[mood music]

Kurt ended up eating breakfast with Sam, pleasantly surprised that the breakfast was both delicious and fairly healthy.  He had feared that he would be eating nothing but corn cakes and rattlesnakes or whatever cowboys--er, wranglers--ate, so he was surprised to see a spread that included an abundance of fresh fruit and several whole grain breads as well as yogurt and steel cut oatmeal.  Throughout breakfast, Sam ate his weight in everything, chatted about the ranch and cautioned Kurt to be careful at the high altitude. 

"No offense, man, but with your skin, I expect youll fry in about five minutes at this elevation.  If I were you, I would stick to long-sleeved shirts and long pants.  Theres a reason that those of us who work outside always wear long sleeves, no matter how hot it is.  You might want to wear a hat, too, to keep from getting sun stroke, and make sure you drink a lot of water.  Theres no humidity here, so your sweat evaporates almost instantly.  You dont know youre dehydrated until its too late." 

At that moment, it became clear to Kurt that Sam was the incarnation of the poet Virgil, come to escort Kurt through the nine circles of Hell. 

As if to confirm this, Sam concluded, "Oh, if youre going with Blaine, you should take these."  He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a lump of stained and worn leather that it took a second for Kurt to recognize as gloves. 

"Why?" Kurt asked, startled. 

Sam looked at Kurt like hed lost his marbles.  "Blaines going to get feed," he stated, like he was explaining the obvious to a two-year-old.  "If youre going with him, youll need to help.  You dont have to wear the gloves if you want, but those bags will rip up your skin.  Also, Id wear some old clothes; youre likely to get pretty dirty." 

Kurt collected the gloves gingerly and thanked Sam, then he wondered if he had time to either murder Rachel or commit suicide or both before lunch. 

-KB-

Around two oclock Kurt was sharing a bench seat beside Blaine in a beat-up pickup truck jouncing over gravel and pot holes as they made their way into town.  After a couple of pathetic attempts at small talk that were largely met with grunts, Kurt had fallen silent.  If he was honest, Blaine was gorgeous, but he also scared the daylights out of Kurt with his squinty Clint Eastwood thing.  Kurt wasnt a man to be intimidated easily, but Blaine made Kurt jumpy as a cat. 

Blaine had one tanned hand on the steering wheel, his other arm resting on the open car window, a piece of something--a piece of straw, maybe, or a toothpick--clenched between his front teeth.  Kurt noticed that Blaines eyes moved rapidly, taking in everything on the horizon and seemingly filing away information that Kurt couldnt even fathom. 

Maybe Kurt couldnt pry conversation out of this recalcitrant cowboy (Kurt decided they were cowboys to him, no matter what they called themselves), he could at least enjoy the scenery, and the scenery inside the truck was decidedly better than the scenery outside, which consisted largely of sage brush, a few sad looking farm houses, and in one surprising instance, a rather large Mormon church.  Kurt positioned himself against the pickup door so that he had an ample view of Blaine in profile.  Yes, he was completely terrifying, but he was also stunningly beautiful.  Kurt harbored a filthy fantasy that Blaine would notice him staring, suddenly stop the truck, bend Kurt over the tailgate, and have his way with him. 

Kurt let out a little shiver as a delicious warmth ran down his spine at that thought. 

"Smatter?" asked Blaine between barely parted teeth. 

Kurt jumped as if he had been goosed.   "Um, I was just thinking about something," Kurt replied vaguely. 

"What?"

"I dont think its anything youd want me to share."

"Mm," was the response, and that was the last thing Kurt heard from him until they were pulling up to a series of huge buildings and several silos with the word "Feed and Grain" displayed on the side. 

Blaine backed the pickup up to a stack of pallets with practiced ease and shut off the ignition.  Jumping out, he pulled a pocket knife from his jeans, flipped it open and cut the bindings on the pallet, exposing a pile bags of something called 28:20.  Jerking the tailgate open, Blaine began tossing the bags into the bed of the truck, occasionally repositioning one.  He had five bags in the back of the truck before Kurt could get out of the pickup and pull his gloves on. 

Blaine didnt comment when Kurt began picking up bags himself and heaving them into the truck bed, but Kurt got the feeling that he was surprised at the help, despite what Sam had said earlier.  Kurt was grateful that he had been working out hard since attending NYADA, because although he was more awkward with the bulky bags than Blaine, he was still respectably strong.  The two men worked quietly but companionably side by side lifting and heaving bags until the pickup bed was sagging a little from their weight. 

