Author's Note: Not much to say about this one. If you find it exciting, I think you will like the rest of the story? ;)


Kurt and Finn owned a fancy penthouse suite in New York City. Not the nicest area, because they preferred the people watching that was at its finest in the poorer areas. Kurt loved it, but it was a little small for constant redecorating sprees. He sometimes wished for a big house where the whole band could live together and jam at all hours of the day, but he could understand why Tina and Sam preferred to stay separately from them. Tina was rarely home, often flying out to see Mike's shows, and Sam was frankly disgusted with Finn's standards of cleanliness. (Kurt was too, but he'd gotten used to it after so many years.)

On this night, three days after their press event, Finn was out playing poker with Puck so Kurt had the place to himself. And that meant he was totally vegging out: pajamas, magazines to catch up on, and a pint of chocolate mint ice cream. The only worry on his mind was what songs he should work on next; the tour would be in six months, and he liked to have new content for their hardcore audience. He honestly wasn't thinking about Blaine and the Pips at all.

And then his phone rang and his mood was ruined.

"Told you so," Tina said. "Check out The Tonight Show."

With well-warranted dread, Kurt turned on the television. And there they were. Blaine and his smiling, adorable Pips: David! Jeff! And Nick! Kurt was sickened that he knew all their names, but they did this stupid sing-songy rhythm when they introduced themselves that was impossible not to remember. As usual, they were singing their catchy, superficial harmonies. This number was called "Warehouse Girl". It was not the finest moment of American pop culture. As the song ended, Blaine fell to his knees and the other three spun in place before sliding into front splits. All with that same overly cheerful grin on their faces that chafed Kurt's refined sensibilities once more.

"It's just so gratuitous," he complained. "Textbook teeny-bopper tripe."

"Don't change the channel now," Tina warned. And Kurt felt his stomach turn cold as Blaine approached the microphone again. This time, with a guitar around his neck.

"Some of you might have heard a rumor recently," he said, smiling at the crowd, "that Blaine and the Pips don't know how to play instruments." Kurt heard the audience cheer and jeer simultaneously. What, did all of them know about his comment already?

Blaine continued talking, skillfully playing a few chords as he did. "It's mostly true. These guys just dance." Everyone laughed; even the Pips, who seemed to have no problems with being insulted. Were they on drugs or something? All three of his band mates would have beaten him up if he talked like that.

"But I'd like to play you a special version of one of my favorite tunes just to set the record straight."

And then he began to strum out the opening to "Teenage Dream." An older song, but a good one. Covering a song traditionally sung by a woman was something Kurt liked to do back in high school, so he could appreciate that. But it didn't help his continuing suspicion that Blaine was always copying him.

When he began to sing, Blaine looked directly into the camera with a sweet expression that took Kurt off guard. And if he was being fair, Kurt even felt his heartbeat skip a little. Reaching back to their a capella roots, the Pips harmonized the other instrumentals and it gave the performance a lovely youthful quality. By the end of the first verse, Kurt had to begrudgingly admit he was impressed.

"You win, Tina," Kurt said. "That bastard can play."

"I don't think he's done yet..."

He wasn't. They brought him an electric violin for the second verse, which he played elegantly at a much slower tempo. After that was a ukelele. A ukuelele! And that wasn't enough. Oh, no. For the finale, they slid out a grand piano, the motherfucking Pips doing backflips off of it as Blaine deftly pounded out streams of notes like it was nothing. When he finished, panting and sweating, the entire studio audience stood and cheered so loud that the audio of the TV crackled.

The host crossed over to him, smiling to the camera. "Blaine and the Pips, everybody! Aren't they just cavity-inducing? And that's The Tonight Show with Sue Sylvester." Sue held up a cupped hand. "'C' you tomorrow!"

Normally the sight of Sue was enough to depress him, but Blaine's performance had been much worse. He clicked the TV off. "What idiocy. So the guy had a few hidden talents. So what?" He huffed. "I can't believe people liked that. I mean, it was- well, it had some minor issues. I don't like the length of their pants. And his rhythm change in the violin part was jarring."

"You're terribly jealous right now, aren't you?" Tina asked.

"Completely and utterly." Kurt threw his ice cream down in disgust. "I look like such an idiot!"

"Look, I warned you. So what are you going to do now?"

