Kurt [08-18-11 3:11am]: What am I going to doooooo?

Santana [08-18-11 3:14am]: Admit this is a wrong number and let me go back to sleep.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:15am]: The bathroom attached to his bedroom smells like raspberries.

Santana [08-18-11 3:16am]: Oh shit, Kiki. You're so fucking gone.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:16am]: What am I going to doooooo?

Santana [08-18-11 3:17am]: Admit this is a wrong number and let me go back to sleep.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:18am]: Let me make up our missed sleepover tomorrow night. I need your opinion on my first-day-of-school outfit anyway.

Santana [08-18-11 3:19am]: If you're going to spend the entire time describing the shape of his lips or the exact shade of his hair or, oh god I'll kill you, the multi-layered color of his eyes, I'm never having a sleepover with you again.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:21am]: I'll rub your feet all night long.

Santana [08-18-11 3:22am]: Wait. You still plan out your first-day-of-school outfit? Didn't we outgrow that in 4th grade?

Kurt [08-18-11 3:24am]: I will not rub your feet all night long. And his eyes are amber brown and forest green with flecks of golden yellow, just so you know.

Santana [08-18-11 3:25am]: Honestly, I can't Friday. Nini's folks are out of town. I'm getting me some girl time on.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:26am]: Lucky bitch. I'm going to die a virgin.

Santana [08-18-11 3:28am]: Remind me to show you this at the end of marching season. I guarantee you by state finals – your little kiki is going to be the happiest kiki this side of the equator.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:29am]: I object to the word 'little.'

Santana [08-18-11 3:30am]: Your enormously gargantuan COCK is going to be the happiest COCK this side of the equator.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:31am]: Much better. And you're also full of shit. And I just dropped my phone on my face, so I need to go to sleep.

Santana [08-18-11 3:32am]: Someday I'll learn to turn my phone off at night.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:33am]: Speaking of – we haven't had any drunk Rachel texts in awhile. Should we worry?

Santana [08-18-11 3:34am]: About Yentl? I'll let you take that burden, sweets. G'night.

Kurt [08-18-11 3:35am]: Raasssssppppberries, Snix.

