Fic: "100 Days" [Glee, Kurt/Blaine, 3.3/10]
Title: 100 Days
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.
This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays at 4pm EST/9pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).
Previously: -1 | ME | NH | VT | MA | RI | CT | NY | NJ | PA | DE | MD | VA
Day 024: Wednesday 10th October, 2012
Prescience (North Carolina)
“So… I think we should leave The Green Miles for later, and for North Carolina… Hmm.”
“What about Patch Adams?“
“It’s like you read my mind.”
Blaine was noticing more and more of what he'd decided to call ‘Kurtisms,’ things that he’d never noticed before-though maybe he had, but he hadn’t been looking at Kurt through this laser beam of attraction and want, where every movement caught his attention anew.
They were little things, really: the way he would gaze out of the passenger side window and hold the tip of his left thumb between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, pressing and rolling until the flesh turned white; how he would over-stretch and roll his shoulders when reaching for a glass on the cupboard's top shelf and sigh because it obviously felt good; the fact that every conversation was a surprise, and never truly finished.
“Have you ever read the story of Patch Adams, though?” Kurt asked, half-turning toward Blaine as they strolled through the Downtown Market in Asheville. The question came out of the blue, but was asked as if their discussion of their chosen movie for North Carolina hadn’t ended over three hours earlier.
“No,” Blaine admitted. “Don’t tell me it’s even sadder than the movie.”
“No, that’s the thing. It’s not really sad at all.”
“Well… That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Of course. I don’t know, I guess I just can’t help but feel a little cheated.”
“They did the same thing with Erin Brockovich, though. It all comes down to what’s good storytelling and what isn’t.”
“Speaking of which, we should probably try and figure out what the point of our documentary is,” Kurt said, adding with a sly grin, “You know, other than two cute film grads touring the US.”
“I was hoping that we’d kind of stumble upon an idea,” Blaine replied. “And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you,’ since you’re the one who’s been doing the most filming. Setting up the shots, checking the lighting…”
“It takes time to get the perfect shot. And besides, it’s all good practice.”
“What are you doing with all that footage, anyway?”
“Just transferring it to the computer,” Kurt answered a hair too quickly. “Why do you ask?”
Blaine asked because he knew exactly where a lot of his own footage was ending up. Shots of asphalt being consumed by the R.V., sunsets from the passenger side window and snatches of conversation with Kurt were all going straight to his blog-in lieu of proper entries, since he’d had neither the time nor the privacy. That very morning, for instance, was the first time he had risen before Kurt since the start of the trip. He’d only managed a paltry three paragraphs by the time Kurt had surfaced, bright-eyed and dancing around the kitchen as he made breakfast, The Black Ghosts’ Full Moon playing from his docked iPod and his hips swaying sensuously around the beat. The blend of his movements was so without discernible end that it was as if the song was his dance partner, leading and turning and dipping him across the kitchen with such fluid grace that, had he not known otherwise, Blaine could have sworn that Kurt was a dancer.
Their trip the previous day to explore the Biltmore Estate, coupled with the lingering, renewed memories from visiting Luray, had sparked in Blaine his old sense of adventure. Only this time, it wasn’t a place he wanted to explore. It was how, with the merest subtle shifts of muscle in the darkness, Kurt could have Blaine shivering and wanting to run cartographer’s fingers over his shoulder blades, the planes of his torso, and down, down, down.
“No reason,” he finally said, swallowing hard and eyes landing on a stall further up the way where a small African woman sat, surrounded by wooden tiles and wall hangings. The words he had written that morning played upon his mind as they drew closer to her, and his mind circled back around to the wondering-always the wondering. Wondering if it would be weird if things between he and Kurt weren’t at all awkward and instead they had just fallen into one another like it was something they had always been meant for, like their love had been bought and paid for years ago and they were only just growing into it.
As they arrived at the stall, the bright yellow of the woman’s clothing a stark contrast to the muted earth hues and wood tones surrounding her, she looked up at them with wide, deep-set eyes. Her face was weathered, dark freckles littering her cheeks and crowds of lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth that belied decades. Her gaze briefly swept across Kurt and landed upon Blaine, boring into him with such intensity that he felt as if she could see straight into his heart to pick out the four letters he was sure were forming there.
“What are your names?” she demanded, her English heavily accented.
“I’m Blaine, and this is Kurt,” he answered.
“I am Nanyanika. They call me Nan,” she said, gesturing around herself and offering her hand to Kurt. After he had shaken it, she offered it to Blaine, holding on when he tried to let go. “You belong, yes?”
