A/N: Written for Klaine Week, Day 2: AU over at Tumblr.
ooo
The small town of McKinley lies roughly in the middle of Nowhere, America.
At least that's how Wes had described it.
"You head up north...and keep going north, until you reach the point where your fingers want to drop off inside your gloves. Then you've hit McKinley."
"Charming," Blaine had muttered, stuffing his laptop and notebooks into his satchel as he clambered out of the office.
Ten hours later and Blaine has turned off the highway onto dirt roads, winding his way across the dull landscape; the occasional farm, agricultural land, cows shuffling together as they eat; spotted with clusters of trees feebly growing their leaves out following winter. It's late May and spring has sprung across the rest of the country, evidently forgetting this small patch of land up north. Dressed in the light jeans and button down he'd worn to work this morning, Blaine shivers even as he cranks the heat up.
'It's fucking cold here' he texts Wes. 'Why is it so fucking cold? It's almost summer!'
He feels around in the backseat of the car and tugs his linen scarf free, wrapping it twice around his neck and snuggling into the slight warmth it provides. He can feel his fingers tingle slightly as they head towards being numb and wishes he'd brought along his woolen gloves. God, he realizes with dread, he only has the light jacket he'd thrown in the backseat a few days ago when it had been rainy – not even a decent woolen sweater!
"I'm going to freeze to death in my car in the middle of nowhere," he mutters moodily, squinting as the sun continues to drop and the road becomes less even. He estimates one more hour of driving until he reaches McKinley – there he can find a motel and curl up in bed for the night, perhaps with a decent hot meal, before he starts work in the morning.
Wes' memo regarding his assignment had been brief and their quick discussion even briefer –
"The Annual festival up in McKinley starts in a few days, I want you to go up there and find out what it does for the towns economy. How many people it brings in. Whether they see any growth after it. They've been running the festival for the past twenty five years, so it must be doing something for the town!"
Blaine had wrinkled his forehead in confusion, picking at the pens scattered haphazardly across the editor's desk.
"Why, exactly, am I writing a piece about a small town festival?"
"People love that sort of thing..." Wes had replied, snatching Blaine's hand away from the small decorative gavel by his computer, "Everyone wants to go back to the old days – small town, local store, friendly butcher...you know."
"...Not really..."
"Blaine! People need to believe that there's an escape from the downturn. That perhaps we can go back to the way things were...they see a small town holding a successful festival, bringing in people and jobs and money...it gives them hope."
Blaine had rolled his eyes, but nodded in acceptance.
"Fine," he'd grumbled, turning quickly as Wes pushed past him into the main office.
"Be back by Friday. We'll give you gas money. No expensive services though!" he'd called over his shoulder, already hovering over David's desk to discuss the coming days sports column.
"Whatever..." muttered Blaine.
It wasn't the first time he'd done a piece like this. Wes liked his ability to connect with the local people, not to mention his ability to write about them without boring the reader to tears. He'd drive up to McKinley, crash over night, interview a couple of the locals throughout the day and get a photo of the main street – perhaps he'd have one of the older shop keepers pose smiling alongside a small child – then he'd drive back through the night and be home by morning.
It would be Friday, and Friday meant things would wind down and he'd be able to slip out of work early for a drink and a few songs at the bar.
Perfect.
ooo
"I'm not going to be home by Friday," Blaine mutters despairingly, gripping his steering wheel tight and resisting the urge to pull it from the dashboard.
His car had given up over half an hour ago, the poor thing puttering to a halt and leaving Blaine stranded on the side of the road. It's chilly outside, and light is failing fast; Blaine's fingers are wrapped in the folds of his linen scarf and still feel numbed even as he blasts the heating. He tugs his scarf closer around his neck and fiddles once more with his phone.
The mechanic had said he'd be with him within the half hour. It's now been 45 minutes. Not one car has gone past.
"Middle of nowhere, America," he mutters, clapping his hands together to keep the blood flowing, "Frozen America," he amends.
He's already sent a few threatening texts Wes' way, alongside a quick one to David questioning why he ever took the job. He briefly considers calling James. They don't have plans for the evening, but occasionally his boyfriend likes to drop by his apartment unannounced for dinner. He hasn't in a while, however, and Blaine feels safe in the knowledge he won't tonight. They've been together just over two years now, almost as long as he's been writing for The Dalton, meeting at a New Years Party held by Nick. Lately, however, their relationship has felt...uncomfortable. Forced, even. Instead of lazy, happy silences their conversations are filled with awkward pause after awkward pause.
