"Blaine is my best friend, Dad, and we're both going off to different colleges in just two months, and we worked so hard this year, Dad, come on—" Kurt begged.

Burt wouldn't budge, claiming they were "too young" and "Blaine's car needs a tune-up" and "gas is too expensive" and "Chicago is close to Wisconsin—don't you know good people die there, Kurt?"

But then Kurt had pulled the, "I'm an 18-year-old high school graduate, Dad" bit and Blaine had given him the caretaker's phone number, and eventually, Burt relented.

Blaine is 100% sure that if Burt knew Blaine's real intention in inviting Kurt up to the Wisconsin place, he would have banned Kurt from seeing Blaine for the rest of the summer, maybe forever. Because Blaine is going to tell Kurt how he feels, for real this time. He's going to do it. He is.

Somehow, some way, Blaine is going to finally tell Kurt he's into him; that he's probably, sort of, almost, definitely in love with him.

He might leave out the part about how he thinks about him all the time, more than he should, really, more than anyone, especially Burt, would consider a normal amount of thinking about one person. He doesn't want to creep Kurt out. He just wants to tell him, just tell him, and hopefully get a kiss out of the deal. Or more. Yes, he would definitely like there to be more.

It's the "more" part that would probably cause Burt Hummel to go ballistic, but he doesn't have to know.

They're an hour into Kurt's "Wisconsin Week!" playlist when they see the sign: Chicago 158 miles. It's the first time they notice a reference to Chicago on a mileage sign, and somehow it makes Blaine feel older, like he's really starting something, like life is not just some shimmering mirage of a future, but something he talks about in the present tense, something that is. He nudges Kurt, who looks up from the map on his iPad and smiles like he knows exactly what Blaine's thinking.

The sign also puts all fears about Burt to rest. Sure, he could summon them home at any time, but as long as they check-in every day, it's not likely.

"Are you sure you're okay just eating the sandwiches I packed?" Kurt asked.

"Of course. I'm still full from the breakfast smoothies you made, anyway."

"Okay. Good."

"Why?"

"Well, I know you can buy lunch, and probably want to buy lunch, but it's just, you're already paying for the gas, and we're staying at your grandparents' place—"

"Kurt, stop. I love sandwiches. I love that you made sandwiches. It's fine. It's more than fine, okay?"

Blaine pats Kurt on the knee and tries not to let his fingers linger longer than necessary. Kurt seems satisfied with his answer and goes back to his iPad. A few moments later he says, "We should stop for coffee, though. Could we stop in Madison? They have a coffee house that's a 'GLBT favorite' according to this blog. Michelangelo's."

"Sure. From Madison we have about another four hours, so even if we stop for a bit, we should be able to make it in time for dinner," Blaine says.

Kurt smiles, tucks his iPad away and leans back in his seat. "Is it rude if I close my eyes, just for a few minutes? Getting up at 5:00 a.m. is a stretch, even for me."

"Sure. Will it bother you if I listen to the radio?" Blaine asks.

"Not at all. But why the radio? I've got other playlists—"

"I know. I just like to listen to the radio on road trips. It's kind of a thing."

"Like a ritual? You do this every time you drive to Wisconsin?"

"Right. I try to find a decent radio station in a sea of classic rock and Christian talk radio. It's a challenge, believe me, though it gets easier after we hit Chicago."

Kurt twists in his seat so he can rest his head on the seat and still look at Blaine.

"I admire your love of tradition, and challenge, though I do wonder if this is just a covert attempt to listen to Top 40."

"I promise I won't sing too loud," Blaine teases.

"Just as long as you sing."

Blaine looks over at Kurt to give him a smile, maybe even a wink, but Kurt's eyes are closed. Kurt is so damn beautiful he has to force himself to keep his eyes on the road. Fortunately, the challenge of finding something halfway decent to listen and sing to is enough to keep his mind off of Kurt and everything he hopes will happen this week. It works for about 20 minutes, and then Kurt sighs in his sleep, and oh-my-god-adorable, and Blaine is freaking out again.

I will do it. I will. I'll just say it, and it will be fine, and even if he doesn't love me back, even if he's given up on that, at least I'll have told him. And maybe he does still want me like that. Maybe, like me, he stays up too late thinking about me, fantasizing about me, trying to get me out of his system so he can face me the next day and not blush from ear to ear, talk to me and not stutter over every other word, look at me and not stare far too long, touch me and not burst into tears. Maybe he loves me more than a friend. Maybe I'm his, and he's mine. Maybe.

