♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

"Dad, I'm not getting on that plane."

Kurt Hummel was adamant about that fact, and that fact only. He was not getting on a plane that would take him from footloose, fancy-free San Francisco, California to some podunk hick census-designated place in Washington. It didn't even have a name. It wasn't even in a town.

Either way, he didn't care about its name, because he wasn't getting on that plane.

"Kurt, you know why I'm making you get on that plane, and you'll find you're really not in any place to argue with my logic," Burt Hummel retorted, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he adjusted his Giants cap.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I know. I still just don't see how sending me to another state for the summer, where you can't keep an eye on me, is conducive to helping me get over...all my stuff."

By "all my stuff," Kurt meant his addictions. His boyfriend, Sebastian Smythe, had more than a bit of a drinking problem; Kurt had known that about him when they'd gotten together. Kurt, like a fool, had seen nothing wrong with pushing that aside in hopes of making the relationship work; he'd never imagined that Sebastian's charisma and influence would go so deep. Throughout the six months they'd been together thus far, Kurt had picked up all of Sebastian's habits, and those habits soon turned into full-fledged addictions. He wasn't proud of it, and the guilt ate him alive every single time he had to lie to his dad about where he was going on a given night. More often than not, he was getting fucked up with Sebastian, and Burt could not find out about that. Kurt loved his father too much to disappoint him like that.

And Burt didn't find out...at first. Kurt managed to keep his father in the dark with great success for six whole months—until the night he got lazy.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

One weekend in May, Kurt and Sebastian went to a party at a condo owned by an older friend of Sebastian's. At the end of the night, Kurt was so far gone that he ended up sleeping for two straight days at Sebastian's. When Burt came around to the Smythes', looking for Kurt, Sebastian just wasn't able to find it in himself to lie. He told Burt everything, placing all of the blame on himself. When Kurt awoke after forty-eight hours, he was on the couch at his house. Burt was in a chair, looking absolutely heartbroken, wiping at the tears that adorned his face.

He didn't yell at Kurt. He didn't accuse him of anything. No, Burt was able to reduce Kurt to heaving sobs with one word:

"Why?"

Truthfully, Kurt didn't know why; he felt he hadn't known any better. "I just wanted to have a good relationship with Sebastian," he told his father through his tears, "and things got out of control." He apologized to his father more times than he could count, and Burt held him while they both cried.

"Kurt, you can't be here," Burt told him after a while, and Kurt's stomach dropped like an anvil.

"You're...you're kicking me out?" Kurt sobbed, pleading with shiny eyes. "Dad, please don't. Please. I'm sorry. I love you; you know I do. I never meant to hurt you—"

Burt had shushed his son and begun to pet his hair soothingly. "Kurt, no. I love you so much, son, and I would never kick you out. But, the thing is, the only way you'll be able to get back on track again is if you get out of this town for a while, get away from the parties and Sebastian. My old college roommate runs a ranch up in Washington. I talked to him this morning."

"I didn't know Seattle had ranches," Kurt said, confused. "I've always wanted to go, though."

Burt chuckled nervously. "Um...no, Kurt. It's near Walla Walla."

Kurt peered up at his father, growing dubious of Burt's plans for him.

"Dad...where's that?"

"It's a town in the southeast corner of the state," he explained, and Kurt prepared to argue.

"Dad, I'll die in a small town. You know that." Kurt groaned out loud.

"Kurt, I have a few perfectly good reasons to send you to rehab instead. Consider this the easy way out," Burt shot back, annoyed at his son's belligerence. "The ranch is in the middle of nowhere, yeah, because it's not technically in the town. It's about ten minutes away. I know it's not ideal for you, Kurt, but I can't, in good conscience, let you stay in San Francisco. Not after everything you've been through, everything you've been subjected to...frankly, not after everything you've done. Buster Anderson is a genuinely good man, and a summer away from the big-city craziness will help get you back on your feet. At the very least, he'll teach you a few things."

Kurt heaved a sigh. "I'm not going," he muttered.

"Yeah?" Burt chuckled, getting up from the couch and kissing the top of his son's head. "We'll see about that."