Maybe I'll text him, ponders Blaine, nodding decisively as the sun slips lower.
Stuck in middle of nowhere. On assignment. Might not be back until late tomorrow. Blaine x
He doesn't stop to think about why he doesn't sign off with love.
ooo
Ten minutes later and the beam of headlights swing around the corner, followed by the low rumble of a truck puffing up the road that comes into view as Blaine stuffs his phone in his pocket. He winds his window down and sucks in a deep breath against the frigid air – the heating has been keeping him warm apparently, outside the temperature has dropt even further.
"Heard you needed help?" asks the mechanic as he pulls up, and Blaine blinks quickly in surprise. That's not a voice one expects from a tow truck.
Gruff, edgy, mostly friendly but still a little rough around the edges – that's what one expects, not the lyrical softness that floats from where the man has wound down his window.
"Umm, yeah," he stammers. He blinks again and takes in the man – he's young, probably around the same age as Blaine, with perfectly coiffed brown hair that looks soft to touch and the most enchanting blue-green eyes. Blaine clears his throat awkwardly, well aware of the silence, and makes to get out of his car.
"I'm not sure what happened," he explains, closing the car door behind him before hugging his arms against the cold, "One minute everything was fine and the next, bam," he possibly claps his hands embarrassingly loud at this point," she just stopped..." he finishes softly.
"She?"
"Dot. Or Dorothy...I was a big Wizard of Oz fan when I was little."
Blaine has a terrible habit of speaking before thinking sometimes; his mind to mouth filter is practically non-existent. He constantly speaks out of turn with the best of intentions and is known to mutter insane thoughts as they form. Wes and David insist it's what makes him such a good journalist – a good writer – he's not afraid to ask the first, often difficult, question – and neither does he ever refrain from laying the truth bare.
Blaine, however, merely believes it makes a fool of him, daily.
"I mean...uhh."
The man smiles, his laughter puffing from his mouth in the cool air, and Blaine feels his stomach swim delightedly.
"I've been known to call mine McQueen from time to time," the man murmurs, trudging through the dirt around Blaine, before leaning over to pop the cars bonnet. He stretches over and pokes at a cable, pushing it out of the way to peer further into the engine. Blaine's never had much time for cars, some are pretty enough to admire, but mostly they're a mandatory nuisance to get him from Point A to Point B.
"Lightening, or Steve?" he asks, huddling closer to the car – and the man, incidentally – in the growing dark.
"Neither – Alexander."
The man laughs again from where he's engulfed by the car, and Blaine feels a little giddy inside; its not every day one meets a mechanic in the middle of nowhere who knows his designers. He pushes his glasses further up his nose and tries to ignore the stretch of tight jeans up the back of the other man's thighs.
"A fan?"
"You should see me on my days off," is the mumbled response. Blaine swallows thickly. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets and scrunches his shoulders to keep his scarf in place; the sun has dipped dramatically in the past few minutes and now only slithers of daylight remain across the frozen wasteland.
"I'm Kurt, by the way."
The man straightens from the engine and holds out his hand. Blaine tugs his own hand free from his pocket and tries not to blush as Kurt watches him, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Blaine." Kurt's hand is soft, even as his firm grip meets Blaine's own, his fingers deceptively warm, and Blaine shivers lightly as the heat races up his spine.
"Well, Blaine, I wish I could say it was your battery, but I think we're dealing with the fuel pump..."
Kurt continues talking, gesturing back to engine more than once before wrapping his fingers around his arms and Blaine watches in fascination. Notes the wisp of hair knocked from its place that curls across his forehead and threatens to sweep into his vision; watches his tongue lick out to moisten his lips as the cool air clings to his skin; watches his cheeks redden slightly as the wind turns suddenly, whipping against Blaine's back until they're both shivering violently.
"...That make sense?"
"Beg pardon?" Blaine blinks, startled, and Kurt's lips curl up in that same smile from earlier, like he's slightly amused by Blaine's ineptitude.
"Sorry," he mumbles, blushing.