He's putting too much pressure on himself, he knows this, but he's running out of time. Soon enough they'll both be starting over in college, reinventing themselves the way people always do, finding new friends, getting rid of inhibitions, trying on new traits and preferences, having firsts. He has to tell Kurt how he feels before all of that, because otherwise, he may never get the chance.

As the plains give way to urban sprawl, Blaine tries not to think about the possibility of rejection. All he can think about at this point is getting enough courage up to tell Kurt. He'll worry about the aftermath... after.

He's been trying to come up with a way to confess his feelings to Kurt ever since Mercedes' Anti-Prom Party... last year. He was watching Kurt, not in a creepy way, just in a normal "hey, that's my awesome best friend" way, when Kurt suddenly started laughing at something Rachel said and it hit him—

Blaine Anderson, you are in love with Kurt Hummel.

He shook his head from side to side to clear it, but it didn't work. Then his entire body started tingling. His skin felt like one giant goose bump and a seriously embarrassing blush threatened to break through his skin and set his face on fire. And then the rest of the room went fuzzy as he zeroed in on Kurt's mouth, his eyes, the twist of his hips. Everything seemed to slow down, like he was suspended in water, and the ringing in his ears was so loud, it drowned out Thad's epically bad version of "Proud Mary."

That night he stayed in his spot on Mercedes' couch, watching Kurt—the tilt of his head when trying to follow Brittany's train of thought; his strong, lean legs as he crossed them, perched on a stool; his smile, oh God, his smile; his deft, long fingers as they rearranged Rachel's outfit on the spot.

Everyone thought he was bombed out of his mind, unable to form words, or dance, or even sing with the rest of Kurt's friends. David and Jeff nudged him repeatedly. "What's is up, dude? You're a freaking zombie over here."

Kurt, suspicious, kept an eye on him from a distance most of the night, content to hang out with his McKinley crew. But as people paired off and Mercedes started shepherding stragglers out the door, Kurt bounced over to Blaine and said, "Drinking is not your thing, Blaine. You really need to just accept that fact of life right now so you can avoid untold number of embarrassing situations and horrific morning-after repercussions. Are we in agreement?"

Blaine nodded, transfixed by the tiny points of light on the rim of Kurt's eyes.

"Good. Because I can see your alcohol-soaked future, Blaine, and it isn't pretty."

Blaine nodded again and, like a love struck idiot said, "Okay, Kurt."

"Just one or two drinks per night, from now on until forever... or until you grow three inches and gain 20 pounds, okay?"

"Yes, Kurt."

The realization that he was in love with his best friend hit him hard, rendering him virtually useless for days afterward. He lied to everyone, pretended to be sick, and hunkered down in his room to consider his options. He could tell Kurt, ask him to be his boyfriend and get right down to figuring out what the hell boyfriends do. But what if Kurt didn't feel the same way? What if his Valentine's Day confession was fleeting, a schoolboy crush quickly replaced by thoughts of other boys, or... Taylor Fucking Lautner? What if Kurt's interest had just been misplaced gratitude?

Blaine waffled back and forth, coming up for air on the third day with a decision made: He would wait to tell him how he felt until he was absolutely sure Kurt returned his feelings. He would have to resort to some covert investigation, but Mercedes owed him a favor and Jeff seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with gossip and speculation, so he could probably get at some semblance of the truth in a couple of weeks, for sure by the end of the summer.

The trick was trying to find out if Kurt wanted him, without letting on that he was totally gone on Kurt.

Blaine never was very good at deception. And if he were honest, he really wasn't ready to know the answer. Just being in love with Kurt was a heady experience; being in love together, with each other, open and vulnerable, new and full of promise, well, he was a little nervous that it just might kill him. He was only 17, after all.

Life, real life was coming up fast and he wanted to slow it all down, just for one or two hours, or years. If he found out that Kurt was in love with him, or just loved him like his "very best friend," either way, that was just a little too much reality for Blaine.

So instead he floated through the days content in the knowledge that Kurt still spent all of his free time with him, didn't seem to be interested in anyone in particular, and still, from time to time, looked at Blaine like he was the best thing ever. Not that not knowing if Kurt returned his feelings didn't hurt; it did. His love, his frustration, was a delicious, wonderful agony.