“Belong?” Blaine repeated.
“You are his,” Nan said, glancing between them. “He is yours.”
Blaine shook his head. “No, we’re not together. Just friends.”
“Hmm. ‘Just friends,’ I hear this a lot,” Nan said, dropping Blaine’s hand and reseating herself on her stool. From beneath her simple wooden workstation, covered in a deep green cloth that was patterned with the same symbols surrounding her, she pulled two small paintbrushes and pots of what looked like black ink and gestured for them to sit down.
“It’s true,” Kurt said, crossing one long leg over the other and loosening his thin scarf a little. “We’ve been best friends since we were six years old.”
Nan shook her head, her shoulders slumping as she said, “They come to me to see their life and never believe. They keep their eyes closed on purpose, don’t let themselves see. They think good means scary. So you have come to me to see your life, yes?”
“Um,” Blaine said articulately, and looked at Kurt.
“Yes,” Kurt answered her, the expression on his face one of curiosity. Blaine had to admit that, though he had never been much for spirituality-and Kurt, he knew, even less so-he was similarly intrigued.
“Sleeve up, arm out,” Nan commanded, and Kurt quickly complied, stretching his arm palm up across her workstation. She dipped one of the paintbrushes into the ink pot, loosely holding Kurt’s wrist with her free hand and, without ever taking her eyes off Kurt’s face, began to paint. “I paint three things: past, present, and future. We see what comes out after.”
Blaine watched in silent amazement; Nan couldn’t see what she was doing, but three symbols quickly took shape in a shock of black against the pale skin of Kurt’s underarm. He swallowed; they had often talked about getting tattoos, musing over placement and what they would be, but they had never actually gone ahead and done it. Seeing the markings on Kurt’s skin brought Blaine a shiver.
“I come from the Ashanti in Ghana, and these symbols are the Adinkra. Very important to my people, and tell us a lot,” Nan said, finishing the third symbol with a deft flick of her wrist and looking down at her work. She pointed to the first symbol, closest to Kurt’s hand-it looked like a ladder. “Owuo atwedee. You have death in your past, yes?”
Kurt raised his chin, nodding almost imperceptibly, and Nan gave his wrist a light shake.
“This is why we paint past so close to your hand, so you can let go,” she said, and quickly moved on to the second symbol: two swirls forming a heart. “This is good sign. Sankofa; means you are learning from your past.” Of the third, a diagonally-crossed diamond, she said, “Eban, for your future. For you, this is sign of love and security.”
Blaine watched Kurt trace the tip of his index finger around the eban symbol, and blinked in surprise when Kurt agreed with Nan’s earlier sentiment, murmuring, “They are important. I wish they were permanent.”
Nan shook her head and pointed to the past and present symbols. “Very soon, you let go of this. Present become your past,” she said, sliding her fingers towards Kurt’s palm. “Your future become your present, and you get new future. You move forward, don’t get stuck.”
Kurt nodded and, seemingly satisfied, Nan released his arm and held out her hand for Blaine’s. He hesitated only for a moment before settling his wrist onto Nan’s palm. She didn’t start painting straight away as she had with Kurt; with her eyes she seemed to be sifting through the innermost workings of his mind until she found the thing she was looking for, whatever it was, and it took all of his willpower not to break the eye contact.
“You are running,” Nan said simply, and Blaine finally felt the wet press of ink against his skin. “But not away, and this is most curious thing about you. I think you were running away, but not now. Now you are running to.”
Blaine’s gaze slid into the corner of his periphery but he didn’t dare look up at Kurt-not now, not when every look had become loaded, like a powder keg packed to the brim and just waiting for the slightest of sparks to ignite it. They were carrying it between them as if it were a tangible thing, slowly circling a flame, and all the while Blaine was losing purchase.
“This is not usual, not usual,” Nan said as she sat back, and Blaine realized that the soft bristles of her paintbrush had ceased their movements against his skin. He took in his three symbols; his past could almost have been a basic Celtic knot, his present was something like the letter X, and his future-the same as Kurt’s. “I see mpatapo for past, which is peacemaking. You stopped fighting. This explain running. For present, you have fawohodie; this means you are free. Yes?”
Blaine nodded dumbly, struck by the accuracy of Nan’s insights.
“And your future, this is not usual at all. These lead you same place as ‘just friend,’” she said, her downturned mouth twisting into something that could have been a wry smile. “But for you, eban is sign of home and love as one.”
“Maybe there’s some cutie back in Brunswick waiting for you,” Kurt murmured, nudging Blaine’s shoulder with his own.
