'Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on...'

It had been a month since Blaine had gone.

In the scheme of things a month wasn't much. Just one. When thought of as thirty days, it definitely felt longer though. And seven hundred and twenty hours? Well, that might as well have been a lifetime.

It probably wasn't the healthiest way of viewing the situation, but Kurt could never seem to help it. Every time Blaine left, he found himself counting the minutes. Every breakfast was a morning spent without Blaine. Every night alone in his bed, somewhat hollow.

Kurt had known from the start that there would be times when Blaine would leave. Sometimes for two days, sometimes for a week. The first time they'd spoken about it, Kurt was stunned that he hadn't been able to keep himself from crying. What made Blaine's occasional absences bearable was the knowledge that he always, always returned. He'd never been gone this long though, and Kurt was starting to question whether he could still be sure of that precious fact.

Most days he'd walk the old path down by the river and listen for Blaine's familiar voice singing some unfamiliar song, perhaps in an unfamiliar language. Pray for the sound of Puck's guitar, or Britt's innocent, musical laugh. He'd even grown to recognise the flat, dull slap of Tina's bare, leathery feet on the splintered old jetty, and sometimes, heartbreakingly mistook the smack of a duck's wings on the water for her rhythmic dancing. The few times that had happened, he'd found himself quickening his pace, breaking into a run as a smile split his face. He'd round the last bend in the trail, opening his mouth to shout 'Blaine,' only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of the empty jetty, bereft of his friends and lover.

The man who was his lover.

Had been his lover.

"Kurt!" Rachel yelled, "Take your apron off and get the hell out of here!"

Kurt gripped the mop tighter and gritted his teeth, whirling to face her, "And leave Finn to finish cleaning? You do realise there'd probably be mould growing in the corners if I didn't do this for him every night?"

Rachel crossed her arms and scowled, "Please, give him some credit. Besides, I can't afford to pay you overtime."

"Rachel, do you want to be able to pass any given health inspection? Or, you know, not poison our customers?" He sniffed, "And I don't want overtime."

"Then scoot!" She stepped forward and undid the bow of Kurt's white apron, tugging it from around his waist and snatching the mop, "Go home. Read a book. Get a life."

"I have a life!" Kurt cried indignantly.

"Yes, you do." Rachel stated, "It involves working at a bakery twelve hours a day and never getting out."

"And where exactly am I supposed to go?" Kurt asked, reaching vainly for the mop which Rachel was now holding securely behind her back, "A population of one hundred and fifty isn't exactly conducive to a raging social life."

"You're just not trying."

He rolled his eyes, "Find me dairy farmer who's looking for love, and maybe I'll decide that it's worth the effort."

"I found Finn, didn't I?" She shrugged.

"That's not what I had in mind." He deadpanned.

"Fine! Sorry I mentioned it. Go." She leaned forward on her tiptoes and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek, "I'm giving you a half day tomorrow."

"I don't want –" he began.

"I don't care what you want Kurt Hummel. Now, goodnight."

He stood there for a moment, struggling to think of a fitting retort, before turning on his heel and exiting the bakery. The bell on the door above his head jingled cheerfully as it slammed behind him. It was a refrain he heard so many times in the space of a day that he barely even registered it anymore.

It had just passed five, and the main street of Ainslie was already predictably dead. It was late spring, and the weather was pleasant enough to warrant staying outdoors until after dark, but the mentality of the town's few residents was one of staunch 'early to bed, early to rise.' It may have been a productive regime, but Kurt often found himself lamenting all the crickets unheard and stars unseen. All the bright eyes reflecting in the dark that only he was awake to ponder.

He rented a one bedroom cottage down by the river, and on warm nights he'd often look out over the broad, black expanse and scare himself witless wondering who (or what) all those eyes belonged to. The logical part of his brain reassured him that it was just rabbits and owls, but the smaller, more irrational portion conjured wild images of beasts and sinister strangers. He'd stand the sensation for as long as he could, but after a while his fear would get the better of him, and he'd back up to his screen door (never turn around when you don't know what's out there in the dark) and scrabble at the handle until he was safely inside.

These occasional flights of fancy would leave him in his small kitchen, heart racing as he fumbled for a camomile tea bag, but in hindsight he always found himself grateful for the rush. For the adrenaline and alarm that so quickly overcame him and reminded him that he was alive. Everyone else in the town was sleeping, and Kurt Hummel was alive. Living alone in the small town of Ainslie, and working at Rachel's bakery every day but Sunday.

Whilst at work, for reasons clear only to herself, Rachel forced Kurt and Finn to wear starched chefs whites buttoned to the neck, and black and white checker trousers to match. It was far from necessary for her to worry about appearances in a town as small as Ainslie, hers being the only bakery for miles and the only place to buy fresh bread, yet she insisted. The prim and proper Berry's Boulangerie. Half of the residents were still incapable of pronouncing it.