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

"We have arrived," Burt announced as he parked the car in the airport's garage, turning off the engine and hopping out to grab Kurt's bags—there were four in total—from the trunk. Kurt sighed melancholically, getting out of the car to help his father carry the luggage.

"You know, it's not too late to change your mind, Dad," Kurt trilled in a last-ditch attempt to get out of the soon-to-be worst trip of his life.

Burt let out a strained laugh. "Kurt, you're going, and that's final." He grunted as he adjusted one of Kurt's bags on his shoulder. "Jesus, Kurt, what's in this? Lead weights?"

Kurt rolled his eyes as they got into the elevator, which had just arrived to take them up to the check-in desk. When they arrived at the check-in desk for Kurt's flight from San Francisco to Seattle, Kurt prayed that the flasks of vodka he'd packed in one of his checked bags would make it through the trip...and the layover...and the second flight on a presumably rickety plane from Sea-Tac to Walla Walla. Per the arrangements Burt had set, Buster would pick Kurt up from the airport and drive him back to the cleverly named Anderson Ranch. Oh, well, Kurt thought to himself. Even though this summer is going to suck donkey balls, at least he seems like a nice guy.

Once they checked in, it was time for Burt to say goodbye. Kurt could see him getting a little misty. He threw himself into his dad's arms as his own tears surfaced.

"I love you, Kurt," Burt said with as much conviction as was humanly possible. "I love you so much. Never forget that. I only want what's best for you. And, even though I'll miss you like hell, I promise you'll feel so much better when you come back at the end of this summer. This is going to be good for you. I swear it." Burt held Kurt close, letting his son rest his head on his shoulder.

"I love you, too, Dad, more than anything," Kurt replied, voice thick with tears, "and I really hope you're right. I'll miss you, too. All the time."

Kurt was starting to regret packing the flasks.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The second Kurt's plane touched down in Walla Walla, he knew he was in foreign territory.

"Toto, I don't think we're in San Francisco anymore," he muttered, grabbing his carry-on out of the overhead bin. "Should have called a cab at Sea-Tac and avoided this while I had the chance."

Reluctantly, he disembarked the plane and headed for the baggage claim, which doubled as the arrivals gate. There were two cab drivers with signs bearing the names of the passengers they were awaiting; a few families, eager to be reunited; and one man, surrounded by four bags that Kurt definitely recognized, holding up a notecard that read "KURT" in neat block letters.

This must be Mr. Anderson. He was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, both of which had definitely seen better days, but he was unexpectedly handsome. Ruggedly handsome.

Kurt approached the man, hand outstretched. "Mr. Anderson, I presume?"

Mr. Anderson nodded, a huge smile on his face, as he shook Kurt's hand vigorously. He appeared genuinely happy to see Kurt, despite having never met him before. "That's me!" he exclaimed. "You can call me Buster. It's so good to meet you, kid. Burt's told me all about you."

Well, that's not good.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Buster," Kurt reciprocated, smiling in earnest. He likes me already...which is good, because he's my only company.

They distributed the bags evenly between them, although Kurt felt guilty that Buster was carrying the bag with the alcohol in it. As they walked to Buster's car—"sorry," he'd said; "I parked a little ways away"—Buster told him all about the ranch.

"There's a whole ton of space around the property, since our neighbors live half a mile away on either side. We're only about a fifteen-minute drive from downtown and the college. We have cows, sheep, goats, and two horses. Pretty sure the first thing Blaine's gonna teach you is how to milk a cow. It's his least favorite chore." Buster laughed, and Kurt saw a twinkle in his eye that indicated complete happiness and contentment with his life. But...wait a second.

"Who's Blaine?" Kurt asked as he loaded his bags into the bed of the red pickup truck, which was parallel-parked one street away from the tiny airport.

Buster chuckled, smacking his head. "Oh, Lord. I completely forgot to tell Burt before you came! I'm so sorry. Blaine's my son. You're, what, sixteen?"

"Seventeen," Kurt corrected.