"Nothing." What he needed now wasn't revenge, it was distraction. "Say Tina, want to head out tonight? I could use a couple drinks and the attention of some adoring fans."

"Can't. Mike's calling from England in a few. But I don't think you should go alone."

"I won't, I'll drag Lauren along. She'll appreciate the overtime I'm sure."

"That's good. But I don't know, I have a weird feeling about you being in public when you're in a bad mood." Tina sounded worried. She was so sweet. But Kurt knew it was over nothing. What could be worse than what he'd just witnessed, anyways?

"Nothing of interest is going to happen, girlfriend. I'll sign a few autographs, drink a few drinks, and feel better in the morning."

Tina really should have taken the opportunity to say "I told you so" once again.


It took two hours and four Tequila shots for Lauren to detain him in the VIP lounge.

"You're staying here until you sober or ascend to a new level of emotional maturity. Text me if you are in immediate danger."

"But that brat is here," Kurt moaned. "And those girls actually walked away from me when he showed up and it's not fair! I have a four octave range! Why don't people love me?"

She sat him down firmly. "Nobody loves the obviously desperate." Lauren took a close look at his eyeballs, pulling back the lids. "Looks like we have some incoming waterworks. Just sit here for awhile. Don't move. And don't talk about Blaine or his band if anybody comes in. I'll get you coffee and donuts on our way home."

Kurt sniffed quietly to himself as she exited through the curtained doorway. Coffee did sound like a good idea, but it wasn't going to change the fact that somewhere in this loud, seedy club, that curly-haired jerk was wandering around, basking in the glory of tonight's performance. And Kurt had enabled him to have this success. That was what hurt worst of all.

At least Lauren had left the Tequila bottle with him. Kurt took a sip straight from it, then rolled his head back against the couch, staring at the dark ceiling. The room was perfect for meaningless hookups: red velvet covered the walls and soft, fluffy couches stretched out under dimly lit chandeliers. Kurt closed his eyes. If he wished hard enough, maybe a sexy, starstruck groupie would tumble in and beg to suck his face off. Yeah, that would be nice. Kurt could really use the ego boost.

But when he opened his eyes moments later, his wish had gone all wrong. He appeared to be hallucinating Blaine Anderson standing there instead. Had to be, because Kurt refused to believe a bowtie that ugly could be real. And as much as he despised him, surely the real Blaine Anderson was above sipping from a decidedly unclassy bottle of Bud Light.

"Those beers taste like piss," Kurt told him. He blinked, but Blaine didn't disappear. What an asshole. Kurt sat up and cleared his throat, trying to gather his dignity.

"And I will always remember that as the first thing Kurt Hummel ever said to me." Blaine sat next to him. Too close. Their knees were almost touching and Kurt didn't like it. "So what does piss taste like, Kurt? Sounds like an interesting story."

"I've consumed worse," Kurt said slowly, trying to maintain the illusion of sobriety. "Your music, for example."

"Ouch..." He took his time with that one word, drawing it out as his big stupid face swayed closer to Kurt's. "Can we start over? Hello, I'm Blaine Anderson."

"Hello, I'm Kurt Hummel. Now please vacate my VIP room before I get snippy." He folded his arms and tried to look intimidating.

"Man, don't I at least get points for trying here?" Blaine took a swig from his beer, but his eyes didn't leave Kurt's face. "So. I take it you didn't like my love letter?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The Tonight Show, did you see it? I did it for you." Blaine smiled a little. It was almost cute. "You're my idol."

Kurt tried to stifle a snort, but failed. "Come on."

"No, I mean it. I know firsthand how hard it is to be a proud, gay male in this business." Now Blaine's eyes were traveling down his body, but that didn't make sense to Kurt. His wardrobe tonight was last year's Tommy Hilfiger collection, nothing worth much attention.

"If you're trying to change my opinion of you, don't bother." Kurt stuck his nose in the air. "While I applaud your considerable instrumental skills, I can't respect you as an artist."

Blaine laughed a little too loudly. He must also be drunk, Kurt thought. That would explain a lot, like why his arm had snaked around Kurt's shoulders, and why their knees had moved on from close proximity to pressed firmly together.

As for Kurt, he knew he was drunk because he was just staring at the stubble along Blaine's chin. Fine. He could admit to himself that Blaine was an attractive guy. It didn't make him any less obnoxious. Some part of him was aware that Blaine's right hand was caressing his shoulder, weaving its way over to his neck. But he was too busy glaring at Blaine's face to do much about it.