Occasionally, dust-covered men in battered baseball caps walked by them saying, "Blaine," by way of greeting and just nodding to Kurt.  Kurt smiled, and Blaine gave a head tilt in acknowledgement.  Clearly, these were men of few words.  As they loaded the last pallet of feed onto the truck, Blaine spit out the piece of straw he had been chewing and sucking on for the last hour and said, "Thanks, Kurt," pulling off his gloves and hat and wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.  The movement was far sexier than Kurt would have imagined. 

Kurt smiled softly at Blaine and said quietly, "Youre welcome.  I kind of liked it," and something like warmth appeared briefly in Blaines eyes until a wisened man came up holding a small box and a clipboard out for Blaines signature.  "Howre things at the old KB?" the man asked.

Blaine took the box and the clipboard and signed the clipboard, handing it back, "Same as always, Roy.  Cant complain."

The old man clasped a hand to Blaines shoulder, "You do a good job, Blaine.  Your daddy would have been proud."

Blaine gave a bit of a grimace but replied, "Thanks, Roy."

Something passed between them, and Kurt watched with fascination until the old man ambled away to the small building marked, "Office."  Then Blaine gave a jerk of his head to Kurt to indicate that he should get back in the pickup, Blaine threw the box into the glove compartment, and they headed out again. 

As they passed businesses, fast food places, and cafés down the main street of Chaparral, Kurt was a little surprised at how similar the town was to Lima.  He internally scolded himself.  His first year at NYADA he had to constantly grit his teeth at New Yorkers who assumed that because he was from Ohio, he was a provincial hick who knew nothing about the world.  He constantly fielded the question, "Youre from Ohio?  What did you do there?" Like teenagers didnt do the same thing everywhere.  They drank; they slept around; they hung out; they went to movies.  He realized now that he had done to Idaho what people in New York had done to him, and it was stupid.  Of course they had Starbucks and Olive Garden and Bath & Body Works in Idaho; it wasnt the Antarctic.  They didnt have Broadway, but New York didnt have that colossal mountain that loomed over the town. 

So lost was Kurt in his self-recriminations that he nearly jumped when Blaine said, "Wanna get a drink?"

It took a second for the question to register, "Um, yeah.  Yes.  Sure." 

Blaine didnt say anything else, and Kurt didnt really know what Blaine meant specifically by "a drink." Coffee?  Coke?  Beer?  So, you could have knocked him over with a feather when Blaine pulled into a Best Western and led Kurt into a surprisingly well-lit and tastefully decorated hotel bar, complete with lush plants and polished birch tables. 

Blaine ordered a Coors Light and Kurt ordered a vodka tonic, and when the drinks arrived, Blaine swallowed down half the beer in a single pull.  Kurt watched Blaines Adam apple in fascination as Blaine swallowed, and he allowed himself just a second to imagine licking over that spot, feeling the stubble of Blaines beard under his tongue and tasting his sweat. 

Blaine dried his lips with the back of his hand in a gesture that should have revolted Kurt but kind of did the opposite.  Apparently Kurt had a thing for cowboy manners--or the lack thereof. 

"So, what do you do in New York?"

Kurt was taken aback to learn that Blaine knew he was from New York and also that he was capable of saying so many words at one time.  He answered truthfully, "Im a student at NYADA."

Blaines eyebrows rose in surprise, "Thats a hard school to get into.  You must be really talented"

Now it was time for Kurts eyebrows to rise.  Most people had heard of Julliard or even Tisch, but NYADA was highly specialized and really small.  It specifically trained people for musical theater, unlike the other colleges, which trained people in music more broadly.  Most people had never heard of it, but this cowboy from Idaho seemed to know. 

"Well, I didnt get in the first time I auditioned, like Rachel did, but I made it a semester later."

"It must be nice to be in New York," Blaine mumbled. 

"It is.  New York is where I always dreamed of being, and its everything I had hoped for, although it can be a hard city, sometimes.  Have you ever been there?  How do you know about NYADA? Most people dont."

Blaine looked at Kurt without answering.  Kurt looked back, and, God, this man was stunning.  His eyes were molten pools and his curly, riotous hair sticking out from below his hat--which Blaine did not take off when they came inside, but Kurt noticed that none of the other men did, either--was just begging for fingers to curl in it.  Kurt licked his lips unconsciously.  Blaine licked his lips, too, never losing eye contact with Kurt and Kurt sucked in a breath. 

