The guest house made a great home for Kurt's laptop. It also offered abundant space for his work notes. And it provided plenty of storage for his clothes.

Kurt, on the other hand, spent little time there.

Blaine's offer may have been for Kurt to move into the guest quarters, for him to have his private space, but they both knew it was nothing more than pretense, an unspoken excuse for what they both really wanted.

Kurt had stockpiled enough columns to keep Quinn happy, easing his travel schedule, so he spent his days and nights with Blaine — in the vineyards, in the winery, in the bedroom.

Blaine was convinced, and correct, that despite being an expert in the final product of wine, Kurt knew far too little about creating it, about the process of vine to wine.

"You want a good column, Kurt? Learn how to make wine. Understand it from the inside out. Learn how to grow the grapes. Become a vintner and tell them how you learned to really know wine."

He was only half-joking, as was Kurt when he took him up on the offer. 

There was a time when Kurt would have been insulted by the suggestion that he didn't understand enology. The industry considered him an expert after all, an influential voice in what makes a wine stand out from the pack.

But he found that he could accept it from Blaine. This wasn't a rival critic trying to take him down a notch. Blaine, who was earnest, honest and affectionate in his own quiet way, offered him an opportunity to know more, to be better, to grow as a critic. It was also, Kurt thought, a door opening into Blaine's life, and he intended to walk through it.

"I guess I need to earn my keep," he said, taking Blaine's hand. "I am your eager and willing protégé."

"Protégé? That might be a bit much."

"Apprentice?"

"No, padawan," Blaine said. 

Yes, Kurt thought, underneath that handsome exterior lies the heart of a science fiction nerd.

"Student, then?"

"Or intern. Take your pick."  Blaine chuckled to himself. Score this round a win for Blaine Anderson. He leaned over and kissed Kurt's cheek.

"I don't go throwing around apprenticeships to just anybody."

On weekdays when Kurt wasn't on the road, he would work alongside the field crew, learning the art of pruning and maintaining a vineyard canopy dense enough to shield the delicate fruit from harsh summer sun and heat, yet lacy enough to provide light throughout the plant, helping the crop to grow and mature.

Blaine also showed him how to look for early signs of vineyard-threatening powdery mildew, how to treat each vine to protect it from Glassy-winged Sharpshooters — insects that had already taken a multi-million dollar bite out of the state's wine industry. The pest literally ate vines from the inside-out, boring into old growth stock and laying eggs that would hatch and slowly eat away at a vine until it died. They also spread Pierce's Disease — lethal to grape vines — which had devastated vineyards up and down California, and had caused Napa and Sonoma counties' agriculture departments to take serious measures to ensure that the region's valuable crops were protected.

"I would have liked to have gone organic," Blaine said, as he showed Kurt how to treat the plants with low-dose insecticide. "There are a few that manage it, but it's become more and more difficult to run a vineyard without some chemicals, at least if you want to avoid having your crops destroyed. You lose a plant to Pierce's, it's more than just that year's harvest. You have to replant, and that doesn't become productive for another three years."

"So, chemicals?"

"Chemicals — in the ground — straight to the root system. And I try to minimize spraying for powdery mildew by staying on top of pruning throughout the season. If we still have to spray, I use an organic compound, so I do my best to keep chemicals out of the fields, but some of it's pretty much unavoidable."

Kurt had never heard someone speak so passionately about... chemicals. But that was Blaine, completely absorbed in his art. 

It was conversations like that, a simple explanation about chemicals and farming, that helped Kurt realize that his first impression of Blaine as dispassionate and reserved was neither complete nor accurate. Blaine might not broadcast his affections, but he had his passions. He could detail the history and mythology, the art and science of wine as if they were his own life story. He could wax poetic about the touch of a Steinway concert grand, and outline the relative merits of the banjo in American folk music. 

And while his words were few, his actions made it perfectly clear that he was also passionate about Kurt Hummel. The words will come in time, Kurt assured himself every time an "I love you" was met with silence, or a touch, or a change in subject.

On weekends, they would walk the vineyard in utter privacy, side-by-side, checking each vine, taking breaks in the midday heat to shed their clothes and dive into the cool of the reservoir: Kurt a bit shy about stripping without the protective cover of four walls; Blaine considerably more comfortable with it than Kurt had expected. 

