Day 013: Saturday 29 September, 2012
Waterlights (New York)

"New York, on the other hand... There's a city made for a classic."

"And what do you suggest?"

"Breakfast at Tiffany's, of course."



It was their third night in New York, and already Blaine knew he would never get enough of the city of a million movies. His mind was filled to the rafters with moving snapshots of every moment so far, playing on a loop in his mind. The awestruck expression on Kurt's face as he looked out over the Hudson while they breezed down the 9A, Empire State of Mind Part II quietly playing in the background. The entire world full of color and light as they turned on the spot at the bottom of the TKTS steps in Times Square, where Blaine had felt as if he was running inexplicably late for something. Craning his neck on the 6 to try and catch a glimpse of the faded glory of the disused City Hall station. A bona fide breakfast at Tiffany's with croissants from the Macaron Caf�. Laying a single red rose of gratitude and memoriam on a bench in Christopher Park and stepping inside the Stonewall Inn a few minutes later, his throat thick with a borrowed memory.

After the very first item on their list—window shopping all the way up and down Fifth Avenue—Kurt had dragged him to Grand Central, and they had both stopped in the middle of the main concourse to look up at the arched windows set high into the brick walls. When Blaine had asked why Kurt looked a little sad, he'd answered, "You've seen all those black and white photographs of the way this place used to be, sunlight streaming in through those windows right there. It can't do that anymore because the buildings around this place are too tall."

"That's my star cinematographer," Blaine had replied, nudging Kurt's shoulder with his own. "Always worrying about where the light's coming from."

"I'm serious, Blaine! Shooting in this city must be a logistical nightmare..."

Even so, Blaine had never seen Kurt so full of life and wonder, not even in Boston. The previous night, after they had decided to capitalize on their advantageously close proximity to the Statue of Liberty, they had fallen into the bed they'd taken to sharing most nights and Kurt had talked long into the dark hours about all of the city's little nuances, all the places he wanted to come back and explore, everywhere he wanted to work someday.

And now, standing on the observation deck at the top of Rockefeller Center with his gaze sweeping from one side of the horizon to the other, Blaine truly wondered if it could ever get better than this. Sure, he hadn't found the one place he truly belonged like he had been hoping—and expecting, given the astounding mix of cultures to which New York played host—but he was still in the greatest city in the world, sharing every second with his best friend.

"I can totally see why people pay so much money for penthouse apartments," Kurt said from next to him as he fed another quarter into the coin-operated binoculars. "If I could have even a tiny fraction of this view, I'd be happy."

Now that Kurt had distracted Blaine from the view out over Central Park, however, Blaine's attention drifted downward to where the fabric of Kurt's jacket stretched across the breadth of his back, the way the tight, dark denim of Kurt's jeans hugged the curve of his ass so tightly that they could have been painted onto him. He really was unfairly attractive, and Blaine found himself wishing that the number of spectators milling around the deck was much higher, if only to give Blaine an excuse to stand closer to him, close enough that he could justify half-fitting their bodies together just like he had on the bridge at WaterFire. He wanted to be back down on the streets, in the middle of the almost oppressive crush where the danger of losing one another in the crowd was so great that Kurt would end up with fingers tightly gripping the crook of Blaine's elbow.

The craving to touch and be close was agonizingly frustrating—it was an itch beneath the surface of his skin that he couldn't scratch, one that only grew worse no matter how many times he told himself that it didn't even exist, that it was simply a physical reaction to spending so much time with a hot guy. A hot guy with legs for days, broad shoulders, thick hair he could card his fingers through until he couldn't see them, and a way of looking at him sometimes that made him feel like he was the beating heart at the center of the universe.

"This is becoming a problem," Blaine thought aloud, cursing inwardly when Kurt quirked an eyebrow up at him in question. Thinking more quickly than he generally considered himself able, he added, "I, uh... don't think I can leave this view, you know."

"I know what you mean," Kurt said, straightening up with a sigh. "But I'm exhausted and I'd rather not fall asleep halfway along the Brooklyn Bridge, so..."

"Yeah, let's go."

They rode the R from 49th to City Hall, Blaine sharing Kurt's iPod and listening along to City of Blinding Lights, watching their reflections in the opposite window each time they went through a tunnel. He tried not to think too much about the first line of the song—the more you see, the less you know—and how perfectly fitting it was. Nevertheless it remained stuck in his head throughout eating the hot dogs they bought from one of the vendors in the park, right up until they were about to step onto the Brooklyn Bridge, when he spotted a gay couple walking in the opposite direction, hand in hand.

"We should hold hands," he blurted out before he could stop himself, all at once feeling like he was twelve years old.

