A/N: A series of drabbles meant to clear my mind of the rabid plot bunnies.
All characters belong to Ryan Murphy and Glee. I write purely for pleasure, and wish for no pain.


Summer was spent slowly, gently between Blaine and Kurt. Almost every day resulted in some adventure -or misadventure- shared by the two.

In late June, Blaine asked Kurt if he'd like to go camping with him.

"You won't have to break out the Hunter's or your sequined Camelbak. It'll just be the two of us, a pop-up camper, and Lake Michigan,"

Kurt, though equally terrified by the thought of mosquito bites, the impending search for non-pore clogging spf 70, and his father's reaction to the request, was intrigued.

The journey began three days hence. In Finn's pick-up -graciously lent to the pair in exchange for free access to Blaine's supply of records- the boy's set off, camper in tow.

Six rotations of a Best of Andrew Lloyd Webber and ABBA Gold and several stops at the newly discovered and non-Ohioan Panera Bread, Blaine and Kurt found themselves in the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore.

The days passed like honey. Sunsets on the beach with bottles of shadily procured bottles of Pinot Grigio were precluded by Shakespeare festivals and stops at roadside cherry stands. When their digital cameras ran out of memory, they settled on a Polaroid instead of new memory chips. And as the days passed by, Kurt relaxed his vigilant skin care just enough that his cheeks grew bronze from underneath the shade of his Chanel rabbit felt hat.

"Maybe this is how we should spend the rest of our lives," Blaine told Kurt one evening, curled up in his boyfriend's lap beside a crackling fire.

"In theory, that is an excellent plan," Kurt responded, setting out to braid a third strand of Blaine's unbridled curls.

Blaine lay still, reaching out for his plastic goblet of a local Merlot, purchased at a farmer's market with little worry of being ID'd. He looked up past the boughs of the trees overhead, relishing the sound of the mourning doves and the steady rhythm of Lake Michigan and the frisky breeze.

"Lightening bugs," Kurt said suddenly, lifting Blaine's head away from his legs to chase after a glowing dart.

Blaine watched his boyfriend contentedly, admiring Kurt's joy de vivre as much as his ass.

"I love you to pieces," he called, but too softly to garner Kurt's attention. Flustered by the lack of response, he sat up, reaching for the wine bottle. It, too, disappointed him.

Lapping up the last few drops, he stood. As Kurt emptied three glowing captives into his own emptied goblet, Blaine crept up behind him and wrapped his arms around Kurt's waist.

Kurt offered him a grateful hum, and turned in his arms to show him the fireflies.

"Aren't they marvelous? I know it's some chemical...thing. But I've always preferred to believe it's magic,"

Blaine, touching the fluttering wings of one of Kurt's fireflies, smiled. Kurt hadn't realized the excellent metaphor he had crafted; the divine summary of everything that was the two of them. His eyes dipped back up into Kurt's, and he swept the boy's feathery locks from his face. "You're magic,"

Kurt smiled, realizing that they had begun to dance. Though there was no music to which they were swinging their hips, the night's lovely canvas was a worthy substitute.