"You're so difficult tonight," Blaine sighed. "This isn't going how I wanted it to go at all. Here, drink this. Maybe it will make you feel better." Blaine passed him his half open beer.

"Your backwash is in this." Kurt pushed it away. "I'm not drinking from it."

Blaine planted it on the table. "You think my spit is gross?"

"What kind of question is that? Everyone's spit is gross."

"Really?" Blaine ran a finger over Kurt's bottom lip, gently forcing his mouth open. "Surely not yours."

Kurt stared down at his dark eyelashes. His moist lips. Shit, Blaine Anderson was hot from this angle. That was unfortunate.

"You're a flirt," Kurt told him. And then they were kissing.

Kisses often happen when no one expects them to. Kurt knew Blaine was gay, and he thought Blaine was drunk, but he hadn't thought for a second that there was any danger of making out with him. After all, only a few hours ago Blaine was nothing more than a thorn in his side, digging away at fame and fortune that was rightfully his.

Now Blaine was a warm, sloppy mess in his hands, an eager creature that smelled like sweat and cinnamon. Their first kiss was perfect, square on the lips, pressed hard at first but slowly melting into something softer. Then Blaine's tongue worked its way into his mouth and Kurt sucked on it, tasting that horrible beer but it was worth making Blaine shudder against him. Made it better, even.

With a surprising amount of grace, Blaine lowered them onto the sofa cushions, pressing his body close to Kurt's so he could grind insistently against his inner thigh. Kurt's body tingled with sensation; Blaine's hands skillfully stroked his arms, his chest, his legs. The worst part was, none of this felt bad. At all.

"I love the way you smell." Blaine inhaled against Kurt's neck. "Oh my fucking god. Please come home with me."

"No." Kurt cupped his hands around Blaine's ass. It was more defined than he expected. Tonight was full of unexpected surprises apparently. He guided Blaine's thrusting against his crotch.

"Why not?" Blaine paused, trembled a little. Close already? Kurt dug his fingers in, forcing him forward again.

"Because I hate you," Kurt told him.

"But I want you," Blaine was saying, rubbing his nose against Kurt's cheek in a particularly thrilling way. "Don't you want me, baby?"

Yes, yes he did. It was just the shame he would feel later for letting Blaine Anderson dry hump in public.

"I want to come all over your beautiful face," Blaine sighed.

Ugh. "Why are all your pickup lines about bodily fluids?" Kurt snapped at him. "Unless you want me to be totally icked out, I suggest you shut up and stick with the kissing."

Blaine obliged, wetly working his mouth over Kurt's. He was making little noises that made Kurt's lower body throb. That was it, the moment when Kurt snapped. He had officially left the realm of rational thought. He wanted, needed to get off right now.

"Okay," Kurt heard himself say. "Okay, yes. I want you." He dragged one of Blaine's hands to his own crotch. "See?"

Blaine bit his lip against an escaping whine and made more urgent thrusts against him.

"Good boy," he said. His own voice sounded so soft and affectionate.

"I'm going to come," Blaine said. "Will you come with me? Please?"

Kurt pressed his face into Blaine's hair. He was going to tell Blaine yes, and then they were going to come together. And tomorrow was going to be really awkward, but Kurt was pretty sure he'd be pleased about it anyways.

But then someone cleared their throat extremely loudly from a few feet away. A young man, with one hand planted on his hip and the other busily typing into a Blackberry, had entered the VIP room and was now silently judging them. Kurt pushed Blaine off of him and tried to casually smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt.

"Don't you know how to knock?" Kurt asked the stranger. Not that knocking was possible against a velvet curtain, but that was no excuse from his point of view.

He was ignored. "Blaine, not this again. And with Kurt Hummel, of all people! You've outdone yourself."

Again? So this was... common? Kurt suddenly felt very foolish.

"So what, are you the jealous boyfriend?" he asked, annoyed at the inflection of bitterness to his own voice.

The other man fixed him in an exasperated stare. "No. I'm Blaine's personal assistant, of course. And you aren't nearly as charming as your songs."

"Thad," Blaine slurred. "Kurt is sooooooooo hot. He tastes like a kitten."