Nan shook her head, gesturing emphatically to Blaine’s future symbol. “Home and love, see? They are same thing,” she declared, and then sighed heavily, standing to reach one of the displays of small wooden tiles that hung around her stall. Both Kurt and Blaine followed suit, watching as Nan retrieved two tiles bearing the eban symbol, and held them between her palms. “But you will not see, not yet. You keep your eyes closed and complicate things. So you take these, and work for them.”
Blaine reached into his pocket for his wallet as Kurt took their tiles, but Nan waved her hand dismissively. “Come back and see Nan when your future is present,” she said, and for a moment that wry smile was back and Blaine couldn’t quite figure out if she just wanted to see them again, or if she wanted to be proved correct in her thinly-veiled predictions.
“Thank you,” he said almost distractedly, too many thoughts turning over in his mind to form one coherent string.
“It was lovely to meet you,” Kurt added. Nan inclined her head.
“You both run, see what happens,” were her final words before she sat down again, putting away her brushes and ink.
When they were far enough away so as to be out of earshot, Kurt whirled on Blaine with a bewildered glance. “That was insanely weird, right? It wasn’t just me?”
“I don’t know. She seemed to have us figured out,” Blaine said with a shrug he didn’t quite believe.
“The past and present stuff, maybe,” Kurt conceded. “But the future stuff… I mean, you know I’m not really into-relationships, and… And what was all that about you ‘running to’ something?”
“No idea,” Blaine said, and took a deep breath, trying to shake Nan’s words and the weight of her gaze. He could almost still feel it lingering upon him, along with the words ringing in his ears-now you are running to.
The sun was finally breaking through the thick bank of cloud that hung heavily above them, and Blaine raised his hand to shield his eyes. “I’m starving. Wanna check out that café further up?”
“Actually, do you mind if we head back to the R.V.?” Kurt asked. “I found a pasta recipe I’ve been dying to try. Plus, I need to catch up on a few emails, and since the park has Wi-Fi…”
Blaine grinned, rolling his eyes fondly and gesturing for Kurt to lead the way.
Distance: 1,970 miles
*
Next: South Carolina
Author: dazzlebug
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have been best friends (and nothing more) since the age of six. Now college graduates, they take a roadtrip around the USA, visiting every state in 100 days. Fifty states. Two boys. One love story.
Disclaimer: I paint the pictures; I just borrow the names.
Notes: Thank you to my betas, Axe and Rachie.
This fic will be updated weekly on Wednesdays at 4pm EST/9pm GMT (estimated). Also available on ffnet, Tumblr, S&C and AO3 (complete chapters only).
Previously: -1 | ME | NH | VT | MA | RI | CT | NY | NJ | PA | DE | MD | VA
Day 024: Wednesday 10th October, 2012
Prescience (North Carolina)
“So… I think we should leave The Green Miles for later, and for North Carolina… Hmm.”
“What about Patch Adams?“
“It’s like you read my mind.”
Blaine was noticing more and more of what he'd decided to call ‘Kurtisms,’ things that he’d never noticed before-though maybe he had, but he hadn’t been looking at Kurt through this laser beam of attraction and want, where every movement caught his attention anew.
They were little things, really: the way he would gaze out of the passenger side window and hold the tip of his left thumb between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, pressing and rolling until the flesh turned white; how he would over-stretch and roll his shoulders when reaching for a glass on the cupboard's top shelf and sigh because it obviously felt good; the fact that every conversation was a surprise, and never truly finished.
“Have you ever read the story of Patch Adams, though?” Kurt asked, half-turning toward Blaine as they strolled through the Downtown Market in Asheville. The question came out of the blue, but was asked as if their discussion of their chosen movie for North Carolina hadn’t ended over three hours earlier.
“No,” Blaine admitted. “Don’t tell me it’s even sadder than the movie.”
“No, that’s the thing. It’s not really sad at all.”
“Well… That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Of course. I don’t know, I guess I just can’t help but feel a little cheated.”
“They did the same thing with Erin Brockovich, though. It all comes down to what’s good storytelling and what isn’t.”
“Speaking of which, we should probably try and figure out what the point of our documentary is,” Kurt said, adding with a sly grin, “You know, other than two cute film grads touring the US.”
“I was hoping that we’d kind of stumble upon an idea,” Blaine replied. “And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you,’ since you’re the one who’s been doing the most filming. Setting up the shots, checking the lighting…”
“It takes time to get the perfect shot. And besides, it’s all good practice.”
“What are you doing with all that footage, anyway?”