Every day when he knocked off, Kurt would unbutton the heavy restricting tunic and make his way towards the river, slinging it over his arm and untucking his blue undershirt from his pants. Today, he ran a hand over the thin layer of sweat that had formed on the back of his neck, and arched his aching spine, attempting to push Rachel's ministrations from his mind. Her lecture about 'getting a life' was the same one she repeated to him on a bimonthly basis. He was well aware that she meant well, but Kurt had lived in Ainslie long enough to be equally aware of how fruitless it was to hope to lead a life any different to the one he already led. It was impossible to broaden his horizons when he was on a first name basis with everyone within a fifteen mile radius, and even more unlikely when his main friendship group consisted of Finn and Rachel, the most charmingly, yet sickeningly symbiotic couple he'd ever been acquainted with.

Still, Kurt spent at least two nights a week in their company, and was generally content. He sometimes got lonely, or craved the company or others when there was no company to be had, but he'd chosen to live this uncluttered life and he would inevitably endure it.

There were two different routes available to reach Kurt's cottage. One of them, the faster of the two, led him through a couple of side streets and straight to his door. The other longer, more scenic path wound down next to the river for a couple of hundred metres, past the old jetty and under the protective, verdant gloom of several ancient, gnarled willows. Weather permitting, he almost always took the river path. He cherished the evocative embrace of the trees and the cool drafts that blew across the water. The whole town was rarely anything but silent, but the silence by the river held a different ambiance for Kurt. It was a silence of ages, that longed to tell its story. It was comforting and incomplete. A never ending parentheses that made Kurt hum with suspense.

Much the same as every day, Kurt had braced himself for that same reassuring silence as he reached the packed mud of the bank, finding himself surprised to hear sound of voices further down the track. Every now and then on his way home, he would come across locals walking their dogs and conversing with one another, but this time he immediately sensed a difference. These voices were singing; rising and falling with the thrum of guitar strings and the padding of palms on drum skins.

He slowed as he reached a concealing bend in the path, curious, but unwilling to progress without first being sure of the scene he'd be disturbing. When the owners of the music did come into view, he couldn't have been more startled.

Moored at the end of the disused jetty was a broad, flat canal boat, hung with rainbow prayer flags, flapping like the wings of striking birds. There were pots of lavender on each corner of its deck, and various items of clothing drying from the handrails. Equally unexpected were the four occupants of the boat, who had set up old folding chairs on the worn wooden planks of the pier.

The one playing the guitar wore his hair in a Mohawk, and cradled the instrument in muscular, tanned arms, bare in a dark blue tank top. A second man was holding the song's melody, his smooth voice embellishing, and ringing clear and deep. A beaten straw fedora sat far back on his head, and his thin white shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows as he tapped a small wood and animal skin drum in his lap. Two girls sat next to him; a lithe blonde, and a shorter dark haired girl. The blonde perched on a wicker chair and the other sat cross legged, leaning on her knees as she had her hair braided. From time to time they would harmonise with the man in the hat, or add a whimsical trei lei lei lei to his rich vocals.

The four of them looked exceptionally content. From time to time they would make eye contact with one another, lifting and eyebrow, or quirking a lip, but for the most part seemed absorbed in the curious folk song. The man in the straw hat looked particularly at ease, one bare foot tucked under himself, shoulders relaxed and a tranquil smile on his face.

For several minutes Kurt stood and watched, captivated. Boats rarely passed Ainslie, and when they did, they never stopped. Apparently these four strangers lived on their boat, and had done for quite some time. It looked as much like a home as his small cottage ever would, and brimmed with a sort of rough vitality he'd grown unaccustomed to. He wondered if they were casual travellers or tourists, though both seemed somewhat unlikely.

Eventually their song drew to a close, and he shook himself from his reverie as the larger man lay his guitar on the ground. Kurt cautiously resumed his progress to his cottage, pointedly looking straight ahead, unsure of the sort of reception he'd get from the group. To his surprise, as he drew level with the jetty he was met with a shout.

"Hi, there!" The blonde girl chirped, "Nice night."

Kurt remained walking, though turned his head and offered her a smile and a curt nod. At least they were friendly.

"Hey, hold on!" The man who'd been singing had stood, and was running down the pier towards him. He fell into step with Kurt and offered his hand, "Hi. I'm Blaine."

Kurt looked warily down at his open palm for a moment, before taking it in his own. It was rough and worn under his own similarly work hardy fingers, though encouragingly warm and sturdy. Honest callouses and descriptive scars. He glanced up to meet Blaine's eyes and was thrilled to note that they were a similar clear, russet shade as the river. His jaw was peppered with stubble, overgrown, but not unkempt.

After a silent second, Blaine laughed amiably and extricated himself from Kurt's grip, "I think this is where you introduce yourself…"

"Oh, I'm Kurt." He started, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks, while his eyes shot in any direction but Blaine's face.

"And to think it's usually the locals trying to tutor us in good manners." Blaine chuckled, "Nice to meet you Kurt."

"You too." He countered politely. Introductions out of the way, he expected Blaine to retreat to the boat, but he remained beside him, skipping on every other step.

"So, did you hear us playing?" Blaine asked.

"Some of it." He admitted.