"I should be able to replace it tomorrow, was the main point. Where were you headed?"
"McKinley. I'm not too far from there, yes?"
Kurt nods quickly, the wisp of hair finally slinking across his eyes, and Blaine watches as the mechanic quickly sweeps it behind his ear, tucking his hands into his tight jeans pockets afterwards to keep them warm.
"You're about a half hour off. I'm actually based in a small town about 10 minutes away, however, Sylvester...have you heard of it?"
Blaine's not, but until this morning he'd never heard of McKinley, either, "Do you have anywhere I could stay there?"
Kurt freezes a second; looking over Blaine's shoulder, before ducking his gaze back to the ground. He's contemplating his answer and Blaine tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach as Kurt bites down on his lip.
"Um, well we don't have a motel or anything...but I have a spare room. If you wanted. Free of charge, and everything. I'll even cook."
Blood rushes past his ears deafeningly and Blaine swallows thickly. Kurt glances down again shyly and does this endearing little shuffle; Blaine can't help the fond smile that grows and blames it for his next response.
"That sounds wonderful, as long as you're sure it won't put you out."
He probably shouldn't take the invitation of a stranger on the side of the road in Nowhere, America. No matter how handsome the stranger might be. This is always how horror movies start – and he, the gorgeous victim, always falls for it.
"Not at all!" Kurt answers quickly, biting his lip, and Blaine ignores all the horror films he's ever seen to takes Kurt's offer of waiting in the slightly warmer truck.
ooo
"Why are you headed to McKinley?" asks Kurt as they amble towards Sylvester. Blaine's car is attached to the back of the truck and he can hear it trundle along behind them. Night has settled, and the eerie darkness only heightens Blaine's awareness of the man to his right.
"I'm writing a piece about the festival being held there next week. I'm a journalist, back in the city," Blaine explains.
"Oh yeah?" Kurt asks, turning towards him, seemingly interested. "Would I know the paper you write for?"
"Umm, The Dalton...it's not exactly The Times, but we do pretty well around the area."
Kurt bites his lip again and Blaine can't help but notice he does it when nervous, or embarrassed.
"You've not heard of it?"
"No," Kurt smiles, "Sorry," he adds, "But if it's any consolation, I don't even think we get it up here."
Blaine looks out the window across the vast, inky landscape, slightly foggy through the glass from their breaths and the dull light of the moon.
He hears Kurt's sharp inhale moments before he speaks, and turns, expectantly, as the other man steals a glance towards him. "Why do people want to read about our festival? It's not exactly the social event of the season."
"To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure why they'll want to read about it either...but that's my job, to find and write something they'll read anyway..." he quips.
Kurt snorts, and then blushes, grinning sideways at Blaine who only hopes his own smile isn't as blatant as it feels.
"I guess you'll want to talk to the people involved then?"
Blaine nods, "A few...might take some pictures of the main street. The usual. I'll go out tomorrow whilst she's being fixed and then head off in the evening."
He almost doesn't catch Kurt's shift in posture, "You're not going to stay for the festival?"
Blaine hesitates, eyes slipping sideways even as he faces forwards, and catches the taut look that passes Kurt's features.
"No, probably not. I need to be back in the city by Friday."
Kurt nods but doesn't speak, eyes trained forward as he turns the car off the back road.
Ever so slowly, lights across a hill blink into view. Blaine leans forward in his seat unconsciously, and within minutes the town of Sylvester sprawls before him. Small houses and the odd shop dot the road; tendrils of smoke curling from chimneys at every few – curtains are drawn across windows and Blaine can see the flicker of light and movement behind a few – people shuffling around their kitchens and dining tables. It's going on 7 pm and Blaine's own stomach is rumbling.
They turn down what Blaine imagines is the main street and he smiles at the image it must present during the day – it will be perfect, if Wes allows him an image alongside his headline. There's a town hall, its majestic stature only rivaled by the church at the end of the road; most of the shop fronts are closed for the evening. There's a pub on the corner with its lights on and a fair amount of people scattered around the tables and chairs outside - Pucks Place, the sign reads proudly over the main entrance, "Good food there, if you're after something for dinner," says Kurt, startling Blaine from his thoughts.
"I thought you promised me a home cooked meal?" he asks, eyes widening promptly at his own words.
