Blaine was frustrated with himself. He found himself thinking and wanting the most ridiculous things over the next few weeks. At one of his gigs, he saw a thin man with neat brown hair and almost fell off of his chair in his haste to see the man's face. He didn't do very well on tips that night, and when the man turned around, he'd had a walrus mustache. A week later, he'd agreed to go out with some friends to dinner. They'd walked, talking and laughing, past The Adonis and Blaine had almost ditched them to go inside the club, in spite of his promise not to.

He'd immediately realized what he was thinking, and resolutely stuck by his group as they proceeded to the restaurant. He was not going back to that club, no matter what. Even if he hadn't really gotten off since even before Kenneth left. Even if Ontario had abnormally sparkly and expressive eyes. Even if his voice was like annoyingly joyful Christmas bells. Especially if his lips were particularly pink and delicious looking. Not even then.

Kurt went back to work, just like he and Dave had known he would. However, he didn't go back on the stage; Dave had forced him to take a sabbatical. Kurt wasn't happy about it, but after his breakdown the night of the assault, Dave wasn't having any of his excuses.

"Please tell me you aren't wearing that?" Dave said as Kurt came in to work almost a month after that memorable night.

Kurt rolled his eyes. Usually he was all for being chic no matter what, but he was also all for being hygienic no matter what, and he just happened to be on the last leg of his wardrobe before he had to haul his closet down to the Laundromat. "It's all I had that was clean," he defended himself. He knew that he had zero reason to defend himself…it was atrocious, and he'd be lucky if he got any requests tonight.

Dave stared at him, appalled. "You look like the love child of Alexis Arquette in The Wedding Singer and Victoria Grant…before she started dressing like a man."

"Thank you," Kurt said sarcastically. "Maybe if we're lucky, I'll land my own King Marchand."

"Let's just see if you can land anybody," Dave said with a smirk.

Determined to prove Dave wrong, Kurt marched out onto the floor with a fierce resolve. At four A.M., minus the part he had to take out for Dave, the bouncer, and the club DJ, Kurt left the club with exactly sixty-seven dollars.

"Well, at least it's enough to go do your laundry!" Dave called after his retreating form.

"Yeah, yeah," Kurt muttered, throwing his hand up in a wave goodbye but not turning around.

The very next morning, a random Tuesday, he hauled himself out of bed at an ungodly hour – ten, which was ungodly when he'd gone to bed at five – to gather all of his dirty clothes into three large bags and haul them to the Laundromat.

Kurt loathed going to do laundry, the reason being that he had to wash his own performance clothes, and other laundry-goers weren't usually too thrilled to see someone washing glittery briefs and sequined vests in the machine next to them. Some of his personal wardrobe could be taken to the dry cleaners, he didn't trust a community dryer with his Alexander McQueen's, but costumes weren't worth the expense, no matter how embarrassing it was to wash them in public.

He hastily unloaded everything into a grand total of five washing machines, only one of which was filled with regular clothes, before perching himself on top of the nearest dryer. He popped out a book – Stripped: Inside the Lives of Exotic Dancers, which Dave had recommended to him after his minor breakdown – and leaned back against the wall.

Minutes passed, Kurt looking up periodically at the passing pedestrians. After he'd been sitting there almost fifteen minutes, Kurt heard a soft humming coming from somewhere on his right. He rolled up his eyes but continued to read; maybe the person would leave. But the humming continued, and it was soon followed by soft words. In spite of the fact that the voice wasn't bad – it wasn't bad at all – Kurt bitterly thought that he could just save it for the shower, like the rest of them.

He whirled around, completely prepared to tell him off, but froze when he saw who stood there. Slowly, his mouth dropped in a gape. Kurt couldn't tear his eyes away from the man there. His brain was clamoring for him to turn away, but his body was in a disconnected state. He couldn't manage to come to his senses until a pair of amber eyes looked directly at him.

Blaine refused to admit that he did his laundry on Tuesday mornings because he hated crowds. But, honestly, that was exactly why he did it.

He piled up all of his things in a washing machine until nothing else would fit, while singing softly to himself in order to pass the time. That done, he grabbed a pad of paper and a pen he'd brought along, ready to attempt composition – it had been far too long since he'd penned a song.

Blaine looked around the room as he stood, only for his eyes to fall on a pair of crystalline blue ones that were staring straight at him. For a brief moment, he hesitated – it couldn't be. But that face had been in his daydreams enough in the past weeks for him to recognize him; it was Ontario.