Even though at times it was physically painful for him to live with the knowledge that he was in love with a perfect human being who spent the better part of his day not six feet from him; even though he had to develop an elaborate ritual of meditation, cold showers and more meditation in order to stop himself from eliminating that six feet of space and plastering himself to Kurt's body in hands-on confession; even though he had to remind himself to do basic things like eat, and sleep, and breathe so he wouldn't pass out from want, Blaine still didn't tell him. Kurt was available and college was light years away; he could afford to take his time, to make sure they remained friends no matter what.

And then it happened. A little over a year after he realized his true feelings for Kurt, the future showed up and punched him in the face.

Despite all of his Senior year mooning, and daydreaming, and doodling both corny and obscene images in his old Western Civ textbook (where no one would EVER look), Blaine somehow managed to pass enough classes to graduate and make it into Berklee College of Music. Wes had narrowly beat out Kurt for class Valedictorian, which meant Kurt, as Salutatorian, gave the first speech.

Everyone, including Blaine, expected a carefully worded anti-conformist diatribe (which, okay, would have been awesome) or an elegant ode to friendship among well-mannered soon-to-be gentlemen (also awesome), but when Kurt walked up to the podium, all shiny and perfect and tall, he only said six sentences:

"The labels that we use to elevate ourselves, or isolate or segregate each other, are irrelevant. There are only two kinds of people in this world—those who believe we are interdependent, that even if we are an ocean apart with no awareness of one another, my actions impact your life and your choices affect mine; and those who believe that we are all independent of one another, free to behave as we wish with no thought of how our actions might affect others, secure in the belief that a stranger's pain, or pleasure, is not our own. Now is the time to decide—what kind of person are you?"

Kurt paused, let the audience sink into the weight of his words, and then closed with, "I hope we all show up for our lives, even when it scares the shit out of us. Hideous uniform pants aside, thanks for making me a Dalton man. It has been an honor."

From his front row spot with the other "A" names, Blaine heard David say, "Holy fuck," a few rows back, and then the entire audience was on its feet, cheering and applauding for his best friend.

Kurt smiled shyly as he walked off the stage, and as the applause continued, everyone still standing, Blaine flopped down into his chair, a bit dazed and completely overwhelmed. He knew Kurt was amazing and deserved everything, but up until that moment, Kurt was his, a well-kept secret Blaine could adore in private, an open door just waiting for him to walk through. The sheer brilliance and bravery and badass-ness that was Kurt Hummel would soon be unleashed on the world, and Blaine knew, he knew, he was running out of chances.

And then, just a few days later, the future came back and punched him again.

The Warblers had happily invited their former rivals and crossover friends, the New Directions to their graduation party, especially because it ensured that it would be co-ed. That graduates were all pleasantly buzzed on tequila shots (courtesy of Puck) and champagne (courtesy of Nick's sister Sharon) when Brittany and Tina started screaming, "Yes!" and yanked Kurt out of a chair.

Tina shouted, "Turn it up!" and as the opening bars of Beyonce's "Single Ladies" flooded the room, all eyes turned to the trio.

They lined up, Kurt in the middle, and started the iconic dance like, perfectly, like they practiced the damn thing every Saturday for years, or something.

Blaine had no idea his mouth was hanging open until David reached over and covered it with his own hand, laughing. Blaine yanked David's hand away, glared at him for half a second and then went back to staring at Kurt.

"Um, did he just bend himself in half?" Jeff asked.

"Yes. Yes, he did," David said.

Blaine was mesmerized by Kurt's ass as he and the girls turned their backs on the crowd and started shaking it with their arms raised over their heads.

"Kurt has a stellar ass," Jeff said, careful not to take his eyes off of it.

"Shut up," Blaine said.

"No really, I never noticed it before. It's like, so sweet, and firm, he could probably do porn," Jeff said.

"You're drunk," Blaine warned, eyes still on Kurt.

"Doesn't change the fact that Kurt has a fine, fine, porn star ass."

The girls were pretty, and probably looking sexy, but all eyes were on Kurt, who seemed to have lost what was left of his inhibitions in his last glass of champagne. They pumped their arms, pointed to the ring finger on their left hands and sassed it up good and proper. Kurt turned and stuck his butt out toward them, and Blaine gasped.

