit that he couldn't imagine having thin metal bars digging into one's head as being particularly enjoyable. "Although... What if he hasn't been abandoned? What if the mom comes back and yells at us? Oh my god, what if she tries to get us arrested—"

"Blaine, calm down. Look, let's just... Okay, let's go sit him up, and we can wait to see if anyone comes back."

They approached cautiously, and Kurt briefly wondered if whomever was watching the security cameras was already calling the police, suspicious that there was about to be a kidnapping. The baby was crying louder and louder, and still there was no sign of anyone even closely resembling a parent.

Kurt cast a cursory glance at the contents of the cart—a pack of diapers, jars upon jars of baby food—before even looking at the baby, with its reddened face and legs trying to kick out. He chewed the inside of his bottom lip through a moment of indecision before finally reaching inside the cart.

"Wait!" Blaine whispered. "What if he can't hold his head up yet?"

Gesturing to the cart, Kurt quickly explained, "Babies don't start on solids until four to six months, and they can usually hold their heads up by then. This guy looks around nine or ten months, so we're fine."

"You're like Sherlock Holmes, Baby Edition."

"Shut up."

As if on cue, the baby's cries grew considerably quieter, and Kurt blinked in surprise.

"What are you, the baby whisperer now?" Blaine asked, sounding mostly derisive but a little impressed.

"Shut up," Kurt hissed again.

Without giving himself time to hesitate and second-guess the entire thing, Kurt reached out to sit the baby up. When he was upright, with his hands squeezing the plastic bar and chubby legs kicking out underneath the seat, he looked almost happy.

"That's much better, isn't it, little guy?"

"What are you doing? Get away from my baby!"

At the screeching voice, Kurt whirled on the spot to see a short, frizzy-haired woman carrying a toddler on her hip and clutching a large bottle of margarita mix in her other hand. She marched toward them with all the fierce presence of an Amazonian warrior, the angry and stricken look on her face immediately setting alarm bells ringing in Kurt's mind.

"Abort mission, abort mission," Blaine hissed through gritted teeth, and Kurt raised his hands as the woman drew closer.

"Ma'am, we were just making sure he was alright. He woke up crying and we couldn't see anyone—"

"Get away from him!" she repeated, her voice exactly the same volume it had been from the end of the aisle. She pushed past them both, all but threw the bottle into the cart and then took off, stopping only to toss one last dirty look over her shoulder as Kurt and Blaine both stood there, dumbfounded.

"People of fucking Walmart," Kurt said after a few seconds had passed, and from the corner of his eye he could see Blaine's hand twitch, as if to reach out and comfort him.

"How did you know all of that baby stuff? You were amazing," Blaine said earnestly, settling his hand at the small of Kurt's back and guiding him back towards their cart. Kurt almost jumped out of his skin at the contact; the first time Blaine had touched him since their almost kiss—because that's exactly what it was, wasn't it?—at WaterFire.

"Helps to have a midwife for a stepmom," Kurt said fondly, and reminded himself to call home.

"But you've totally got the instinct," Blaine pressed as they rounded the corner at the end of the aisle and founds themselves wandering slowly past shelves full of party supplies.

"I guess that's a good thing, if I ever wanna have kids," Kurt said.

"Do you?"

"I mean, it depends on where I end up. I'd like to live in a state that'll let me adopt, of course, but... Yeah, I'd like kids someday."

"Me too," Blaine agreed. "Two girls and a boy."

"Why that combination?"

"Well, with two dads, I wouldn't want my daughter to feel like the only girl in a house full of guys, and since I want at least two kids, I figure why not make it three?" Blaine said. "What about you?"

"I've always thought a girl and a boy, but your reasoning actually makes a lot of sense."

"And I'd have all of them close together, so that they didn't end up ten years apart like Cooper and I."

"Agreed. I can't imagine what it would have been like to have a sibling that much older or younger than me, but I guess that's what the age gap would have been if Mom—" Kurt stopped abruptly, trying to clear his throat at the sudden, acrid burn of bile. He could feel Blaine's hesitant gaze settle upon him, and he turned his attention instead to the shelves closest to them, picking up a pack of napkins printed with lassos and horseshoes. "Remember your cowboy-themed party?"

"You mean the best party ever? Of course I do," Blaine answered smoothly, and Kurt shot him a grateful look. "I should totally throw another one."

"Blaine, you know having a cowboy party at twenty-two is a lot different than having a cowboy party at ten, right?"

"Cowboys are hot and you know it, Kurt Hummel. After all, who was the one who was so gung-ho about Brokeback being our Wyoming movie when barely any of it was actually shot in Wyoming?"

"You saw the alternatives, Blaine," Kurt retorted, replacing the pack of napkins on the shelf and continuing their slow amble down the aisle.

"How do you feel, knowing you've survived your first trip to Walmart?" Blaine asked after a few moments had passed.

Kurt just snorted derisively. "Barely survived. We still have to check out."

"Hey, seriously," Blaine said, catching him by the arm. Kurt stopped, turned, and held his breath. Blaine was doing that thing again, the thing where his whole body got tense in the most effortlessly languid way, as if he was suspended in the moment of experiencing release and relief and getting every single thing he ever wanted all at once. The exact same thing that Kurt had felt in him when Blaine's arm was around his waist, when Blaine's lips were inches from his own, and Kurt's heart stuttered in his chest at the mere memory. And just like that, the tension was gone and Blaine was wrapping him in a hug, half-whispering, "I'm totally proud of you."

Just as Blaine was stepping back, Kurt weakly lifted his arms and caught him loosely by the elbows, capturing them both in a replay of that moment on the platform. Blaine's eyes were honeyed and warm, searching his own for an answer to the question of what to do next, and Kurt felt his tried-and-tested sultry smirk just beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth when, out of nowhere, two teenagers dressed in hoodies and jeans went careening past them, their cart almost knocking them over.

"Surviving," Kurt muttered as he stepped away, and Blaine sighed heavily, burying his hands in his pockets and looking anywhere but Kurt.

He handed over control of their cart to Blaine, wrapping his arms around his middle as they set off the way they had come, all thoughts of tequila somehow forgotten in the shuffle. As they walked to the front of the store in silence, Kurt stole a brief glance at Blaine, taking in the set of his jaw and his furrowed brow. It was the look he wore when he was either fighting with himself, lying to himself, or both.

And the lies that we tell ourselves when we're young are so much more throwaway than the ones we tell ourselves as we get older, Kurt thought. There's always so much less at stake.

Which was the entire reason that they could talk about any topic under the sun except this one, why this was the one thing that made Kurt feel like his throat was filled with glue. It wasn't like they'd met only six weeks ago, or even six months ago; their entire shared history could vanish with a touch of lips or rushing hands. They could wreck each other, and then what?

"Okay, don't panic..." Blaine trailed off, pulling Kurt from his woolgathering. "But I just saw a rat."

Kurt stopped in his tracks, and pinched between his eyes. "Blaine... Can we please just find a fucking Whole Foods now?"



Distance: 912.8 miles