Suddenly, Blaine's mind began to clamor. What was he going to say? He'd been thinking of this impossible meeting far more than it was normal too, and here he was with it actually happening and no words in his head. After a few moments of silent staring, he said: "Hi…it's you."

Ontario's mouth quirked upward in a smile. "It's me," he answered.

"You're, uh…wearing jeans." Blaine mentally berated himself. You're wearing jeans? What had possessed him to say that? "Not that I don't…like jeans. Jeans are great."

"You know," said Ontario thoughtfully, mood seeming to change as he raised an eyebrow sarcastically. "Believe it or not, I don't actually go around all day in a rhinestone encrusted unitard."

"Oh no," Blaine said quickly, waving his hands. "I didn't think that. I, uh, I like this better."

Ontario's face smoothed out until his expression was unreadable. "Really…if I had a dime every time I heard that."

"You'd have a million dollars?" Blaine suggested, pressing start on his washer.

The dancer shook his head so minutely that Blaine thought he had imagined it, until Ontario smiled ruefully and said: "I'd have a dime."

Blaine's face fell. He would have a dime? One dime? What kind of life did this man lead? He cleared his throat and gestured to the space on the dryer next to where Ontario sat. "Do you mind?" The man shook his head, and Blaine hopped up next to him.

He fiddled with his notebook nervously, trying futilely to think of something to say. Coming up with nothing profound, he said: "What're you reading?"

The dancer smirked. "Ahh…it's called Stripped: Inside the Lives of Exotic Dancers."

Blaine immediately flushed. "Oh…uh, sorry?"

A tinkling laugh came from the other man, making Blaine blush even more fiercely. "You do know that I do this voluntarily, right? No one's forcing me to be an exotic dancer…not really."

"Not really?" Blaine asked before he could send his words through an appropriate censor.

For the first time, Ontario looked away. "It's a long story," he said shortly. "What are you doing?"

"Laundry," Blaine answered, the other man's impatient tone reflected in his. He knew that he wasn't talking about the laundry, but sarcasm was a wonderful natural barrier against true emotions. After all, he had been the first one to get snippy. "I write songs. I'm trying to force inspiration to hit."

"In a Laundromat?" The dancer asked, the corner of his mouth quirking upward yet again, as if his bad mood had never existed.

"Fabric softener teddy bears can be inspirational…" Blaine muttered noncommittally.

They sunk into silence again. This time, the dancer was the first time to break it. "My manager gave me the book. After…after that night I first met you…you know. It's about the cost of emotional labor concerning…what I do. It's about self-esteem and social stigma – that sort of thing."

"Is that a big deal?" Blaine asked, curious in spite of himself.

Ontario smiled ruefully. "What do you think?"

Blaine shook his head and resumed fiddling with his notebook. "I don't get why you do it. If you want to dance, I'm sure there are a million opportunities."

"It's not that simple for everyone," Ontario said, climbing off the machine as his laundry beeped. He didn't look at Blaine again until he'd transferred his many loads of clothes to several dryers. Blaine had carefully averted his eyes and pretended to scribble something in his notebook when he saw what was in the washing machine. "That's like me asking you why you don't write a song that will make it on the Billboard's Hot 100 List."

"I obviously don't know anything about…what you do." Blaine shook his head. How on Earth did he dig himself so deep into a hole?

"Why did you come, then?" The question caught Blaine off guard, and when he looked Ontario, he was staring him down with his bright blue eyes.

"It's a long story," Blaine said, mimicking the words that were said to him.

Ontario, however, wasn't as easily put off as he had been. "I have time," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to Blaine. "Fine," he agreed. "But if I tell you, you tell me your real name. Deal?" He held out his hand.

Ontario visibly hesitated, and Blaine could almost see the conflict raging in his mind. "Deal," he said finally, reaching out and taking Blaine's hand.

"Deal," Kurt said. He grasped the other man's hand. "You do realize that you haven't introduced yourself, right?"

From the look in those amber eyes, he hadn't realized it. He didn't think to use it as another bartering chip though, as Kurt had feared he would, but instead gave it freely. "Blaine. Blaine Anderson."

"Blaine Anderson," Kurt repeated softly. "Well, Blaine Anderson…I'm waiting."

Blaine looked down and began to pick at one of his shoelaces. "First of all…I'm gay."

Kurt couldn't help it when he smirked. "I figured that when I saw you in a gay strip bar."