Santana [08-18-11 3:36am]: With cream.

~~~**~~~

Kurt sips his iced coffee and drags a finger across the cedar chest-of-drawers sitting with other beautiful wooden pieces on the long paved driveway. As he looks around, he daydreams of one day filling his own apartment with trifles and treasures from estate sales such as this – from flea markets and antique stores, someone else's history helping to color his today.

But today, he's here for clothes. Since school is about to begin he can shed the gawd-awful gym shorts and ankle socks that have clothed his late summer days and break out the good stuff. He learned early on that if he is going to be labeled anyway, he might as well make sure the label options are good ones.

You know him – Coiffed Hair; Great Weird Clothes.

That Guy With the Brooch I Wish I Had The Balls To Wear.

The Mechanic's Son Who Dresses Like a Model are far superior to the ones he has been assigned most of his life.

And, since he is a mechanic's son who makes his money from his own dad answering phones and making appointments in the shop, couture shopping is not an option. Sewing his own pieces and bargain hunting like this are viable, delightful ones.

And today's estate sale is one that, while morbid in theory, he's been waiting for. Old Lady Pritchard flit her money around town for as long as Kurt can remember – his mother even complained about the woman. She was an ever-present volunteer at pointless non-profits around town, her picture all over the lifestyle section of The Lima News. Her most annoying, famous and useless organizations were the various up-starts that tried to get the public library to stop circulating the ever-popular "banned books." Oh, and Maxim Magazine, of all titles.

The old bitty finally kicked the bucket a few short months after her husband, and the family wants to dump their stuff, take the money and run. Kurt wants to finger through the family belongings, get some amazing pieces for school and run. The Pritchards might not have had manners, but they had style. And Kurt is hoping to cash in.

He checks his phone for the time, and makes his way toward the front porch, slowing to run his fingers through the beaded fringe on a coral-colored vintage lampshade.

"Amazing how something can be gaudy, yet beautiful at the same time, isn't it?"

Kurt snaps up at the voice and breaks out in a grin much wider than the early hour of the morning should allow. "Maynard! What are youdoing here?"

"Scraping at the crumbs of Lima's richest – just like you, I'd assume."

"So, you do estate sales?"

"Yeah, Mom used to take me to a few in Columbus and Dayton. Then Dad found out, had a fit we were stealing from the dead and that ended that."

"He does know you pay for your purchases, right?"

"It's second-hand. He doesn't care."

"Ah, that just means there's history to it. That automatically increases its value."

Kurt steps into the line and judges how many people are ahead of them, hoping he's timed it just right – early enough for quality items to be left, but late enough that they'll start allowing a bit of haggling.

"Come on – my place in line is perfect." He tosses the remainder of his coffee into a cardboard bin. "So, what are you shopping for?"

"Mmm, odds and ends. Mom and I collect a few things and—"

"Those cool robots you have in your room – you get them at sales like this?"

"A couple of them, yeah. We go to resale stores in Columbus too."

"Ooh, we'll have to go together one day." Kurt sucks in a breath at his quick future plans and fumbles for his phone to check the time again. "I mean—now that I know you like this sort of thing too and—"

Blaine smiles, warm and easy. "We really should. It's not as much fun with Mom anymore. She's always digging around for weird retro clothes and purses."

"Yeah, but clothes—"

"Yes, clothes. It's just that my boobs are too small for vintage dresses."

"Ah. Yes. Sizing can be complicated."

"Mmmm...my goal lately is to find a good, working turntable. The ones you can buy now are all focused on converting everything to digital. You lose that scratchy, moldy basement sound."

Kurt steps up to the door and takes two numbers with a tiny courtesy, handing one to Blaine. "Moldy basements have sounds? That you can actually hear on records?"

"Oh, shut up – they lose the atmosphere of it all. I like the scratches and skips. Cooper and I had a Mott the Hoople record that we knew right where it'd skip – we still sing it into the song every time. Even when we're listening to the CD in the car."

"Numbers 25 – 30, you may go in. Please respect the sold signs, play nicely and enjoy your shopping."

"Oooh, here we go." Kurt points to the stairs. "I'm going straight up to the bedroom."

"Okay. I'll meet you up there. Leave me a few things."

Kurt makes his way upstairs trying to focus on the job at hand, not how his entire body has been thrumming since he heard Blaine's voice call for him in the front yard. He has never been able to get anyone to join him on these scavenger hunts – even Tina who is the most eclectically dressed of his friends. And to think that Blaine seeks these sorts of sales out and that maybe they could take a trip to Columbus where all the better sales are and—

"McQueen! Oh my god." Kurt's eyes dart from side to side before he slips to the armoire, drawers pulled out in stair-step fashion displaying various accessories neatly tucked in its drawers. He lifts a blue and ivory silk scarf and sighs, the skull pattern just obscure enough to remain classy – not biker. He gathers it and places it around his neck and moans, blushing when another shopper glances his way.

He busies himself with the contents of the armoire, the drawers, the few vests and shirts hanging from the rod, and has to bite back squeals of delight more than once. Just as he plucks one final vest from the cabinet, lost in the bliss of it all, he feels a warm hand on his arm and jumps.

"Find anything?"

"Oh! Yes. I—" Kurt yanks the scarf from his neck and drapes it over his arm with his other choices and grins at Blaine, checking out the pale yellow glass pitcher he's carrying. "I'm afraid I might not have left you much. There are some ties and things over there. I haven't looked through them yet."

"I might have already hit my budget anyway." Blaine lifts the pitcher a little, and smiles sheepishly.

"It's pretty – for your mom?"

"Yeah. She collects these." He stops and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. "I've wanted to replace one that broke before we moved."

"Did you break it?"

"No. I—" Blaine stops and huffs. "You don't want to hear this story. It's just family bullshit."

Blaine can't look Kurt in the eye, scanning absent-mindedly over the contents of the armoire where they're standing.

Kurt does want to hear the story. He wants to know everything – if Blaine's up for sharing. So, he tugs Blaine back away from the flow of shopper traffic and gingerly takes the pitcher from Blaine's grasp, holding it up to the light. "It really is beautiful."

"Mom—this is one of the things she collects – it's Vaseline glass. And she had this pitcher – or one close to it. Every summer it was always in our fridge full of her lemonade. It just – it's was a fixture, you know?"

"That's because hers is the best."

"Right. So, we were packing up to move and she had just wrapped it up and Dad walks in. Where do you think you're taking that? Like he'd even been a part of helping us at all anyway."

Kurt hands him the pitcher back and he wants – he wants to make that wrinkle between Blaine's eyebrows to go away. "I'm sorry."

"He's consistent. So, they fought. And I left the kitchen and then I heard it shatter. Mom swears it was an accident and Dad stormed out yapping about her taking everything and he wouldn't have anything to entertain with and—"

"He doesn't seem like a guy who does much entertaining..."

"He's not. And – mom loved it. And every time I've poured lemonade from Tupperware this summer I just get more irritated. So—"

"She's gonna be thrilled, Blaine."

"I hope so. She's starting to smile more again, so maybe the timing is right." Blaine shrugs and tucks the pitcher up under his arm looking over Kurt's selections. "I like the scarf. Brings out your eyes."

"I—yes. Thank you." Kurt sighs in relief that the moment has shifted. "It's McQueen. Mr. Pritchard had some taste for an old guy."

"How much?"

"Um...god, I didn't even look." He scrabbles around to find the tag and squeaks. "Oh my god, it's only $20. I bet I can talk them down to $15."

"You're buying lunch."

"Lun—do. Do you want to—after we're done?"

Blaine scurries over to the dresser where ties are displayed, but the pink flushing his cheeks is still clear in the reflection of the mirror he's facing. "I'm sorry. I sort of thought of it downstairs and made it so without asking you."

"Lunch sounds nice. Finn shoved a piece of burnt toast into my hands before I took off and it's not quite making it." Kurt joins Blaine at the dresser and watches him in the mirror instead of investigating the ties. His eternally long eyelashes and slightly parted lips are much more interesting.

"How thoughtful of him."

"Mmmm...I'm going to go check for hats." Kurt leans in, spotting a brooch on the top of the dresser, but lingers there even though he decides it's too gaudy – even for him. Blaine smells like Saturday morning – fresh and bright, waiting to play and laugh. "I'll see you downstairs."

He clears his throat and avoids Blaine's stunned stare in the mirror. He hadn't meant that to be raspy and weird but Blaine is messing with his head. He looks amazing – tanned and dressed with a little more care than he bothers for rehearsals. He likes the things Kurt likes and laughs at the things Kurt laughs at and he loves his mother. And when he blushes – oh god, when he blushes – and Kurt has simply lost his fool mind.

This meeting was a coincidence and they'll go to lunch and part to spend the last weekend of summer with their families and marching season will kick off full force and come October no one will even remember their own names, no less each other's and all will go back to status quo.

Except he's not sure he remembers what status quo even is anymore. All he sees is Blaine. On the field. Blaine. And the duet. Blaine. Guzzling water from his thermos. Hunched over French homework – does he take French? – Blaine. Curled up next to him snoring gently as he tries to find sleep at bandcamp. In the car driving to Columbus singing old songs Kurt's never heard of – on a trip they've only talked about today, but probably will never take. Blaine. Blaine. Blaine.

"Young man. Young man? That'll be $95 dollars, please."

"Oh! Yes. I'm sorry. Daydreaming." Kurt hands the attendant his money and sighs.

I wonder if Blaine will like that Varvatos vest I found?

