Each fall, the flash of cash and the smell of freshly fermenting grapes punctuated life in Napa and Sonoma counties.

Harvest was always the busiest and trickiest of times, and it was more complicated than usual at Rhapsody, where Blaine juggled the timing of harvest and crush with a diminished staff and a recently expanded property. 

The valley was abuzz with both  the height of tourist and harvest seasons, and slow-as-snails tractors hauling bushels of freshly cut grapes led conga lines of Town Cars, shuttles and limousines nosing their way up Highway 29 for weekend tasting tours.

After a fairly mild summer interrupted by two short, late heat waves, Blaine prepared for harvest at a manic pace: testing his grapes' sugar levels daily, trying to pinpoint a date for an expanded corps of pickers to quickly harvest Rhapsody's crop. He acid-washed and sterilized food-grade plastic drums for the impending crush; tested and cleansed an enormous commercial-grade crusher-destemmer and readied countless bins for the collection of harvested fruit.

It was all hands on deck: Blaine, Diego, members of Diego's family, the regular crew and a few Sonoma friends who didn't have their own harvests to attend to. This wasn't unusual, especially among the smaller wineries. Blaine had volunteered his time at three other vineyards just that week, everyone contributing to get grapes in fast and fresh for their crush. On the Napa side and at a handful of large Sonoma wineries, extended picking crews had arrived from the Central Valley specifically to work the Northern California grape harvest.

Kurt stacked his projects in the days and weeks leading up to harvest in order to spend as much  time as possible at Rhapsody. Technically, it was an assignment, too. The ins and outs of harvest and crush had always been on the docket as one of his columns. He would have to visit other vineyards to complete the story, but it also gave him an excuse to help Blaine out as much as he could.

The delicate Roussanne matured first. They swept through the vineyard, snipping the light green grapes from the vines and tossing the bunches into waiting bushels, which were transferred to bins, which were then driven up the hill to the winery building for crush early the next morning.

A week later, it was the Zinfandel of the upper vineyard, then the upper swath of Syrah. Finally, two weeks after the first of Rhapsody's grapes were off the vines, the lower Syrah registered a brix level of 26 — Blaine's target for the year's harvest.

Kurt worked alongside the crew, snipping grapes, shaking out the bunches with signs of spiders or ants, though the other crew members thought the practice a waste.

"Do you know how many bugs and spider webs and twigs are in your wine?" Diego laughed.

Kurt blanched. 

"Don't worry. It filters out — eventually."

Blaine scarcely found the time to say hello, let alone pay much attention to Kurt during the height of harvest. He woke well before dawn, checking the bins and equipment he had set out the night before to ensure that everything was ready for dawn and the start of work. His day would stretch well past midnight in the winery.

He moved with deliberate speed from task to task throughout the day, checking in on the vineyard occasionally, but generally leaving the supervision of the harvest to Diego. He would inspect the grapes, occasionally tossing some he found unacceptable, and do preliminary mental calculations about the total volume of grapes harvested and how that might translate into cases.

Then he was off to the winery barn, where he updated records on the harvest and two other men prepared to crush lot after lot of grapes. 

Kurt peeked his head into the tiny winery office, little more than a cubby at the back of the building where Blaine kept a small desk, a laptop and a whiteboard used to track daily brix, acid and pH levels during primary fermentation.

"Hey you," Kurt said, leaning over Blaine's shoulder to rest their cheeks together. "Do you want some help in here?"

Blaine stayed focused on his records. 

"I think I'd better work with the experienced guys, Kurt. This is going to be a push today."

Kurt sighed, just loudly enough to register with Blaine.

"Wasn't that supposed to be the point? To learn this?" Kurt pressed. 

"I'm sorry. Maybe with the Syrah. We might have more time with that."

Blaine knew he had gone back on his word to teach Kurt every aspect of winemaking, but he felt pressed for time and bodies, and couldn't sacrifice efficiency in order for Kurt to have a chance to write about running a full-scale, commercial crusher-destemmer. 