"And now he's slapping it," Jeff said. "Why, why didn't I notice his superior ass when I had the chance. Why?"

"What would you have done about it, anyway?" David asked.

"Something. Something amazing and... satisfying."

"Shut. The hell. Up," Blaine said, glaring at Jeff. He knew he was just having fun, wasn't really serious about dating Kurt, or whatever he thought about doing to him. But still. Still.

Blaine turned back to Kurt just as he started pivoting his hips. It was obscene, really, the way his hips looked like they would pop right out of their sockets. Kurt looked right at Blaine, his eyes dark and his mouth curved in a suggestive smirk. There was only one thing anyone could think about watching him gyrate in his too-tight jeans: sex, sex and more sex. And sex. He knew Kurt was still a virgin; neither of them had even had a hookup, much less a boyfriend. But damn. Damn. It sure looked like Kurt was intimately familiar with...

"—hot, sweaty, monkey sex," Jeff said, a wild smile spread out across his deceptively innocent face.

"Excuse me?" Blaine demanded.

"I said it looks like Kurt's been gettin' some."

"He's not... he hasn't... that's none of your business."

"Okay, okay. I didn't realize you were still hot for him," Jeff said in earnest. "Sorry. I was just playing."

"What do you mean, 'still' hot for him?"

"Well, you know, your crush."

"My what?"

"Shh! We agreed not to talk about that in front of Rose," David said, slurring his words.

Jeff giggled and leaned into Blaine. "Right. Sorry."

"Who's Rose?" Blaine asked.

"You. Because you're the ditzy one," Nick said, finally rousing from his alcohol-induced haze.

"I don't get it," Blaine said.

"Rose Nylund. The dumb one from The Golden Girls," Jeff said, rolling his eyes. "What kind of gay are you?"

"The kind who doesn't watch reruns of a show about old ladies sitting around eating cheesecake," Blaine replied. "Why kind of gay are you?"

"The kind that fucks girls," David said, laughing at his own joke.

Kurt looked straight at Blaine then, and pointed at him when he mouthed the words, 'cause you had your turn, and now you gonna learn, what it really feels like to miss me.

Blaine's eyes bugged out of his head; he was sure the entire room could see him sweat. Kurt's smile was wicked and flirty and just exactly what Blaine needed to push him over the edge. Blaine cursed his erection and tried to hide it by crossing his legs, but he was seated too far back against the couch. He hoped the dim lighting would take care of it, because if one of the boys noticed, they would tease him about it until his last dying breath.

Kurt jutted his hips out again, which had Jeff pretending to pant heavily, and Blaine elbowed him in the side. There was a leg thing, and then more hips, and an arm thing, and head tilts, and hands outstretched, and then it was over and the boys were on their feet, scrambling to get to Kurt and the girls.

Blaine wanted to run to Kurt, to take him by the hand, drag him outside into the new summer air and kiss him until the sun came up. He wanted to hold his ass in his both hands and squeeze, dip three fingers under the waistband of his jeans and slide down, down, down until he could feel it for himself. He wanted to pull him down onto the ground and rut him into the grass, into the cool earth below, all the way to China.

But he was stuck. On the couch. Waiting out his goddamn boner.

He watched as Jeff flirted with Kurt, who just laughed and looked at over at Blaine, eyebrows raised as if to say, "What the hell is up with Jeff. Is he high?" Blaine smiled back, but he could tell Kurt was confused as to why he had stayed on the couch.

By the time Blaine's dick had cooperated enough to allow him to stand without being found out, Kurt had been swallowed up by the girls and just like all of the other opportunities—in dorm rooms and in cars, in theater seats and in the shower, on counter tops and couches, in bathrooms and in the Dalton kitchen, on blankets in parks and on benches in dressing rooms, standing behind thick velvet curtains, waiting in the wings—the moment was gone.

An hour later he was letting the bar hold him up as he poured himself yet another shot, when David came up behind him and wrapped an arm over his shoulder. "You best get on that, Anderson. Make a plan, sing a song, get down on your knees and beg, whatever it takes. Make it so."