A nervous laugh escaped Blaine's mouth, and Kurt smiled at how awkwardly charming the other boy was without even trying. "Right. I had a boyfriend type thing…sort of." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Let's just say things like that – relationships – don't really work out for me, ever. Apparently I'm a…'runner'."

"Ah, a runner," said Kurt knowledgably, nodding his head. "Tell me that you at least won some track medals back when that would have come in handy?"

"Funny," Blaine said dryly.

Kurt shrugged. His sense of humor was one that most people had to adjust to. "Seems to me like you just have to wait until you find someone who you don't want to run from," he told the other man.

"I'm twenty-three," Blaine said finally. "I'm done waiting. The last guy left the night I went to The Adonis. I don't know what I thought. Maybe I was under the impression that being there would erase everything bad that had happened."

Kurt rolled his eyes at Blaine's overdramatic statement, purposefully ignoring the sincere bit at the end, the part that sounded remarkably like something he would have said. "Oh, please. I'm twenty-three as well."

"Do you have your 'someone that you don't want to run away from', then?" Kurt didn't answer. "You can't tell me that you're actually happy?"

Kurt huffed obstinately. "What? Just because I'm a stripper, you don't think I could possibly be happier than you, sitting there wallowing and making yourself even more miserable?" Kurt's voice was louder than it needed to be. He tried to ignore the woman who covered her child's ears when he revealed his profession. He crossed his arms moodily but didn't move to leave. He didn't want to go, not really. He just didn't relish being preached at by someone like Blaine Anderson. Blaine Anderson was the first exciting thing that had happened to Kurt since his life had fallen apart. It just showed how truly pathetic his existence had become.

"So, are you going to tell me or what?" Blaine asked after a few minutes of silence.

"What?"

"Your name – you promised."

"Yes I did, and no I am not."

Blaine scoffed, and Kurt took pleasure from the fact that one sentence had produced such a response. "You're no fun," Blaine lamented with a pout.

"You're telling me," Kurt answered, tucking a loose thread from his coat under his cuff. He'd have to remember to trim it when he got home.

"You know, you're kind of pathetic," Blaine said. Something in his tone stopped Kurt from immediately jumping down his throat. He didn't say it as if it were an insult – merely an observation. Nonetheless, Blaine must have seen something in Kurt's face, because he continued. "Don't worry. I'm kind of pathetic, too."

"Now that's a surprise." The real surprise came when Blaine started to laugh. Kurt looked him over, slightly unnerved by the sudden burst of giggles. "Is there something wrong with you?"

"No," Blaine said, catching his breath. "It's just – it's funny, isn't it? I'm sitting here, having a conversation with an exotic dancer in a Laundromat about life and love, the lack of both, and all my social ineptitudes, and for some reason, it's actually the least lonely I've felt since…forever."

Kurt's expression softened. "Forever is a long time," he said softly.

"Yeah, well." Blaine cleared his throat, his moment of sincerity gone with the wave of his hand. "It just goes to show that real life sucks."

Kurt chewed his bottom lip. "If you're expecting me to spill my guts to you at the right moment, it isn't going to happen and this definitely isn't the right moment." Blaine just smiled impartially and shrugged. Kurt sat there, silently picking at his loose thread, until the timer on his dryers went off.

He hopped to his feet and hurriedly stuffed his things back into the bags they had once been in. His haste didn't prevent the mother who shielded her child's ears from leaning over to inspect his things nosily. When his things were bagged and he looked up to bid farewell to Blaine, he saw that his amber eyes were turned on the woman in a glare. The small gesture of defense touched Kurt's heart in the same way that it had when Blaine had defended him the first time they'd encountered each other.

"Remember when I came over to thank you?" Kurt asked.

Blaine was so quiet that Kurt thought he'd somehow not heard the question. When he was about to ask it again, Blaine gave a soft, "yes."

"You helped me when everyone else just stood and watched. Then when I came to thank you, you called me a person – you actually called me that, even though I was dressed absolutely ridiculously and worked where I do." Kurt turned up his eyes to Blaine's amber ones. "Stuff like that doesn't happen, not to me. From eight to four, I'm paid to be objectified and that really is all that happens. Sometimes, people just don't realize that we're human. We have…some of us have families, and we all have emotions and insecurities. Like you said that night, we're just people, but most others conveniently forget that. That's why I came to thank you – because you saw me as me before anything else."

Blaine's lips slowly turned up in a smile. "I thought you weren't going to spill your guts to me?"