“Just transferring it to the computer,” Kurt answered a hair too quickly. “Why do you ask?”
Blaine asked because he knew exactly where a lot of his own footage was ending up. Shots of asphalt being consumed by the R.V., sunsets from the passenger side window and snatches of conversation with Kurt were all going straight to his blog-in lieu of proper entries, since he’d had neither the time nor the privacy. That very morning, for instance, was the first time he had risen before Kurt since the start of the trip. He’d only managed a paltry three paragraphs by the time Kurt had surfaced, bright-eyed and dancing around the kitchen as he made breakfast, The Black Ghosts’ Full Moon playing from his docked iPod and his hips swaying sensuously around the beat. The blend of his movements was so without discernible end that it was as if the song was his dance partner, leading and turning and dipping him across the kitchen with such fluid grace that, had he not known otherwise, Blaine could have sworn that Kurt was a dancer.
Their trip the previous day to explore the Biltmore Estate, coupled with the lingering, renewed memories from visiting Luray, had sparked in Blaine his old sense of adventure. Only this time, it wasn’t a place he wanted to explore. It was how, with the merest subtle shifts of muscle in the darkness, Kurt could have Blaine shivering and wanting to run cartographer’s fingers over his shoulder blades, the planes of his torso, and down, down, down.
“No reason,” he finally said, swallowing hard and eyes landing on a stall further up the way where a small African woman sat, surrounded by wooden tiles and wall hangings. The words he had written that morning played upon his mind as they drew closer to her, and his mind circled back around to the wondering-always the wondering. Wondering if it would be weird if things between he and Kurt weren’t at all awkward and instead they had just fallen into one another like it was something they had always been meant for, like their love had been bought and paid for years ago and they were only just growing into it.
As they arrived at the stall, the bright yellow of the woman’s clothing a stark contrast to the muted earth hues and wood tones surrounding her, she looked up at them with wide, deep-set eyes. Her face was weathered, dark freckles littering her cheeks and crowds of lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth that belied decades. Her gaze briefly swept across Kurt and landed upon Blaine, boring into him with such intensity that he felt as if she could see straight into his heart to pick out the four letters he was sure were forming there.
“What are your names?” she demanded, her English heavily accented.
“I’m Blaine, and this is Kurt,” he answered.
“I am Nanyanika. They call me Nan,” she said, gesturing around herself and offering her hand to Kurt. After he had shaken it, she offered it to Blaine, holding on when he tried to let go. “You belong, yes?”
“Belong?” Blaine repeated.
“You are his,” Nan said, glancing between them. “He is yours.”
Blaine shook his head. “No, we’re not together. Just friends.”
“Hmm. ‘Just friends,’ I hear this a lot,” Nan said, dropping Blaine’s hand and reseating herself on her stool. From beneath her simple wooden workstation, covered in a deep green cloth that was patterned with the same symbols surrounding her, she pulled two small paintbrushes and pots of what looked like black ink and gestured for them to sit down.
“It’s true,” Kurt said, crossing one long leg over the other and loosening his thin scarf a little. “We’ve been best friends since we were six years old.”
Nan shook her head, her shoulders slumping as she said, “They come to me to see their life and never believe. They keep their eyes closed on purpose, don’t let themselves see. They think good means scary. So you have come to me to see your life, yes?”
“Um,” Blaine said articulately, and looked at Kurt.
“Yes,” Kurt answered her, the expression on his face one of curiosity. Blaine had to admit that, though he had never been much for spirituality-and Kurt, he knew, even less so-he was similarly intrigued.
“Sleeve up, arm out,” Nan commanded, and Kurt quickly complied, stretching his arm palm up across her workstation. She dipped one of the paintbrushes into the ink pot, loosely holding Kurt’s wrist with her free hand and, without ever taking her eyes off Kurt’s face, began to paint. “I paint three things: past, present, and future. We see what comes out after.”
Blaine watched in silent amazement; Nan couldn’t see what she was doing, but three symbols quickly took shape in a shock of black against the pale skin of Kurt’s underarm. He swallowed; they had often talked about getting tattoos, musing over placement and what they would be, but they had never actually gone ahead and done it. Seeing the markings on Kurt’s skin brought Blaine a shiver.
“I come from the Ashanti in Ghana, and these symbols are the Adinkra. Very important to my people, and tell us a lot,” Nan said, finishing the third symbol with a deft flick of her wrist and looking down at her work. She pointed to the first symbol, closest to Kurt’s hand-it looked like a ladder. “Owuo atwedee. You have death in your past, yes?”