~~~**~~~

"I cannot believe how much food is here."

"I told you." Kurt inspects Blaine's plate as he joins him at the table, the buffet most likely picked clean now that he's gone through. His plate – plates, more accurately – are virtually toppling over with food. Once Blaine picks up a chicken thigh, he unearths a slice of roast beef swimming in au jus. "You're going to make yourself sick."

"How many trips are you planning on taking up there?"

"Two." Kurt tilts his head and contemplates his decision to forego the chicken this time. "Maybe three."

"See, I'll go back for dessert. You're going to end up shoving more in your mouth than I am. Guaranteed." With that, Blaine takes a huge bite of chicken, closing his eyes and sighing around the salty, crunchy skin. "Oh my god."

Instead of starting on his gravy-drowned pork chop, Kurt sticks a fork into one of Blaine's chicken pieces and twists it to yank off a huge piece.

"Only child. No one ever taught me to share." He shoves the chicken into his mouth and reacts just like Blaine did, only he lifts a finger to hold his place in the conversation and winds his way back up to the buffet for a new plate and a few pieces of chicken.

The meal continues this way, each offering bites of goodies from their own plates and laughing when the receiver gets up to get his own helping of the new taste sensation, accumulating more plates than they have table space. Kurt shoves one more forkful of pork chop into his mouth, tosses his fork on his plate and leans back, feeling like a bloated whale. "Break time."

"God yes. This reminds me of Thanksgiving, but without the drama."

"Or football."

"Or dishes."

"Or the aunts who smell like mothballs and basements and insist on kissing you."