The first time they swam, Blaine thought nothing of it, peeling off his t-shirt as he strode toward the water's edge, pausing only to unbutton his Levis and pull them and his briefs down in a single, sweeping motion before running naked into the relief of the water, KD at his heels.

Kurt stood at the water's edge, sweating in the 90-degree midday heat, a look on his face that brought new meaning to the term "shock and awe."

"You coming?" Blaine asked, splashing in the water. 

"Huh?"

"Come on, Kurt, get in here. It feels great."

Wide-eyed and unnecessarily self-conscious, Kurt unbuttoned his cotton work shirt as Blaine looked on, laughing and splashing and tossing a stick to the dog. It didn't help Kurt's nerves when he started mimicking the bahm-duh-duh-bahm drum line of classic stripper music, stopping Kurt cold.

"Is that really necessary?"

"Well, hurry up, then! What's with the sudden modesty?"

"Just give me a moment, okay?"

With an eye roll, Blaine fell back into the water, floating and gliding his arms up and down as if to make melted snow angels and spraying a mouthful of water skyward.

Kurt shimmied out of his pants and dipped his toes in the tiny lake.

"Ditch the Calvins," Blaine said, seemingly without looking. "It'll make getting those pants on a living hell if they're wet. And the chafing..."

He slipped out of the cotton knit boxers and set them aside on a rock with his pants, then eased himself into to the cool lagoon. Blaine swam up to him in long, lazy backstrokes until they faced each other.

"Better?"

"Better."

"Did you remember sunscreen?"

"The first rule of agriculture..." Kurt said, remembering Blaine's early tutoring sessions. "Never work outdoors without—"

"A high SPF," Blaine interjected, kissing Kurt lightly. "Especially if you have pearly skin."

"Pearly?"

Blaine grinned, pulling Kurt by the waist on top of him as he fell back into the water, landing with a splash, then a kiss. They treaded water and traded soft verbal jabs, their legs occasionally tangling under the water.

"Would you rather I called you 'fair'?"

"I'm much more than just fair."

"That you are."

"Just don't call me Porcelain — bad memories."

"I wouldn't think of it."

"I really shouldn't be in here too long. I'll freckle."

"I like your freckles. I just don't want you to burn. That could be... uncomfortable."

"Ugh," Kurt said, cringing, and turning as if to leave the water.

Blaine wrapped his arms around him and clung to his back, kissing his neck. 

"Stay," he murmured. "I can always put aloe on it."

****

Summer faded into early fall, the fruit deepening into shades of eggplant, russet and kiwi, nearing the apex of their lives on the vines.

They had set a rhythm by now, Kurt working for Taste most weekdays, either on the road or at his desk. In the early evenings and weekends he worked alongside Blaine in the vineyard, the cave or the winery.

The process had become repetitive: working their way up the hillside to inspect, nip, and assess row after row of maturing grapes. Blaine added another component as the grapes deepened in color, grabbing a few sandwich bags and a refractometer so that he could measure the sugar levels — the brix — to begin setting a mental schedule for the rapidly approaching harvest.

"When are you going to call in the crew?" Kurt asked one day, as they reached the top of the property.

"When the grapes say so," was Blaine's only reply.

He stood on the hillside, hands on hips, and looked around quietly. His brow was furrowed and his mouth tight. It wasn't his only silent moment in recent days. They'd been growing in number, frequency and volatility for days.

He looked over at his neighbor's grassy lot and bit his lip.

"I'm going to have to bring on extra help," he muttered.

"Hmm?"

He looked at Kurt, then turned to look again at the empty parcel.

"You're looking at the newest section of Rhapsody. I bought it — or at least they accepted my offer. It's mine in about a month."

"Blaine! That's great!"

"Well, I don't know if it's going to be anything more than a weed patch for a while."

Blaine detailed what he had to do, the implications and possible fallout from his decision to nearly double his acreage. He had to prep the land, design the vineyard extension, make decisions about varietals and vine stock — though he really already knew — the construction, the irrigation, the planting, the extra care that goes into establishing and nurturing something so new.