Blaine looked into his glass for answers as David shuffled away in search of a willing girl. He knew David was right. He had wasted a year, an entire year in his feigned contentment, in his fear. And now, the greatest fear wasn't that young love untested would ruin their fated friendship; he was worried that Kurt was too good for him, and would soon find out. Kurt, with all of his brilliance, and pride, and originality; Kurt with those hips; Kurt with his blind trust in Blaine, his fierce loyalty, his bright light of a future, was, in fact, the greatest catch on the planet. Blaine wondered if he could ever land Kurt, much less keep him.

Which is how he found himself, just days later, asking Kurt to join him at his grandparents' place in Wisconsin. The plan was simple: Take Kurt on a getaway. Confess his love for Kurt. Kiss and make out. (Hopefully more.) Become boyfriends. Live happily ever after. The end.

Now, with Kurt asleep next to him and the plan taking shape, Blaine realizes he has absolutely no idea what he's going to say.

I will tell him. I will. But what if I say too much? Would it better to just tone it down, maybe tell him I really like him; that I want him; that I want us to try? I don't want to scare him away. Maybe he's already thinking about all of the boys he'll date in New York, and doesn't want to be tied down to me, or anyone. Maybe I should keep it casual, no pressure, just start this thing and see where it takes us.

Kurt wakes up as the traffic slows, Chicago in sight. They're bypassing the city, but they're still crawling along, down to two lanes for long stretches.

"I slept forever. Why didn't you wake me?" Kurt asks.

Blaine turns to smile at Kurt, shrugs, and takes a drink of his water. "Have you ever been to Chicago before?"

"No. But my mother grew up here," Kurt says. He looks out the window at the city, and then turns back to Blaine. "It looks huge to me. But I bet it will look tiny after I get used to New York."

"Probably. Hey, I thought you told me your mother's folks live in Florida," Blaine says.

"They do. They're snowbirds. Well, they were snowbirds, but then I guess when my parents got married, they decided to sell their place in Chicago and live in Florida year-round. They were in their 40s when they had her, so, they were ready to retire," Kurt explains. "I went to Disney a lot. It was fun."

"I wish I had known your mom," Blaine says for what must be the twentieth time.

"I wish I had known her better," Kurt muses, looking out the window again. "Hey! That reminds me—I found this song the other day, this remake of one of the Free to Be You and Me songs. That whole album reminds me of my mom. She used to play it for me all the time. Like seriously, all the time. Could I play the song?"

"Sure," Blaine says, adding, "What's Free to Be You and Me?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Umm... no?"

"Blaine! Didn't your parents play it for you? Oh my GOD, you ARE serious right now? Marlo Thomas? Carol Channing? Diana Ross? Harry Belafonte?"

Blaine shakes his head; he only knows a couple of the names.

Kurt bounces in his seat with excitement. "Blaine, that album helped me get through so much, I can't tell you. It's all about defying gender stereotypes, but you know, for kids. It was my mom's album, when she was a kid."

"Well that explains why I've never heard of it," Blaine says. "My parents? Please."

"I have to play it for you when we get home. My favorites were "William Wants a Doll," which is about this little boy who really wants a doll of his very own, and "When We Grow Up," the Diana Ross song. Actually, that is my favorite. My mom sang it for me. A lot."

"Sing it for me?"

"Okay."

Blaine smiles as Kurt starts in on a sweet children's song that was practically made for his voice, and not for the first time, wishes Kurt had decided to pursue music instead of design.

The design bug bit Kurt after he took an off-campus class in metalworking for extra credit in the first quarter of their senior year. He made this beautiful end table, which he gave to Burt and Carol for Christmas, and surprised everyone when he proclaimed, "I want to design and make furniture."

Kurt sings, "Well, I don't care if I'm pretty at all. And I don't care if you never get tall," poking Blaine in the side on the last word. "I like what I look like, and you're nice small. We don't have to change at all."

Blaine had been a little sad when he heard Kurt's news, their plans to attend Berklee together dashed. He was happy for Kurt, of course. It's a beautiful thing to see the person you love unearth a passion. But still, Kurt's musical talent was unmatched. Every time he sings, his voice stays with Blaine long after they part and on into his dreams. It stays with him so long, he's sure he hears the echoes of it when wakes up in the morning.

The car slows to a stop, stuck behind a delivery van, and Blaine steals a glance at Kurt. He's off in his own world, each note pure and clear. Blaine reaches over and takes his hand because this is something they do, something they're used to doing, and he just needs to get his hands on Kurt. He can see Kurt's eyes begin to mist. Blaine flips his hand over, rubs his thumb over his wrist like he's done for months, for ages, ever since he discovered it could calm Kurt almost instantly.