"If you want, you can watch while you're on break."

"Fine," Kurt said, backing away.

Blaine finally looked up, catching Kurt's eye. 

"Kurt? Tomorrow, okay? I promise."

Kurt nodded and left Blaine to his work. When he was sure Kurt had left, he looked up as if searching the ceiling for answers, then closed his eyes in thought. Harvest is crunch time, he reminded himself.

****

Blaine had placed himself in charge of the crush, supervising as bin after bin was lifted and poured into the large stainless steel machine using a rented forklift.

Kurt stayed with him, watching and providing light assistance until he ducked out and up to the house with Patty, who took time off from the bar to bring supplies up from the square — steaks, salads, desserts and beer — for an evening BBQ and harvest party. Firing up the grill to feed family, friends and crew at the end of the harvest had become a tradition at Rhapsody. It had started as a simple dinner, feeding and thanking the people who had helped harvest the Rhapsody crop. Then it morphed into a casual, annual party with the closest of Blaine's friends, a break from the back-breaking work with food, wine, music and a traditional grape stomp.

Blaine always held back a bushel of grapes, clusters that didn't quite make the cut for the year's vintage, and in a discarded old oak half-barrel, set up a stomp that let everyone take out their stress by smashing the slippery mass into grape pulp. It was messy, slightly feral and dizzyingly fun.

After the party settled into a comfortable groove, Blaine lifted Kurt into the cask, jumping in behind him, and holding him around the waist as they stomped in time to Aretha Franklin's Good Times.

Their stomp to the uptempo R&B classic became a dance, their feet synchronized and their hips aligned, Blaine holding Kurt's hips, leaning into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in Kurt's ear.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"For getting grape juice all over my pants?" Kurt teased. It drew a smile, and a squeeze.

"For ignoring you. I'm sorry, and I won't—"

"Don't. I get it. This is your deadline."

"It's going to get worse before it gets better, you know. I pretty much live in the barn during primary fermentation."

"Then we'll set up an extra cot, or I'll make you coffee, or we'll take shifts punching the caps while you get some sleep," Kurt offered. "But I want to help."

Blaine nodded, and nuzzled his way deeper into Kurt's neck while keeping their bodies in sync with the rhythm of the song, oblivious to the hollers from their gathered friends.

"I know," he said. "And as for the clothes, we're already filthy, so who cares if we're covered in slime? It's not like at the Bacchanalia."

Kurt stopped and turned to look at Blaine.

"What?"

"It's at Cuvaison this year."

"What bacchanalia?"

"You do know what a bacchanalia is, right honey?" Patty asked, interrupting them.

"Of course, but I haven't heard about this, and I know about most of the events up here — because everyone pitches them to me."

"This one's a little under-the-radar," Patty said. "Both counties, wine crews only."

"Think of it as traditional," Blaine said. "The original bacchanalias were secret rites."

Kurt gave him a quizzical look. "Secret rites? They were hedonistic, Blaine."

"It's not that. It just isn't publicized. It's thrown by winemakers for winemakers and their staffs to celebrate the end of harvest, for both counties. We come together and honor our common ground, and having survived another year."

"And we get polluted," Patty added.

"You go to this?"  Kurt asked, turning to Blaine.

"I do," Blaine said, nosing back alongside Kurt's ear, whispering: "And I want you to go with me — so long as you promise not to write about it."

Kurt considered the words, squinting in thought.

"Let's get out of this tub and talk, okay?" Blaine said, helping Kurt from the barrel and toweling off their legs. He led Kurt around to a quiet corner of the veranda.

"Kurt, I want you to go, but I'm serious. This is a very private function, and we try to keep it that way. This is strictly about winemakers celebrating the harvest, a time-honored tradition. It's not about promotions or marketing."

Blaine looked pained and waited to continue, hoping to gauge Kurt's reaction, but Kurt wasn't much help. He remained impassive, holding his best poker face.