Blaine barks a laugh and picks at his roll – okay, it's his third roll – dragging it through the last schmear of butter on his plate. "You have some interesting aunts and uncles. Vampire impersonators, basement dwellers. Remind me to avoid extended family functions at the Hummel household."

"If I could avoid them, I would. All they want to know is if—"

"You've found a sweet girl yet."

"Yes!" Kurt grins because Blaine knows. He knows.

"And then Uncle Patsy – yeah, I know – I have no idea what his real name is – Uncle Patsy has to take me out and toss a football so I can muscle up for the babes."

"Let's run away after marching season. Avoid this whole mess."

"Mmm. Where are we headed?"

Kurt's attention is drawn away from their fantastical adventure when a child walks by their table with a slice of cheesecake bigger than his head. "Nowhere until I get cheesecake. What do you want? I'll grab something for both of us."

"I don't care. Not cheesecake, so we can share."

"Who said I'm sharing my cheesecake?" Blaine simply smiles and Kurt's useless to fight. Of course he's sharing his cheesecake.

When he returns with apple pie and cheesecake, their plates have been cleared and Blaine is sitting waiting on him with a fork in each hand, ready to dive in. He is the worst kind of adorable that ever was.

Kurt settles in and stabs Blaine with his fork when he dives into Kurt's cheesecake. "I get the first bite – eat your pie."

"Bossy." Blaine goes for his pie and closes his eyes in pleasure. Kurt decides he'd probably better never eat with this guy again. It's dangerous.

"So, since we really can't run away after marching season – what about after high school? Where are you headed?"

"Probably OSU? I just know I want out. I'm applying there, Otterbein, Capital, Cinci."

"That's not very out – you don't want to leave Ohio?"

"I... never considered it? Just so I get away from the shit storm of my parents, I really don't care. Why? Where are you going?"

"I want to go to Ohio State for two years – experience the marching band should I make it – and then transfer to NYU or if the stars align, Julliard."

"Performance?"

"Yeah. I figure the job opportunities are there in New York and who knows? I might change my mind and go with fashion design. I'd be in the right spot."

"But OSU first?"

"Yeah. I really, really want to march there. Don't you?"

"God, yes. I've been going to games since I remember. I enjoy football, but don't talk to me during pre-game and half-time."

"I've only been to a few, but you never forget. Ramp? And Script Ohio? And just –that stadium is—"

"I know. Can you imagine performing there?"

"We're going to this year. Didn't you see the schedule?"

"What? When? We, as in McKinley?"

"Yeah, Buckeye Invitational." Kurt puts down his fork and slips into section leader. "Did you not get the schedule at the beginning of rehearsals, Maynard?"

"I did. I saw that, but didn't know what it was. We perform at Ohio Stadium? Like, on the field? Ohio Stadium?"

"Yes. We don't get to enter on the ramp – talk about holy ground – but we exit that way. Then, OSU's marching band plays when the whole competition is over – ramp, script, a half-time show. It's going to be amazing."

"Have you done this before?"

"I went with Jonesy last year to scope it out and see if it was something we wanted to try to get into. Two hundred bands audition. Only thirty-five get in."

"And we got – damn, you guys do have an amazing reputation."

"You guys? Maynard – WE have an amazing reputation. You're one of us. You're carrying the torch right along with us."

"Oh god. Your solo."

"Our duet."

"Your solo. I'm just extra. Oh my god." Blaine takes a slow forkful into his mouth, clearly deep in thought. "Maybe...maybe Dad would actually come to something."

"It'd be worth an invite. He's welcome to ride with my dad and Carole."

"No. You don't—no. Thank you, though. He's an island. Needs no one."

"Ah. Well. The offer stands."

Kurt keeps eating, stealing bites from Blaine's pie, amused at the dreamy expression on Blaine's face. For an Ohioan – a marching band kid in Ohio – playing at Ohio Stadium is Mecca. "How many people show up?"

"Well, nothing like football Saturdays. Probably a couple thousand. All those bands and their families, people who've been before and just love it. It's a cheap afternoon of good music, you know?"

"Yeah." Blaine sits back, letting the ice cream melt over his pie, no longer caring about dessert. "We're going to kill it."

"Yeah, we are. Grand Champions. Ohio Stadium."

"Then State will be a breeze."

"Walk in the park." Kurt forks his final piece of cheesecake and smiles, a little smug. A lot excited.

"We need to practice."

"I thought you'd never ask."