"And when we grow up, do you think we'll see, that I'm still like you and you're still like me? I might be pretty; you might grow tall. But we don't have to change at all."

When Kurt finishes the song he turns to face Blaine, his eyes wet with tears unshed. "Thanks... for letting me sing that. I know it's a silly little song."

"It's not. It isn't."

"Well, thanks anyway."

Blaine looks at Kurt and wills one tear to fall, just one, so he has a reason to reach over and brush it away. He wants to touch Kurt's face, feel his soft skin, stroke his cheeks with his fingertips, let his thumb drop down and hook under his chin. He stares at Kurt's lips, his perfect, kissable, gorgeous, perfect, soft, amazing, perfect lips, and sighs.

Kurt clears his throat and nods toward the road ahead of them. Blaine turns to look and realizes the traffic is moving now, and he's just sitting there.

"Sorry," he says, and quickly takes his foot off the brake, accelerating to keep up with the other cars.

"You know, you'll have to work on your driving so that when you visit me in New York, so you don't, you know, die. New Yorkers aren't quite as nice as Midwesterners."

"I'm not bringing my car with me to Boston, so no worries there."

"You're not?"

"No. It's too much hassle. I can get around easily with public transportation, and it costs a fortune to park it," Blaine explains.

"You can afford it."

"My parents can afford it. I can't. You know my grandfather's trust only covers tuition, books and housing. There's no stipend."

Kurt folds his arms, and Blaine knows he's thinking about how much he'd like to have the option to turn down money from his parents, who are scrimping and sacrificing to pay for Kurt's out-of-state tuition. But Kurt doesn't say anything, and Blaine knows it's because Kurt knows that he too is fortunate; other than getting decent grades and graduating, the money from Burt and Carol doesn't come with conditions. And Kurt knows the reason why, come August, Blaine is giving up his car, his allowance, and save for a ticket home for the holidays, every other form of financial help from his parents. Cutting financial ties from his parents is the only way he'll ever be truly free from their conditions, stipulations and expectations.

"Well, having a car in New York is just stupid anyway," Kurt says. "Even if it's only for one weekend, every other month."

"Exactly."

They spend the next three hours discussing plans they've already talked to death. The classes they want to take, first year. Finding shoebox apartments. How they'll decorate their shoebox apartments. The cheapest way to get from Manhattan to Boston. Worthy options for their first spring break vacation. What they want to try; the things they promise they'll never try.

They're pulling into a parking spot near Michelangelo's on State Street in Madison when Kurt screams and jumps out of the car.

"What?" Blaine shouts after him. He gets out of the car, locks it and goes to Kurt, who is staring at a poster with rainbow colored stars all over it. "What?" he asks again.

Kurt pivots on one foot, almost a twirl, beaming. "Pride, Blaine. Pride."

"Gay pride?"

"Is there any other kind?"

Kurt drags him to the poster that reads, "PrideFest Milwaukee, June 8-10."

"Milwaukee, not Madison. And it's next weekend," Blaine says.

"I know. But it's not that far. Couldn't we stop on our way home? We'll stay for just a few hours. We could go to our first Pride together, Blaine."

As boyfriends. We could go to our first Pride together as boyfriends. I could stick my hand in the back pocket of Kurt's too-tight jeans and kiss him on the cheek, his shoulder, under his jaw. I could show him off, wrap my arm around his waist and narrow my eyes at anyone who wants him. I could whisper our names into his hand and then cover it with my own and let the beauty of our love seep into our skin, our blood, our cells, our bones.

"You're right. We have to go," Blaine says.

Kurt claps his hands and hugs Blaine, tightly, arms locked across his back like he wants to hang on to him forever, like they're about to be airlifted out of their lives, pulled to greatness by a rope in the sky. And for the first time since he realized his feelings for Kurt, Blaine really and truly believes that it will all work out. Somehow, someway, they will be together.

Michelangelo's is relaxed and artsy, nothing like the Lima Bean, and they love it. There's an eclectic group of people, most of them young, all of them seemingly more interesting than anyone else they know. They order coffee to go and try not to seem like two recent high school graduates from Ohio.