"The hosts weren't too excited about me inviting you, but I said I wouldn't go without you. And I promised them that you wouldn't be on the job. Is that okay?"

"Fine." Kurt stared at him, expressionless.

"Kurt, this is me, going to bat for you."

"I understand. I just didn't realize I couldn't be trusted."

"But you can. That's my point," Blaine argued.

"I'm just wondering why I'm only hearing about this now."

"Kurt, if you hadn't noticed, it's been a little busy around here lately. And it's not for another two weeks."

Kurt didn't respond immediately, considering what he'd just heard. When he finally spoke, he turned to rest his hands on the banister and look out over the vineyard rather than at Blaine.

"So we're going to a party..."

"A bacchanalia..."

"In Napa?"

"Calistoga, to be exact."

"As a couple?"

"Is that what this is about?" Blaine asked. "Yes, as a couple. I am asking you to be my date for the Bacchanalia, to be held in Calistoga, with my counterparts from Napa."

"You sure about this?"

"I think it's pretty common knowledge at this point, Kurt."

"Over here it is."

"This is farm country, Kurt. Everyone knows everyone's business. I'm sure they know. Is this something you think we should still be concerned about?"

"It shouldn't matter," Kurt said, frowning.

"But?"

Kurt wheeled around to Blaine.

"But what if it does?"

Blaine took Kurt's hands and dipped his face, urging Kurt to look up and into his eyes. "We don't have to go. Not if you're uncomfortable with it."

"You have to go, you know it. You're pretty much the face of Sonoma County wines right now."

Blaine rolled his eyes.

"They wanted me to be Bacchus."

"What?"

"You know — a laurel, a goblet, a toast to the harvest?"

"Would there be a toga involved?" 

"Um, no," Blaine said with a relieved exhale. "I declined. Smythe's going to do it. It's on his turf, anyway."

Kurt blanched at Sebastian Smythe's name, but then caught himself. If he had been reluctant to attend an event where he was not entirely welcome, he had been cured of his hesitancy with the drop of that name.

No, Blaine would not be attending this Bacchanalia alone.

He leaned into Blaine.

"I would have liked to have seen you in a toga."

****

They were nearly ready to leave for Calistoga — Kurt in a charcoal gray suit and Blaine in black-on-black, skipping the tie — but Blaine needed to stop by the cave to collect wine samples for the Bacchanalia before they could leave.

"Everyone brings a sample of their last vintage, and bottles of something mature," he said, grabbing an empty five-gallon oak mini barrel. He siphoned off some 2012 Mezzo into the cask and sealed it tight, then began sorting through stored cases, clearly looking for something specific.

"What about these?" Kurt asked, pointing at a few cases of unlabeled red wine sitting in a corner. "What are they?"

"That's just something new I'm working on — it's not ready yet," Blaine said, walking over and closing the cases, then redirecting Kurt to another part of the room. "Over there."

He found cases of the 2010 Appasionatto, and pulled one of the top of the stack. "This'll do."

They heard a honk from near the house, collected the wine and locked the cave behind them.

Kurt had hired a car service for the night — bacchanalias celebrated wine, after all, and had a historic reputation for drunken debauchery. He planned ahead for the drunkenness by making sure they'd booked a driver. He welcomed the debauchery, so long as it didn't involve Sebastian Smythe.

They said little over the course of the 45-minute drive. Kurt straightened Blaine's collar. Blaine shrugged, then looked out the window. At one point, he reached over and ran his finger along Kurt's knuckle.

By the time they reached Calistoga, the sun had dipped behind the hills and twilight masked the parade of Town Cars and limos entering the Cuvaison property.

At first glance, it looked like any one of a number of wine country events: the extended cave designed as much for entertaining as wine storage, the warm glow of candlelight, the oak barrels lining the walls. But this soiree looked more like a high-end BYOB party, the guests arriving carrying cases and micro-barrels of their own vintages.