Kurt raised his chin, nodding almost imperceptibly, and Nan gave his wrist a light shake.
“This is why we paint past so close to your hand, so you can let go,” she said, and quickly moved on to the second symbol: two swirls forming a heart. “This is good sign. Sankofa; means you are learning from your past.” Of the third, a diagonally-crossed diamond, she said, “Eban, for your future. For you, this is sign of love and security.”
Blaine watched Kurt trace the tip of his index finger around the eban symbol, and blinked in surprise when Kurt agreed with Nan’s earlier sentiment, murmuring, “They are important. I wish they were permanent.”
Nan shook her head and pointed to the past and present symbols. “Very soon, you let go of this. Present become your past,” she said, sliding her fingers towards Kurt’s palm. “Your future become your present, and you get new future. You move forward, don’t get stuck.”
Kurt nodded and, seemingly satisfied, Nan released his arm and held out her hand for Blaine’s. He hesitated only for a moment before settling his wrist onto Nan’s palm. She didn’t start painting straight away as she had with Kurt; with her eyes she seemed to be sifting through the innermost workings of his mind until she found the thing she was looking for, whatever it was, and it took all of his willpower not to break the eye contact.
“You are running,” Nan said simply, and Blaine finally felt the wet press of ink against his skin. “But not away, and this is most curious thing about you. I think you were running away, but not now. Now you are running to.”
Blaine’s gaze slid into the corner of his periphery but he didn’t dare look up at Kurt-not now, not when every look had become loaded, like a powder keg packed to the brim and just waiting for the slightest of sparks to ignite it. They were carrying it between them as if it were a tangible thing, slowly circling a flame, and all the while Blaine was losing purchase.
“This is not usual, not usual,” Nan said as she sat back, and Blaine realized that the soft bristles of her paintbrush had ceased their movements against his skin. He took in his three symbols; his past could almost have been a basic Celtic knot, his present was something like the letter X, and his future-the same as Kurt’s. “I see mpatapo for past, which is peacemaking. You stopped fighting. This explain running. For present, you have fawohodie; this means you are free. Yes?”
Blaine nodded dumbly, struck by the accuracy of Nan’s insights.
“And your future, this is not usual at all. These lead you same place as ‘just friend,’” she said, her downturned mouth twisting into something that could have been a wry smile. “But for you, eban is sign of home and love as one.”
“Maybe there’s some cutie back in Brunswick waiting for you,” Kurt murmured, nudging Blaine’s shoulder with his own.
Nan shook her head, gesturing emphatically to Blaine’s future symbol. “Home and love, see? They are same thing,” she declared, and then sighed heavily, standing to reach one of the displays of small wooden tiles that hung around her stall. Both Kurt and Blaine followed suit, watching as Nan retrieved two tiles bearing the eban symbol, and held them between her palms. “But you will not see, not yet. You keep your eyes closed and complicate things. So you take these, and work for them.”
Blaine reached into his pocket for his wallet as Kurt took their tiles, but Nan waved her hand dismissively. “Come back and see Nan when your future is present,” she said, and for a moment that wry smile was back and Blaine couldn’t quite figure out if she just wanted to see them again, or if she wanted to be proved correct in her thinly-veiled predictions.
“Thank you,” he said almost distractedly, too many thoughts turning over in his mind to form one coherent string.
“It was lovely to meet you,” Kurt added. Nan inclined her head.
“You both run, see what happens,” were her final words before she sat down again, putting away her brushes and ink.
When they were far enough away so as to be out of earshot, Kurt whirled on Blaine with a bewildered glance. “That was insanely weird, right? It wasn’t just me?”
“I don’t know. She seemed to have us figured out,” Blaine said with a shrug he didn’t quite believe.
“The past and present stuff, maybe,” Kurt conceded. “But the future stuff… I mean, you know I’m not really into-relationships, and… And what was all that about you ‘running to’ something?”
“No idea,” Blaine said, and took a deep breath, trying to shake Nan’s words and the weight of her gaze. He could almost still feel it lingering upon him, along with the words ringing in his ears-now you are running to.
The sun was finally breaking through the thick bank of cloud that hung heavily above them, and Blaine raised his hand to shield his eyes. “I’m starving. Wanna check out that café further up?”
“Actually, do you mind if we head back to the R.V.?” Kurt asked. “I found a pasta recipe I’ve been dying to try. Plus, I need to catch up on a few emails, and since the park has Wi-Fi…”
Blaine grinned, rolling his eyes fondly and gesturing for Kurt to lead the way.
Distance: 1,970 miles
*
Next: South Carolina