Outside a group of girls play cards and smoke cigarettes while they drink black-as-pitch coffee. Kurt chooses a table next to them and immediately starts a conversation with them. "Do you mind if I ask you girls a question?"

A soft butch girl with super short, spiked black hair says, "What's up?"

"We're traveling up to Rice Lake, but well be going through Milwaukee this weekend. Which day is the best day to go to Pride?"

"Saturday, for sure. Come in the afternoon, when the best bands start," she says. "I'm Lucy. Give me your phone and I'll put my number in. We can meet up."

"Perfect!" Kurt says, handing her his phone. "I like your hair, by the way. It's a little baby-bird crazy, but you can pull it off."

Lucy says, "Thanks," and the other girls smile warmly at them like they're all friends now.

When they're back on the road Blaine says, "I can't believe you, sometimes. What if they weren't gay?"

"First of all, 'what if they weren't gay?' Do you even have gaydar, Blaine? And secondly, this is Madison. Madison. The liberal epicenter of the Midwest. Chances are, if they were straight, they were probably already going to Pride, or knew someone who was going to Pride, or whatever."

"How do you know this?"

"Tumblr, Blaine. You know, that thing I do while you're doodling in your music comp book?"

Blaine laughs and they both settle into their seats. Kurt takes two sandwiches and two apples from his soft cooler and hands one of each to Blaine. They point out houses they like, chatter about the difference between Wisconsin, Ohio and Illinois, and discuss the merits of Northwestern University's drama program, where Mercedes, Santana and David will be attending in the fall.

When they get back on the highway Kurt says, "Wait! I forgot to play you that song I mentioned, the cover. It's "Brothers and Sisters" from Free to Be You and Me. May I play it now?"

"Absolutely."

PRESS PLAY

With the first notes, the mood in the car changes instantly. Suddenly they're not college-bound prep school graduates discussing architecture and weighing majors; they're teenagers on their first road trip, being silly and loud and crazy. Blaine loves the song immediately, and cranks it. It's amazing, and he wants to stop the car so they can dance by the side of the road.

Kurt knows all of the words, but the words just repeat, so Blaine picks them up pretty quickly and starts singing along. They roll down their windows and stick their arms out the window like a couple of kids, moving them up and down in time with the music. Kurt shimmies in his seat and now that Blaine is sure of the words, he leans forward over the steering wheel and belts it.

When the song is over, Blaine looks over at Kurt and says, "Play it again."

They play the song over and over, six, maybe seven times, until they have it down. The song, their voices, the closeness of the car, their destination, it fills Blaine with so much happy he feels he might burst, right there on I-94.

He wants to say it now, say, I'm in love with you, please be with me, I can't take it one more minute.

He wants to slip his hand behind Kurt's neck and pull him in for a kiss, wet, and sloppy, and full of promises he's wanted to make for so long, promises he's memorized, and keeps, sewn into his heart.

But now Kurt is fiddling with is iPod, looking for other songs to car-dance to, and the moment—sigh—is gone. Again.

Blaine shrugs it off. He has the whole week to do it, and it will be better at his grandparents' place. More memorable. He's narrowed it down to four possibilities: night swimming, bonfire, picnic on front lawn, or sleeping porch. He's leaning toward telling him around the bonfire, wrapping Kurt up in his Dalton hoodie and a wool blanket, holding his face in his hands and letting the truth fall from his lips like nothing, like air, like stars falling from the sky.

They sing, and talk, and dance in their seats all the way to Rice Lake, anxious to get settled. Blaine turns off the highway and onto the back roads he knows so well, roads for which he never needed to learn the name, roads burned into his memory from birth.

When they arrive at the Anderson dock at Red Cedar Lake, just after six o'clock, Kurt looks puzzled. "Where's the cabin?"

"Across the lake," Blaine replies.

"And how do we get there? Am I expected to swim?" Kurt teases.

Blaine hears a motor in the distance and looks out behind Kurt, across the water. "There's Jim now. He and his wife Ruth live on the property, take care of everything year-round. He'll get us there."

Kurt turns to look at the pontoon boat lumbering across the lake, and then back to Blaine. "What else aren't you telling me, Blaine Anderson?"

"Nothing. I just, I didn't think of it. Sorry."

"I'm teasing. It's fine. So when you say 'property,' what exactly do you mean?" Kurt asks.

"You'll see."