Kurt laid low for most of the night, staying close to Blaine, not interrupting conversation, not playing the part that he had become accustomed to at wine industry events. Their roles had certainly reversed. Blaine, who eschewed the limelight, found himself the center of attention. Kurt, who had been actively courted by the same winemakers only a few months earlier, was politely acknowledged, but little more, at least from the Napa crowd.

It was odd, and uncomfortable, yet there was an element that he welcomed. Blaine invited him not as a wine critic, but as a his guest, his plus-one, his partner — without having said so in so many words. While their inner circle of friends were well-aware of their relationship status and living arrangements, it was not something that either one had exactly advertised publicly.

And while Blaine had rejected the honor of being named Bacchus for the event, he had agreed — with some needling from Santana — to represent Sonoma in the joint toast to a successful harvest made by one representative from each county.

With the orchestra of spoons clinking crystal stemware, Blaine raised a glass.

"I've been asked to say a few words," he said. "It's been quite a year for all of us, and no matter what our differences may be in geography or business models or competition, there is something we share: a love for fine wine, for this art. I'm honored to count you as my peers. So let's raise a glass to the winemakers:

We gather again to honor our harvest and our hard work. To honor our community. To honor the wine that holds us together. 

May the season provide us all an abundant harvest;

May the bottle offer you the drink of the gods from above;

May the table feed you a hearty meal;

And may the night warm you with love.

He looked directly at Kurt and raised the glass to his lips.

Sebastian then stepped forward, head topped with a fresh laurel, carrying a golden goblet, and eyed Blaine, then Kurt. But he stuck to the business at hand after that, acknowledging his neighbors to the west, and honoring the just-completed harvest with a toast of his own. 

"We have the most recent offering of our regional wines to sample — and many others that are far more drinkable at this point," he said to laughter. "Enjoy!"

Food service completed, the real business of the evening was at hand — sampling new, too-young wines from across the valley, along with some serious drinking of some more than serious vintages donated by each winemaker in attendance.

"You should like this," Blaine whispered to Kurt. "Some of the best of the best, and a sneak peek into what you'll be reviewing a few years from now."

The music stepped up from light classical to classic soul with a thumping beat. The room picked up its pace, its rhythm and its heat as guests waved off their earlier pretense of decorum. Some wandered on to the dance floor. Others gathered at a corner grape stomp which had been largely bypassed by the early, sober crowd. But as the evening drew on and inhibitions dropped, they ignored the damage done to designer clothes as well as to reputation and dove in, sometimes gripping and grinding to the music.

"And this is why I do this at the house," Blaine said, steering Kurt toward the mini barrels of fresh wine.

They sampled several fresh young wines in small sample glasses. The juices were wound tight with youth, but hinted at their future growth potential: lush, deep Meritage; bright Zinfandel; rich Cabernet.

"I know what you're thinking and no," Blaine said, grinning slightly.

"What?" Kurt said, savoring a particularly interesting northern Napa Cabernet.

"No, you can't take notes."

"I wouldn't dare," Kurt said, narrowing his eyes.

"But you thought about it."

"Maybe for a minute. Imagine reviewing these in a few years and having notes from tonight to refer back to."

"Kurt..."

"I know."

"Just enjoy it, okay? This is a social night, not a work night. Let's sample some of the good stuff."

He steered them toward Dalton's wines, where a dark Cab-Merlot blend was being poured. Kurt gave Blaine an uncomfortable look.

"It's supposed to be good," Blaine assured him.

"I think I'll go get a glass of that coastal Pinot," Kurt said, leaving Blaine alone at the Dalton table.

"So you two aren't actually glued together?" a voice said behind him.

Blaine took his wine and turned around.

"And how are you, Sebastian?"

"Apparently not as good as you."

"We're not going to start this again, are we?"

"Since when can't we have a little fun, Blaine? I'm just being cordial."

"Is that what it is?"

Sebastian smirked, and picked up a glass.