Blaine shook his head slightly and asked, "What happens when you graduate?  Do you really think youre going to be the next Broadway star?"

Kurt chuckled ruefully, "Not hardly.  Being...sounding the way I do limits the kinds of roles Im likely to get.  I cant imagine a lot of producers taking a chance on me as their leading man." 

Blaine muttered, "What makes you think you arent going to starve like all the rest of them?"

Kurt felt a brief flash of indignation, and then he shrugged.  It was a fair enough question, he supposed, "Ive got an internship at a Conde Nast magazine, so I have some experience in advertising and journalism.  Also, I grew up working in my dads garage, so if push comes to shove, I can always be a mechanic."  Kurt touched Blaines arm lightly with the back of his hand, and joked, "You dont have to stay up nights worrying about me, Blaine.  Im not likely to starve."

Kurt didnt know if it was the casual contact or Kurts words, but something undefinable passed over Blaines eyes.  It was as if a weight had lifted.  But that couldnt be right, could it? 

"You want to get a room?"

Kurt did a double-take, "I beg your pardon."

"Were in a hotel bar.  The hotel has beds.  And youve been looking at me like you cant wait to fuck me.  Probably a bed might be the place for that, since they kind of frown on you doing that in the public restrooms unless youre a Senator."

Kurt drew himself up.  What was with this asshole, anyway?  "Look, Blaine.  Yes, Im gay, as everyone whos been around me for two minutes and hears my voice figures out right away.  Yes, I think youre attractive, but I dont come on to straight men.  I respect peoples orientation.  Yes, I touched your arm, but I didnt mean anything by it, okay?  You dont need to make fun of me or insult me or, I dont know, threaten me because youre worried that Im waiting for you to drop the soap in the bunk house shower."

Blaine shook his head from side to side, "No, Kurt, I wasnt making fun of you, and I certainly wasnt threatening you."  He laid his own hand on Kurts forearm and looked him straight in the eyes, "I was serious.  Maybe I read you wrong.  Sorry."  Then Blaine pulled his hand away, and Kurt felt cold from the loss. 

Kurts indignation instantly vanished and was replaced with bewilderment, "Youre gay?"

Blaine nodded, a single dip of the head. 

"Oh," Kurt breathed out. 

Blaine didnt say anything for a minute.  He just used his thumbnail to scrape the label off the bottle of his beer.  Then he said in a low voice, "So, are we doing this or what?"

Kurt was completely flustered, and, as always happened when he was flustered, he let his feelings, rather than his mind, answer, "Um, yeah."

"Im going out to the truck," Blaine said.  "Text me when you get a room."  Then he got up, threw a twenty on the table, and left. 

-KB-

Ten minutes later Kurt was standing in a generic-looking hotel room waiting for second thoughts to bombard him.  He had acquired a room relatively easily, and he was grateful that they were fairly cheap, since apparently this was on him.  Kurt tried to feel a little indignant about that, but he figured out right away that, in a small town like Chaparral, someone like Blaine couldnt just get a hotel room without eyebrows being raised and whispers spread all over town.  Kurt was pretty sure that, as far as the locals were concerned, Blaine was pretty deeply in the closet.  Normally Kurt had no patience for that, but hes seen enough to know that there probably werent a lot of other options for guys like Blaine.    

Kurt wondered why he had agreed to Blaines proposition.  Kurt wasnt really one to sleep with total strangers, although he had once or twice dabbled in one night stands that left him feeling cheap and dissatisfied.  Casual was not Kurts style, which was too bad, because serious didnt appear to be the style of any of the gay men that Kurt was meeting in New York.  Kurt thought that, now that he was here in this sad little hotel room, he might need to back out.  He didnt want to feel cheap tomorrow.  However, the more he thought about getting his hands on cowboy Blaine--and, more titillatingly--the more he thought of Blaine getting his work-calloused hands on Kurt, the more eager Kurt was for the quiet mans return.  Kurt wasnt going to change his mind.  He was going to finally get the grand prize that he wanted, and he would deal with the feelings later.   

Kurt started when he heard a sharp rap on the door, and his heart began pounding loudly in his chest.  Then he squared his shoulders and opened it.