"I mean, you don't have to, obviously...your offer was kind enough without you doing anything like that...the offer is still there, yes? Because I'm happy to find somewhere else to stay..."
"Blaine," Kurt smiles, tips of his cheeks the faintest red, and Blaine could swear his fingers twitch from where they rest near Blaine's own in between them. He wishes he had the courage to reach out and grasp them – Kurt seems like the type of person whose hand would be nice to hold.
"Of course the offer still stands. I'm not going to throw you out in this weather. And I did promise you dinner. I just thought you might like the option...for all you know I could be a terrible cook."
"But are you?"
Kurt does blush this time, "No."
"Good."
ooo
"This is fucking delicious...shit, I'm sorry. I have this terrible habit of speaking my mind...and when I'm really relaxed I tend to swear...and usually I'm really good at keeping that back around people I've only just met...but this chicken is delicious."
Blaine continues rambling, gesturing with his fork, as Kurt leans back and takes a sip of his wine. His lips quirk into a smile around the curve of his glass and Blaine decides to shut up.
"Sorry," he huffs, and sets his fork down, blushing.
Kurt laughs outright this time, head thrown back lazily, and Blaine is startled by how happy it makes him – seeing Kurt so relaxed.
"I know my chicken's good but I've never reduced someone to such a ramble before," he teases.
They pair have settled into easy conversation ever since arriving at Kurt's from the garage. Dorothy is locked up securely, awaiting treatment, and he and Kurt have spent the remainder of their discovering more about each other as Kurt had cooked dinner and Blaine sat, sipping at his wine, at the kitchen bench.
Blaine learns: Kurt lives with his father – the owner of Hummel Tire and Lube, though his father is out at present - Kurt shies away from explaining and Blaine leaves it alone, not willing to pry. He's twenty six years old, not even a year older than Blaine, and works mostly admin at the garage. He's perfectly capable of the psychical work, he assures Blaine, having been raised around motors since birth, but prefers working in the office nowadays. He also works part time at the bakery - Sugar and Spice – and teaches music lessons at the local primary school on Fridays.
"Rachel, the primary school teacher – we hated each other growing up. But in high school we became quite close so now I go in and we give singing and acting and piano lessons to all the kids...it's fun."
Kurt smiles softly – his words and actions gentler in comparison to Blaine's rambunctious own – but the curl of heat from the crackling fireplace and the heavy set of good food and wine has seemingly loosened his tongue.
"I went to school with most of the people around here actually...Puck, and Finn – he works at the pub in the night – but he also does most of the physical labour at the garage. His mother and my father are seeing each other."
Blaine raises an eyebrow from where he's pressed into the back of the couch. Kurt's living area is small and cosy, centered around the crackling fire, and Blaine tugs the knitted blanket Kurt had thrown at him earlier tighter around his legs – already he's feeling much warmer.
"That must be interesting. What happened to your mother, if you don't mind me asking?"
Kurt shuffles in his own seat, tucking his feet underneath him and curling his toes.
"It is strange, but nice. Dad deserves to be happy. And Carole is the most wonderful woman anyone could ask for..."
He pauses a moment, looking into the fire, and Blaine watches as the flickering flames highlight the sharp dimensions of his cheek bones, throwing shadows into his blue-green eyes that dance delicately across his pale flesh.
He's breathtaking, curled up by the fire, and Blaine clamps down on his hands to stop them reaching out.
"My mother died. A long time ago. I was about...eight. She was wonderful. The most wonderful person in the world..."
Blaine pauses a moment – he's used to conversation; used to listening to people, reading each nuance and sigh. He's spoken to heroes and victims and everyday people and even some quite famous – but in all his time working, which admittedly isn't all the long – he's still never figured out how to deal with grief.
"I'm sorry," he offers sincerely, and reaches across the table to grip at Kurt's fingers.
It's a small, quick touch, and Kurt's sharp inhale sets his heart beating rapidly – he awaits the quick pull back he's come to expect – and instead is delighted when Kurt's fingers curl inwards, tighter. They rest their hands comfortably between their bodies and Blaine can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be than wrapped up warmly, the crackle and pop of a fire behind him, holding the hand of this gorgeous man.
"Do you like journalism?"
"Hmm?" Blaine responds, "Yeah...I guess. I've always enjoyed writing. It seemed logical."