Blaine looked completely different to Kurt now: obviously wasted and completely out of control. How could Kurt have been so stupid? He whipped out his phone, speed dialing. Back up was needed.

Lauren stormed into the room in seconds. "What seems to be the problem here?" She looked at each of them in turn. "Well. Can't say I saw this one coming."

Kurt gladly let himself be plucked from the sofa. Lauren checked his pockets to make sure he still had his wallet and his phone. But she was dismayed at the state of Kurt's neck. "Great, he's just covered in marks! This is going to interfere with the Vanity Fair shoot on Tuesday." She dug around in her bag, producing a scarf which she wound tightly around him.

"Is she taking him away?" Blaine wailed. "Thad, don't let her- I need him! My penis needs him."

"Christ," Thad said under his breath. "Sorry about this. Lauren Zizes, right?"

"Yeah. Kurt's manager. I'm guessing you babysit that one?"

"Indeed. Sorry, he's-" Thad leaned in, no doubt trying to keep Kurt from hearing, but he was able to make out the words crush and emotional.

"Ah. Thanks for the heads up." Satisfied, she pressed her bluetooth headset. "Strongo, bring the car to Exit B please. Keep the engine running."

"You leave first, we'll stumble out in fifteen minutes," Thad said.

"Should be a piece of cake." Lauren shot him a thumbs up as she shuffled Kurt away. "See you around."

Dimly, behind the noise of his own angry thoughts,he heard Blaine call out his name as they left.


When he woke the next morning, Kurt felt strangely satisfied, if a little unstable. He had kissed Blaine Anderson. But he hated Blaine Anderson. But, the kissing was pretty good. Yet, the hating was pretty important. It was like plucking petals off of a daisy. I hate him. I hate him not. I hate him. I want to fuck him until he sings falsetto.

Then, while he was enjoying breakfast, the headline of Star caught his attention from across the table: BLAINE ANDERSON HOOKS UP WITH UNDERWEAR MODEL JEREMIAH? And there he was, blurry but clearly enjoying himself, fingers entangled in some douche's obnoxious manly tresses, pinned against a wall on a hotel balcony. Any good afterglow Kurt was feeling was immediately sucked out of him. Sure, the article was printed before the events of last night, but how often did this guy do this? Was he a serial manslut or something? Did Kurt narrowly miss being some kind of sick conquest?

At least that cleared things up. Kurt grabbed Lauren's lighter from the kitchen counter and set the offensive article on fire, relishing the way the burnt paper dissolved and took Blaine's image right from in front of his eyes.

Hated him.

"Good morning, sweetie." Lauren plucked the smoldering magazine from him and neatly doused it in a nearby vase of flowers. "Glad you're getting your feelings out in a healthy way, but I've got some bad news. We got a phone call from Blaine's manager."

"So?" Kurt became extremely interested in the remnants of his coffee.

"He wants to record a duet with you." Lauren's no bullshit face meant that she wasn't joking, like Kurt really, really hoped she was. "You're scheduled to appear at his private studio tomorrow at 10 am."

"You actually scheduled it? Without asking me?"

She crossed her arms, which was Laurenese for 'don't fuck with me'. "Your goodwill has taken a hit since you insulted him on national TV. And he outmaneuvered you completely on this. He's already announced it on Good Morning America. I've been fielding calls all morning." She shrugged. "There's so much hype already that you at least have to try to work together or your social status is going to plummet."

Kurt took an angry bite of his donut. That scoundrel. What was he up to? Trying to legitimize his pathetic songwriting? Or bragging rights for not only mocking Kurt on television, but tapping him behind closed doors? Well. Fine then. Kurt would go there, and record a duet with Blaine. But that's all he was going to do. He had willpower, dammit.

"I'll do it," he told Lauren. "But just the song. No more shenanigans." He held up a finger and shook it at Lauren. "As my dad always says, I matter too much to just throw myself into sex with any random guy."

Lauren whistled. "I can think of a couple nights your dad doesn't know about. Ow!" She rubbed her arm where Kurt had slugged her. "Easy, sweetheart! Alright, let's forget about this mess for now. Puppy shopping for Mercedes at eleven! You in?"

Kurt didn't need to think twice about that one. "Fetch me my new high tops."


Next: Forced to collaborate to recover his faltering PR, Kurt arrives at Blaine's abode ready to write an original song together as professional musicians. Blaine has a different agenda once he gets Kurt alone.