"Those aren't my secrets; those are just facts that you should know," Kurt said simply. He offered up a small nod and turned to leave, hefting his bags behind him. When he was almost at the door, Kurt turned around, driven by an ulterior desire. To his mild surprise, Blaine hadn't turned his attention back to his notebook, but was staring at him.

Blaine seemed shocked that Kurt had turned around and caught him staring, but Kurt was no longer paying attention to anything but Blaine's eyes. "Kurt," he said, spitting the word out like it was hammering on the inside of his lips. "Kurt Hummel – that's my name."

The amber-eyed man smiled again. This time, it wasn't a half-smile, or a wry smile, but a real, genuine one. "Kurt Hummel," he repeated, trying the words out on his tongue. "Pleased to meet you…finally." Kurt looked at Blaine gratefully – though what he was grateful for, he didn't quite know. His eyebrow rose in curiosity when Blaine's expression became hesitant. "I don't suppose…Kurt Hummel…has a cell phone number? I-if you don't mind me calling you sometime…"

Kurt's heart soared. He'd just gotten asked for his number. He'd just gotten asked for his number from a cute, possibly emotionally unstable, somewhat conflicted, self-proclaimed flighty, but definitely handsome stranger. He opened his mouth to give it, but instinct reined him in. Nevertheless, he couldn't banish the flattered and exceedingly goofy smile from his face. "I have a feeling I'll see you soon," he said, suddenly sure of it. "Ask me again then, Blaine Anderson." Trying to make his smile as mysterious as possible, Kurt left the Laundromat. Collected as his outer appearance was, inside, his stomach was doing soaring acrobatics.

Blaine gaped after Ontario – Kurt – as he left. Why had he asked that? Why had he asked that? He hadn't been turned down, per se. In fact, Kurt had been smiling. Was it at the thought of them meeting again or the thought that once he left they'd never meet again and he wouldn't have his number to find him by? Blaine drastically hoped for the former.

He clutched his notebook to his heart, which was pounding furiously, and closed his eyes to calm his racing mind.

"Mommy?" said the little child to the woman Blaine had glared at before. "Why did that boy just ask the other boy for his number?"

The mother harrumphed mightily, not even attempting to hide her scorn. "Oh just shut up," Blaine said gleefully, face breaking out into a wide smile. "You live in New York for fuck's sake." Not listening to the retort she gave, he turned his pen to the notebook he held in his lap. For the first time in many, many weeks, inspiration had hit. He was hardly in an inspiring place, but, Blaine thought as he wrote ceaselessly, he was pretty sure that his muse hadn't been the fabric softener teddy bear.

Blaine lived the next week as if he was constantly waiting for something. Indeed, he was. He was anticipating the moment he and Kurt would meet again. He could always just go to The Adonis, but that seemed like forcing fate.

Just over a week after their impromptu Laundromat meeting, Blaine got a phone call. "Hello?" he answered eagerly.

"Blaine?"

His heart sunk when he didn't immediately recognize the voice, though he did immediately recognize that his hope had been irrational. He didn't know how Kurt would have possibly gotten his number. "Yes…"

"Blaine, man, it's good to hear your voice! It's me!"

"Oh, Me," Blaine said sarcastically. "Yeah, hello. Sorry Me, I didn't recognize your voice." He was met with silence. "Who the fuck is me?"

"Jeff, of course! We haven't seen each other in ages, but I'm living in New York for a while, and I thought I'd give you a call."

"Jeff," Blaine repeated slowly, memories of Dalton Academy flooding back. "Jeffrey Sterling, is that you? Oh my…"

"I know! You sound different too, Blaine – less Victorian gentleman, more…modern day New York!"

"I'm afraid so," Blaine said with a wry smile. "Are you in the city now?"

"I got here a few days ago. I would have called earlier, but I've been settling in."

"What's the occasion for the move?" Blaine inquired.

"It's a long story," Jeff replied with an infectious laugh that made Blaine smile at the receiver. "It's the type that's much more suited for an in-person telling. We need to catch up! What are you doing the rest of the day, Blaine? We should go out tonight."

"Sure!" Blaine was surprised with how quickly and enthusiastically he had agreed. "Why don't you come over to my apartment at around seven? We can go somewhere from here."

"Sounds great, man." Blaine gave Jeff directions, and hung up the phone, his thoughts almost distracted from Kurt.

"No," Kurt said flatly. "No, David."

"Oh, come on," Dave wheedled. "It's your first real night off in ages. You can't just sit around all night. You know, you're not going to be pretty enough to exotic dance forever, and then you'll be sorry that you didn't attempt to socialize because I'll be your only friend."