"But?"
He almost laughs as Kurt prods – most people take him at his word.
"You don't believe me?"
The other man shrugs, smiles knowingly.
"I miss...the freedom that journalism doesn't really allow...at least not where I am. Writing was my escape growing up. Writing and music. But it's so structured, and...doctored, by the time it goes to print. Sometimes I read back articles I've written and wonder why the hell I put the hours into it..."
"So you mean you're not exhilarated by the thought of the Annual Winter Harvest Festival?" Kurt deadpans, curling his hand away in mock surprise.
Blaine laughs delightedly; snatching back the other mans fingers, as the two smile warmly at each other. Blaine's certain he wouldn't need the blanket, or the fire – not if Kurt's warm eyes stayed on his.
"Wait," he ponders slowly, rewinding Kurt's last comment, "Winter harvest Festival?"
"Hmm," Kurt nods, nonchalantly.
"It's late May."
"So?"
"So, winter ended months ago."
"Have you noticed how cold it is out there?"
"Yes...but..."
"Yes, but if we held the Annual Winter Festival in the middle of winter either no body would go or everyone would freeze to death."
Blaine nods slowly.
"Yeah, but why not call it the Spring Festival then?" he attempts.
"Everyone wanted a winter festival."
"But it's not in winter."
"Didn't we just go over this? Everyone wanted a winter festival. They wanted to ice skate in the middle of the town and sell knitwear and cook chestnuts. But if it were actually in winter no one would go. So. Annual Winter Harvest Festival in Spring."
Blaine blinks in confusion.
"That makes no sense."
"Welcome to small town America Blaine, nothing much makes sense here."
He shakes his head, feels Kurt's eyes on him fondly, and looks around the room, eyes settling on a photograph on the mantelpiece. It's a beautiful landscape – no doubt of the surrounding area at a much more forgiving time of year. Soft hues of pink and purple paint the sky over a green valley – Blaine picks himself up, still wrapped in the woolen blanket, and steps forward to inspect the photo closer.
"This is gorgeous...did you take this?"
He turns back to Kurt and notes the other mans blush. He nods quickly.
"Sometimes, when I'm not a mechanic or a secretary or a baker or a music teacher, I like to pretend I'm a photographer...its mostly just of the town though...nothing too spectacular."
Blaine scoffs, and keeps his eyes on Kurt, daring the other man to meet his gaze.
"I beg to differ. This is gorgeous," he presses, starring into Kurt's blue-green pools.
"You should come with me tomorrow."
"What?" asks Kurt, standing to pick up their wine glasses. It's getting on in the evening – they've talked for over three hours – and Blaine has an early morning.
"Come with me tomorrow when I interview people. You can take pictures for me. I promise you'll get the credit...I'll even send you a copy of the paper seeing as you don't get it up here," he begs, smiling sweetly.
Kurt shuffles on the spot, coming back from the kitchen, obviously torn.
"But your car..."
"Can wait. Honestly. I'd rather have good pictures and be a little late back home, than be stuck with what ever crap job I would do...I mean, obviously if you have other work to do, that's fine...but if it's just Dot...she can wait."
"No, yeah," Kurt stutters, stepping closer to Blaine, "I've actually taken the week off everything..." his eyes catch on the photos scattered along the mantelpiece, crinkling in pain, and not for the first time Blaine wonders what's happening behind his bright eyes.
"Okay," he whispers, smiling. "That sounds good. Just as long as I get to choose who and what I photograph."
"Of course."
Blaine nods and has to stop himself from folding Kurt into a hug, instead holding out a hand to shake warmly.
"I'll see you in the morning then," Kurt murmurs. His gaze lingers on Blaine's a moment, dipping slowly down his cheek, before he turns abruptly and slips into his bedroom.
"Goodnight Blaine. Sweet dreams," he calls, closing the door behind him.
Blaine all but collapses into the spare bedroom, curling onto the ready-made bed.
It's soft and warm and smells deliciously of vanilla. It's decorated tastefully, but even more so looks completely lived in, despite everything being packed away in place.
Blaine settles beneath the covers and closes his eyes; ponders who the vanilla room might belong to and thinks of Kurt ambling through the small towns of Sylvester and McKinley with him tomorrow.
He sleeps better than he has in years.