"It's a lot of work."

"You've got this," Kurt said, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. "Look at everything you did to get this started, just you and weekends off-campus. If you could do that, you can certainly do this."

"But back then it was just dirt. Now, it's a fully-functioning winery. It means more people, more time..."

"More wine."

"That's the goal."

Kurt turned, facing Blaine, wrapping his arms around his waist.

"You have one of the hottest labels in the region. You just doubled the size of your vineyard." He leaned in close and whispered into Blaine's ear. "You have a fabulously handsome boyfriend..."

Blaine smiled, his first of the afternoon, possibly the week.

"So why do you seem so unhappy?"

Blaine rested their foreheads together.

"Not unhappy. This is a good thing. It should be a good thing. It just creates its own set of complications. I just have a lot on my mind, that's all."

"What about Diego? Can't he help? I know he's been away a lot lately, but..."

"I can't count on him full-time anymore, Kurt. He's gone back to school."

"What? This is the first I've heard—"

"Recent development. He's going to carve out time where he can, but he won't be able to be the vineyard manager for much longer."

"What about the rest of the guys? Couldn't one of them step in?"

"They're great, Kurt, but they're not him. He understands how to work a vineyard and how to develop a crop not just for yield, but for quality. He understands the nuance of all of this, how the pieces fit together. It's a special skill, an art, one that's been passed down in his family. I'll probably have to start looking at candidates from Davis to take his place."

"Permanently?"

"That seems likely. He's got his own career to work on, and it's time for him to go."

Blaine looked pained at the words, an awful truth that he was uncomfortable acknowledging. He had known Diego since shortly after he'd bought the Rhapsody property, and he was much more than an employee. He was Blaine's longtime confidant and one of his closest friends.

The topic seemed to drive Blaine back into the silent funk he'd been in all morning. Kurt kissed his chin, then his lips, and tried to lighten his mood.

"Maybe you'll just have to step up my training."

It didn't work. Blaine let go of Kurt and looked away.

"I need someone long-term, Kurt."

He started to walk away, but Kurt matched him step for step, pulling alongside.

"What was that all about?"

"Nothing."

"I get the impression that wasn't nothing, Blaine. Not when you shut down into that surly mode of yours and turn your back on me."

"It's nothing. I've got work to do," Blaine said, striding down the hill.

"Would you slow down and tell me what I said that set you off? Because I really don't understand you sometimes. All I'm doing is what you suggested — I'm trying to learn this business, and I'm offering to help you out. Tell me what's wrong with that."

Blaine stopped, folding his arms across his chest, and took a deep breath. Kurt could see in his face a look of annoyance, and an effort to measure his words before he allowed himself to speak.

"This just isn't something I can joke about, Kurt. I know you mean well, and I appreciate your help, but I need to build an experienced staff that I can count on."

"And you don't think you can count on me?"

"Kurt, you don't understand."

"Then help me."

Blaine looked him in the eye, as if studying Kurt's face. He squinted in thought, shook his head and ran a hand through his curls. 

"I'm about to lose someone who's vital to this vineyard, someone I've known for years — someone I trust. And pretty soon, I'll have to replace him. I don't just go posting on Craigslist to find someone like Diego. And I don't think that joking about taking his place helps any."

"I didn't mean anything by—"

"I know," Blaine said. "You didn't mean anything by it. I'm about to invest heavily in this place, Kurt — partly because of you, because of your encouragement, and that damned contest of yours. It's costly, it's risky, and it's happening at a time when I'm about to lose someone that I need."

"I'll do what I can to help."

"I know, but that only goes so far, doesn't it?"

Kurt looked down, then took a step toward Blaine, into his space. He reached up and brushed a stray curl from his brow, then kissed him gently.

"You know I love you? You understand that?"

Blaine nodded, and avoided eye contact. Kurt took his hand, lacing their fingers together, hoping the silence would calm Blaine's inexplicably fractured nerves.

They stood in silence, holding hands, each unwilling to speak or move for minutes on end, until Kurt finally broke the silence.

"Come on," he said, tugging at Blaine's hand. "Let me make you dinner tonight."

****