Kurt stared at him for a long moment, before finally asking, "Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because we're here, and we can, that's why."

"My hands are still greasy from that hot dog."

Blaine rolled his eyes and grabbed Kurt's hand, holding on tightly and leading him onto the bridge. They were silent in the cool night as they walked, and Blaine found himself suddenly grateful for the quiet, for the fact that he could walk hand in hand with Kurt without feeling like he was overstepping some boundary or crossing some line—both between himself and Kurt, and between them and the rest of the world. It was a blessedly uncomplicated moment, and Blaine reveled in it, giving Kurt's warm hand a reassuring squeeze and earning himself an uncharacteristically shy smile in return.

"Wow," he breathed at the center of the bridge, where Kurt gently unclasped their hands and they both looked out at the breathtaking light show before them.

Tom Fruin's Watertower stood proudly atop a collection of artists' studios on Jay Street, lights switching and undulating from within the multicolored stained-Plexiglas structure that stood as tribute and monument to the ten thousand water towers throughout the borough of Brooklyn.

"Now that's something I'd put in a movie," Kurt said quietly, after Blaine had spent a few minutes trying to find any sort of discernible pattern in the light sequencing.

"I'd love to see how you'd work it in."

"Title montage, maybe?"

"No, this place is worth more. I mean, look at it. It's a work of art—totally worthy of the moment the two leads finally get over themselves."

Kurt bit his lip for a moment, seeming to consider something as he straightened up, chin tilting upward almost infinitesimally. Blaine knew that look.

"So maybe I'm the one with the drinking problem who'd been doing much better, but fell off the wagon. Everything had been going so well, and suddenly everything was falling apart around me," Kurt said. He closed his eyes, rolled his neck and dropped his shoulders, and it was like he was wearing another skin entirely. He approached the side of the bridge, leaning his folded arms on the rusted metal plate of the bridge wall, his eyes taking on a far-away look as he gazed at Watertower.

"And something pithy and clich�d was said to me, the guy who's desperately, head-over-heels in love with you, despite all of your flaws, and I've been looking for you all night," Blaine continued, backing up a few paces and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Oh, and it's raining."

"Obviously. And I'm trying to figure out a way to fix everything I've fucked up, but I just—I just can't," Kurt exclaimed, dropping his head into his hands.

"And then I see you, and call out your name."

Obediently, Kurt pulled his hands out of his hair and looked around at Blaine, abject guilt coloring his features, and not for the first time Blaine wondered why Kurt had never wanted to be an actor. "The obligatory 'what are you doing here?' line, of course."

Blaine jogged closer, leaving no more than two feet of space between them, and tipped his head back a little so that he could look directly up into Kurt's eyes. He looked tortured, full of regret, but still hopeful, and Blaine felt himself falling a little further into their silly, improvised scene. "Maybe they don't need any words, or maybe they need an epic, When Harry Met Sally-style speech."

"I think the latter. No music, just the rain," Kurt said, and then tentatively reached out to take Blaine's arms. "You say something, and I try to disagree with you, and you steamroll over me, and of course, I ask you what happens next."

"Close-up shot, I tell you that we'll figure it out, pause, together," Blaine said. Kurt looked down with a coy smile, and Blaine—Blaine's assumed character—tensed in anticipation.

"Switches to a profile shot," Kurt said quietly, looking at Blaine through his long eyelashes. "Watertower's perfectly framed between us, and we lean in..."

Though he didn't move a muscle, there was a challenge in Kurt's eyes, and for one endless moment it felt like everything had ground to a standstill. Cars and pedestrians alike had stopped in their tracks, the thick clouds overhead were no longer moving, and even the lights inside Watertower were frozen.

"Blaine..."

It was a reverent whisper; Blaine shivered, and that was all it took. Whatever spell had befallen them was broken, had been swept away by the chill breeze that washed over them both, and Kurt shook his head as if to clear it as he stepped back. Blaine wanted to say something, wanted to try and speak around the lump that sat heavily just above the dip in the center of collarbone, but Kurt was already looking back at Watertower, taking a deep breath that made his shoulders rise and stay there even after he let it out.

"Something like that?" Kurt asked, voice strung tight.

Something like that, but something more. Something where I'm not afraid to kiss you just because of what it might mean for us, where it's an act of faith the likes of which I'm not sure I have.

Blaine cleared his throat and hummed an agreement he didn't believe in. Maybe they needed to go out somewhere they'd be forced to interact with other people, get out of this little intense bubble of two they'd formed and stayed inside. They were sinking into new habits that felt somehow old, like they'd always done exactly this but never recognized it for what it truly was.

All he knew was that something had to give, and soon.



Distance: 1,000 miles