"You'll give me a management position," Kurt argued. He hadn't told Dave about Blaine; he didn't think that he'd be able to stand the taunting.

"That decides it," Dave said, throwing up his hands and dragging Kurt to his feet. "We're going out."

"Oh fine – fine," Kurt hissed, brushing David off of him. "Just let me change into something else quickly."

"Blaine! Nice place," Jeff commented as soon as Blaine opened the door.

"Jeff!" Blaine was slightly surprised that he was genuinely excited about his night out with his old friend. He wasn't even dreading going out into a crowded place. "You haven't changed a bit." Indeed, he hadn't. Jeff still had the same floppy blonde hair and wide, excited puppy dog eyes.

"You have," Jeff said, moving inside upon Blaine's urging. "You're a city boy, Blaine. I never would have guessed it. I'd have thought…well, I don't know what I thought! That you'd have a husband and ten little adopted children running around!"

That startled a laugh out of Blaine. "Was that the impression high school me gave off? Man, it was no wonder that I never had a boyfriend."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, but headed outside quickly. Blaine was busy locking his door, but he turned around when Jeff cleared his throat uncomfortably. He followed Jeff's gaze to Mr. Hillard, who had emerged from his room and was setting up a lawn chair just outside his door.

Blaine smiled and shook his head. "Hello, Mr. Hillard," Blaine said loudly.

"Blaine Anderson," replied the old man with a nod. "Mystery Blonde." He nodded at Jeff.

"Mr. Hillard, this is Jeff. We went to high school together." Blaine began to move slowly down the hall. Mr. Hillard would talk your ear off if you didn't move to leave proactively.

"High school," repeated the old man. "That was a long time ago."

"Not that long," muttered Jeff.

"Mystery Blonde, you're the first man Blaine has looked happy around in exactly five hundred and forty-seven days." Mr. Hillard nodded matter-of-factly.

"Okay," Blaine said quickly, grabbing Jeff's arm and dragging him along as he chuckled. "Goodbye, Mr. Hillard. Don't get in trouble for causing trouble again."

"Ah," breathed Jeff as they got into the elevator. "I love New York already."

"You're what?" Kurt asked bitterly.

"I'm sorry," Dave said, gathering his things. "Can you do me a favor? Don't leave yet. Go to the bar, have a few drinks, dance with a cute guy – just don't leave, not so soon."

"But you're leaving."

"Emergency," Dave said, brandishing around his cell phone. "Here, drinks are on me." He pushed a fifty dollar bill into Kurt's hand and began to shove him toward the bar. "I'll see you tomorrow, and you have to detail everything that happens from this moment forward."

"We aren't junior high school girls," Kurt called after his friend's retreating figure. Dave didn't turn around. "Great," Kurt muttered, turning and finishing the walk to the bar.

What on Earth was he supposed to drink? He'd only been legal for two years, and of that time, he hadn't exactly had anyone to go out with. "Um…" He said the first thing that came to mind. "Bacardi and Coke?" The bartender nodded shortly, and a drink was quickly mixed and pressed into his hand. Kurt took a hesitant sip, surprised by the smoothness of the drink.

After finishing his first, Kurt was feeling daring. Of course, at Julliard he'd been to the occasional wild party, but those were the types of occasions where one drank what was being passed around. Looking back on it, the community red cups were positively revolting. Sitting at a bar and ordering whatever he wanted on David's dime was new – and if he went over the fifty bucks, Kurt fully intended on coercing reimbursement. The Stoli Cranberry he tried next hit considerably harder, but after two of those, Kurt found that he quite liked the carefree feeling warming his chest; it wasn't a sensation his normal self was familiar with.

A liberal amount of drinks and many batted eyelashes later, Kurt was feeling considerably looser than he had – ever – and he beamed at the small crowd of women that had surrounded him. He found it hilarious when the one with the darkest hair began to trail her fingers up his leg – he might have forgotten to mention that he was gay.

Something she said caught his attention. "What?" Kurt asked, looking up at the dark-haired girl that had spoken.

"I said, it's refreshing that you don't seem to feel the need to go rub up against girls on the dance floor," she repeated.

"It's true," parroted one of her friends.

Kurt took a moment to process that before breaking out into giggles. "Dancing," he gasped. "Oh, dancing. Dance, dancing, dance, I can dance. Oh, you have no idea."