"What did you think?" He asked brightly.

Kurt shrugged, "It was nice, I guess. You all have lovely voices."

Blaine smirked, "But mine's the best, right?"

"It's not bad…" He said warily. It was the best. It was beautiful. That wasn't to say that he was about to admit it to the sprightly stranger.

"So…" Blaine plucked off his hat with a flourish, revealing a wealth of dark curls left flat by the headwear. He inverted the hat, and presented it to Kurt, "Care to offer a token of your appreciation?"

Kurt furrowed his brow, "What, money?"

"That's generally the idea." He grinned, "We busk, people give us money."

"I'm sorry, you're busking?" Kurt asked sceptically.

"Yep." Blaine gave the hat an encouraging shake.

Kurt snorted, "I could be wrong, but I thought it was generally prudent to busk to an audience."

"Yeah. You." Blaine said, attempting what must have been his most winning smile.

"And if I hadn't come along?"

"Hey, it doesn't hurt to be opportunistic." He teased.

Kurt shook his head disbelievingly, "Sorry, I don't have any change on me."

"Not even a quarter?" Blaine wheedled.

"No."

His face fell fleetingly, then rapidly lit up again as if a switch had been flipped.

"Oh!" he cried, rummaging in the pockets of his threadbare jeans, "What about…" he began, drawing out a handful of what looked like long thin strips of leather, "… you buy some wears."

He began to clumsily untangle the mess of strands, holding them up so Kurt could see that they were in fact pendants and pieces of jewellery, some of them adorned with stones and polished, coloured glass. He dangled them in front of Kurt's face.

"Each one's handmade. No two are the same."

Kurt eyed the pieces, swinging before him like pendulums, "No thanks."

"They're the perfect gift for your mother." Blaine reasoned, "Or sister."

Kurt pursed his lips, "I don't have either."

Blaine faltered, then added, "A girlfriend, then?"

Kurt laughed, "Yeah, wrong again." He couldn't believe how persistent the visitor was being.

"One day though…" Blaine said, "Just think how impressed she'll be when you give her a beautiful, unique necklace."

Kurt stopped, Blaine skidding to a halt a step in front of him, "So, let me get this straight. My metaphorical girlfriend will be blown away when I give her one of your pendants?"

"She'll be amazed." Blaine coaxed.

"Unlikely." Kurt said.

"Don't sell yourself short." Blaine grinned, "Good-looking guy like you, you shouldn't have a problem finding the perfect, jewellery lovin' gal."

Kurt snorted, trying to not be flattered by the underlying compliment, "Is it necessary that she's jewellery loving?"

"Absolutely essential." Blaine stressed.

Kurt gaped silently, then sidestepped him and kept walking, "Nope."

Unsurprisingly, Blaine hadn't given up, "What about you then? Why not treat yourself?"

"I don't think they'd suit me." He said shortly.

"You'd be surprised." Blaine presented his own wrist, bound in a number of bracelets, "When worn with conviction, they can be quite masculine."

Kurt covered his eyes with a hand, and asked, "Does this pitch usually work for you?"

"Sometimes. I'm told I can be quite charming when I want to be."

"Well, feel free to start anytime." He said, staring straight ahead as his cottage came into view. He knew he was being rude, but what had begun as an endearing exchange, was becoming slightly irritating.

"Hey." Blaine grabbed his wrist gently, urging him to stop and turn to him, "I'm sorry, I just… this is what we do. Mouths to feed and all that."

Kurt eyed him, noting an absence of the pretence and forced charisma from moments before. Blaine replaced his hat, and blinked harmlessly, still lightly gripping Kurt's arm.

"Don't worry about it." Kurt said, "You've at least made my commute a little more exciting than I'm used to."

Blaine chuckled, "The rat race."

"Yeah." Kurt grinned timidly, "We're non-stop out here. Busy, busy."

Blaine smiled in an endearingly lopsided way, then reached back into his pocket, "Here." He said, pulling out a short plait of brown leather and placing it in his hand, "Have one on the house."

Kurt ran the bracelet through his fingers gingerly, then met Blaine's eye, "Thanks." He said quietly.

"No problem." Blaine muttered earnestly, "Wear it around town. You can be our sandwich board."

"Sure." He said absently, "I'll do that."

"Okay then." Blaine started backing away, "Maybe we'll see you around."

"Probably." Kurt waved, turning and walking slowly to his gate.

"One other thing!" Blaine yelled.

Kurt turned, now twenty metres or so from him, "What?"

"Do you know if there's any work going in town?" he called.

Kurt shrugged expansively, "Sorry, can't help you."

Blaine clasped his hands together in front of his chest in a sort of mock prayer, "Thanks anyway."

When Kurt reached his gate, instead of stepping right through he rested his forearm one of the broad fence posts and clumsily tied Blaine's gift around his wrist. He held it up and ran his forefinger along its oily, irregular furrows and bumps, noting that it did in fact look quite wonderful.

Not as good as they'd looked on Blaine's handsome, tanned arm, but wonderful nonetheless.