Blaine and Kurt grab their bags and take them out to the edge of the dock, waiting for Jim. "That is a slow boat," Kurt says.

"It's easier to get in and out of, so Jim uses it to transport people back and forth. We have others, if you want to go fast."

"Oh, I want to go fast," Kurt says. "Can you drive a boat?"

"Sure."

"Will you take me out tonight? I want to go out on the lake at night. Can we do that?"

"Yes."

When Jim, a 60-something burly guy in an old polo and jeans pulls up to the dock, Kurt is bouncing on the balls of his feet, happy. Blaine steps up and grabs the rail of the boat. He takes one of the lines and hitches it to a cleat, and then reaches over to shake Jim's hand. "Hey Jim, thanks for coming."

"No problem, son. Ruth is jumping out of her skin, baking nonstop. This your friend?"

"Jim Swanson, this is my best friend and fellow Dalton alum, Kurt Hummel," Blaine says with pride.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir. Thank you so much for picking us up," Kurt says, extending his hand over the rail.

"Happy to. This all your stuff?"

"Yes, but we've got it. Kurt, you first," Blaine says, holding open the small gate.

With Kurt and their bags safely on board, Blaine unties the line and Jim starts pulling away from the dock. Kurt looks nervous at first, and then genuinely scared when Blaine pushes the boat away from the dock and then hops on. "What?"

"You're a regular dock boy, aren't you?"

"Damn straight he is," Jim says proudly. "Although, you won't see many Andersons pushing off, will you Blaine?"

"Nope."

It's a short trip, and Jim talks their ears off, mostly Ruth's gossip that he pretends not to listen to, but always remembers. When they pull up to the other Anderson dock, Kurt looks up at the two-story, wooden building and says, "Is that the cabin?"

"Cabin?" Jim asks.

"Er, no. That's the boathouse," Blaine replies.

"Aren't you two staying in the main house?" Jim asks.

"Yes."

"So the cabin is on this island?" Kurt asks.

"There are cabins on this island, yes," Jim replies. "But this is the Anderson's island. Nobody else lives here, except me and Ruth, of course."

Kurt looks at Blaine for a moment, but asks nothing further. When the boat is docked properly, they all walk up a little daisy-lined path, through birchwood trees and evergreens, until they arrive on the main lawn, looking impressive as ever. Jim says, "I'll just go tell Ruth we're back. You boys settle in, and then go find her in the kitchen, okay?"

Blaine nods, his eyes glued to the Kurt's back.

"I thought you said this was a cabin," Kurt says, turning to face him.

"It is."

"Blaine, your grandparents own an island."

"It's just a tiny island—"

"—and this is not a cabin. This is a compound!"

"It's not like I own the place."

Kurt ignores Blaine and practically skips up to the main entrance, his eyes huge and his smile bright and wide. Blaine follows, taking in his surroundings—the "main house," more like a lodge, really; the rows of white Adirondack chairs facing the lake; the gardens. He remembers lazy, silly, laughter-filled summers past, before puberty, before his cousins started falling in line and he... didn't.

He watches Kurt, imagines him here, years from now, smiling and laughing and kissing Ruth on the cheek just the way she likes. He imagines Kurt choosing a favorite bedroom for them, nuzzling up against him on the sleeping porch as they watch the fireflies dart about, reading a novel by the stone fireplace, Blaine's feet in his lap, laughing over his use of inappropriate Scrabble words.

Kurt gasps, turns on his heel, hand on his hip and says, "Blaine. Are you serious right now?"

"Huh?"

Kurt gestures to the 70-year-old plaque behind him. "The Island of Happy Days? The Island of Happy Days?"

"Oh, right. That's, uh, what they named it. My grandfather's grandfather, I think. Or maybe my grandfather's great-grandfather. I'm not sure about that."

"Oh my god, I feel like a Kennedy!" Kurt says, bouncing on his heels. Blaine smiles and ducks his head. What he wouldn't give to bring Kurt here with his family, summer after summer. "I mean, not that I'm, like, related to you, just... you know, you're like a Kennedy... like a Midwestern Kennedy, and I—"

"Shut up," Blaine says, laughing. "You're my best friend. That counts."

Kurt blushes and says, "I'm just really glad I'm here. With you."

"Me too," Blaine says, trying not to stare at Kurt's lips. He really needs to stop doing that. Until he can.

"So... where are we sleeping?"