"Cheers Blaine. To victory, however fleeting."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying it's been a good year for you: the title, the man. But how long does that last?"

"Sebastian, stop. I'm with Kurt now."

"Precisely — now. But what about later? How long do you expect him to stick around, anyway? That year of his is nearly up."

Blaine had been concentrating on the contents of his glass, but looked up to see Kurt across the room. He appeared to be engaged in light conversation, but his eyes were trained on the Dalton table.

Sebastian stepped alongside Blaine, swirling the wine in his glass and glancing at Kurt.

"He hasn't moved here, not really. He's still an outsider — a New Yorker, which is exactly what he'll be again in a few months."

Blaine couldn't acknowledge anything Sebastian was saying. He wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But the fact of the matter was that Kurt had said nothing of staying, and he had even referenced his "return to regular duties" in a recent column.

"You know I'm right. Really, when you think about it, what you have with him isn't much different than what you had with me. It's just a year instead of a week. Face it, he's a free agent on a one-year contract."

When Blaine finally looked at Sebastian, it was with eyes pierced with rage. 

"Don't..." he warned.

"Don't what?" 

Kurt moved across the floor as he saw the tension between the two rivals flaring, and he arrived at Blaine's elbow perhaps just in time to stop a fight.

"He was just telling me not to forget to try his new Zin," Sebastian said with a gratuitous smile. "How are you, Kurt?"

"Fine."

"Good. Well, I think I'll go try that, Blaine. And don't forget what I said."

Blaine stared ahead blankly as Sebastian walked away.

"What was that about?" Kurt asked.

"Nothing worth dwelling on," Blaine said absently.

"It hardly looked like nothing. It looked like you wanted to hit him."

"I always want to hit him," Blaine said, still watching Sebastian work the room.

"He wasn't..."

"No, he wasn't. Just being his usual self, which is bad enough." 

The sound of Otis Redding filled the cave. Blaine cocked his head to the side, listening for a moment, registering the familiar tune.

"Dance with me?"

Kurt took Blaine's hand and followed him to the center of the dance floor, surrounded by swaying couples. 

He wrapped his arms loosely around Blaine's neck as they swayed to the music. From time-to-time, Blaine sang along softly.

Don't make me stop now

No baby

I'm down on my knees 

Please, don't make me stop now

...

And I can't stop now

Don't make me stop now

Please, please don't make me stop now

He stopped himself and took a deep breath before the song continued into its finale, a pleading, repeated chorus of "I love you". Instead, he clenched his eyes tight, and pulled Kurt close.

*****

They left the party long after night had become early morning, a sense of strain building between them. They had exchanged few words after the moment with Sebastian, and fewer still in the back of the Town Car.

Blaine glanced over at Kurt occasionally, only to see him looking out the window or checking email on his phone. When Kurt looked over at Blaine, he saw him fidgeting with his cuffs or tapping on the window.

"Are you ever going to be able to say it?" Kurt asked, looking out at the passing vineyards and sounding for all the world as if he was speaking to himself.

"What?"

"Sometimes I think you love me. Sometimes I'm almost sure of it, even though you've never said it. But I think you do. You've done things that seem... loving. Then I remember that you've never said it, not once."

"Kurt..."

Kurt finally looked at him, met his eyes, and Blaine looked away.

"Exactly."

They got home and climbed into bed in silence without so much as a "goodnight."  Kurt rolled onto his side, his back to Blaine, and pulled the sheets tight to his chest, tucking his face to his hands and closing his eyes.

Blaine watched him drift off, and pressed back building tears.

Kurt was wrong. Blaine knew his heart, knew it well.

He also knew that in just a couple of months, Kurt would be gone.

Blaine curled in tight behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and snuggling into the base of his neck. Then he waited, quietly, patiently. He waited in stillness until the moment he was certain that Kurt’s breathing had evened out to a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

And then, quieter than the still of the pre-dawn morning, he murmured the words he had held in for months.

"I love you."

****