"Oh, so you're the same age! Fantastic." Buster grinned at Kurt as they buckled their seatbelts and began the drive to the ranch. "That'll be great. Blaine needs a friend. He's a little lonely out here. Prefers the company of goats to people, I guess," Buster wisecracked, chuckling softly—although it clearly wasn't a joke.

"Well, I look forward to meeting him!" Kurt exclaimed brightly. If he's as handsome as his father, Seb might just have some competition.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Aftera few minutes of fairly comfortable silence, Kurt was reminded of something else Buster had told him. "You said there's a college campus nearby?" With college parties?

Buster nodded. "Downtown Walla Walla is pretty much centered around Whitman. Fantastic school. Very academically focused. I'd love it if Blaine went there for college."

Kurt wasn't interested in the academics, but the potential for frat parties—hey, academically focused college kids could still have fun—was certainly enticing. "Is he homeschooled, or is there a high school nearby?" With high school parties?
Buster nodded again. "He goes to the local high school. I think he'd die if I had him homeschooled," Buster joked.

"Well, I'm with him there," Kurt replied as Buster pulled into a gravel driveway.

The house that came with it was fairly small, with two stories and a quaint chimney on the top. Kurt was instantly charmed by it, and he hated himself a little bit for that. Several cordoned-off fields separated the house from the large red barn.

Buster turned off the engine, and the two of them loaded Kurt's bags onto the porch while Buster unlocked the front door and screen door.

"You'll meet Blaine in about an hour," he told Kurt as they took his bags up to a room with a bunk bed; probably Blaine's room. Kurt hoped Blaine wouldn't mind sharing. "Today's his last day of school, and they don't get out for another 45 minutes. I'll need to go pick him up soon, if you're okay here on your own."

Kurt smiled genuinely at Buster, nodding his head. "I'll be fine. Thank you so much for picking me up and helping me get settled. I really appreciate it."

Buster beamed at Kurt, reaching out to grasp his shoulder. "You're a fine young man, Kurt. I'm happy to have you here."

With that, Buster left Kurt alone, with only his bags, his thoughts, and his alcohol for company.

Kurt really hated himself for rushing to unpack the bag with the flasks in it first, but hey—a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do. He wasn't about to change overnight—that was the exact reason for this summer. He needed to be weaned off of the substances he abused, and that took time and willpower.

He'd start the "willpower" part tomorrow.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

About an hour later, as Kurt sat on the floor in the room that belonged to the mysterious Blaine, he patted himself on the back for the restraint he'd shown in not opening the tempting flask of vanilla vodka at the bottom of his third suitcase. His brain had started the willpower part early, it seemed. Strange as it was, Kurt already felt a sense of responsibility not to break Buster's unspoken trust by doing exactly the things he'd come here to get away from. Maybe it was the fact that he was a guest in Buster's home...or the fact that he never partook in illicit substances in his own home, for fear of disappointing his father. I miss my dad, Kurt thought. I wonder how he's doing without me. Kurt knew he could call, text, or email his dad anytime—and he would, as soon as he was settled—but something was pushing him to do things the old-fashioned way; to send his father a letter from Washington to California. Kurt figured that, at the very least, it would probably brighten his day a little.

He opened his carry-on and took out his well-worn journal. It had a frankly questionable blue paisley pattern—seriously,paisley—on it, but he'd grown very attached to it. He unclipped the pen from the top edge, uncapped it, and began to write, sitting yoga-style on the floor.

June 20, 2013

Hey, Dad!

I just got here. Buster picked me up at the airport, and he even got all my luggage from the baggage claim. You were right; he's a really nice guy. He really likes me, too...are you sure you told him why I'm here? :)
Right now, he's picking his son up from school—why didn't you tell me he had a son? What if he's attractive? I'll never be able to focus on...farm-y things. Ha, ha. Anyway, Buster's son is my age, and his name is Blaine. Today's his last day of

The blinds rattled as the front door opened downstairs, and Kurt quickly shut his journal.

"Kurt, we're back!"

He'd just have to finish his letter later.

"I'm coming!" he called cheerfully, trying to quash the unwarranted butterflies in his stomach.Time to meet Blaine.