The first woman's eyebrow rose. "Oh? Is that some sort of challenge?"

"A challenge?" Kurt asked excitedly, beginning to bounce in his seat. "Oh, yes, let's do that! Let's have a dance-off!" There was no doubt in his self-assured intoxicated mind that he would win. He downed the rest of his drink and slammed the glass down harder than he had intended. "I'm ready! Me first!"

"Just warning you," she purred as she stood. "I'm unexpectedly flexible."

Kurt snickered. "That's nice, are you trying out for the Olympics?" He ignored her confused expression and clamored up onto the nearest table. Immediately, cat calls began to ring out through the club. Ontario was on the stage again.

"Holy shit," Jeff breathed, looking around at the combination restaurant/nightclub Blaine had taken them to. "This is…wow."

Blaine chuckled at his friend's stupefaction. "I'd forgotten how tame Ohio is," he said, sitting at a table.

"You've been in New York too long," Jeff said.

"No," Blaine said, shaking his head. "It's better here."

"I'll bet." Jeff's voice was rueful. Blaine knew that he was thinking about what happened after graduation, but he mercifully didn't mention it.

"So, why're you here, Jeff?" Blaine asked, genuinely curious.

Jeff's face lit up. He quickly took out his wallet and opened it up. Just inside, Blaine saw a picture of his friend with his arm around the shoulders of a lovely, olive-skinned woman.

"Isn't that…?" Blaine started to ask.

"Victoria Peterson," Jeff finished with a chuckle. "Wes' twin sister, yeah. We're engaged."

Blaine joined in on Jeff's laughter a moment later. "I can't believe it," he said, rubbing his side. He hadn't been this carefree since his days at Dalton. "Well, Jeff, she's beautiful and wonderful, from what I remember. Congratulations."

"Thank you," Jeff replied, pocketing his wallet. "She moved up here for college, so I decided to join her for a while. It'll give me some time to settle in and get used to life in the big city. Speaking of life in the big city, what have you been doing up here for the past five years?"

Blaine's face fell slightly. What had he been doing? When a riot of catcalls came from somewhere behind him, Blaine took the opportunity to side-step Jeff's question by seeking the source.

"Someone's dancing!" Jeff exclaimed, grinning at the spectacle.

"They are," Blaine muttered. The person's back was turned toward him, and Blaine's eyes were immediately drawn to the near-impossible movements of his hips.

"Wow, he can move," Jeff said, craning to get a better look. "I need to step up my game if I'm going to live here. I…Blaine?"

But Blaine's attention was no longer on Jeff. The man had turned around. When he'd recognized the tabletop-dancer's face, Blaine had sprung to his feet. Kurt was obviously hammered. His shirt was half-off and he was twirling his jacket around teasingly – like he was doing a show.

"Kurt!" The call came louder and more sharply than he'd intended.

As far away as he was, Kurt's head turned up. He looked at Blaine blankly for a few seconds before his face lit up in a wide smile of recognition. "Blaine," Kurt called. He stumbled off the table to disappointed pleas from both men and women alike.

"You two know each other?" Jeff asked wonderingly as Kurt sashayed up to the pair. Blaine was too shocked to answer.

"Blaine Anderson, dance with me," Kurt pleaded, a pout pulling at his wide lips. His fists knotted in the front of Blaine's jacket and he tried to tug the shorter man closer.

Blaine pried Kurt's hands away, trying to ignore the part of him that wanted to pull Kurt on the dance floor and hold him close. "You are exceedingly drunk," Blaine pointed out. Kurt just giggled. Even in the dim light of the club, Blaine could see how Kurt's skin and hair seemed to shimmer. "What is on you?"

"What's on you?" Kurt returned nonsensically, hand snaking around Blaine's neck to bury itself in the hairs at the base of his head.

"He is so smashed!" Jeff said gleefully.

"Glad you're getting amusement out of it," Blaine said. His disapproving grimace turned into a reluctant smile in the light of Jeff's infectious grin. "Shit, I have to get him out of here before he embarrasses himself further."

"But I don't want to go," Kurt whined, tugging sharply on Blaine's lapel.

"I'm sorry about this," Blaine apologized to Jeff, ignoring Kurt. He pushed away the taller boy's hand where he had walked his fingers up Blaine's chest and began fiddling with the top hem of his shirt. "You can stay, if you want."

"No way." Jeff shook his head. "Option Two will be much more amusing."

Blaine shook his head indulgently and began to help Kurt out of the club, with Jeff's assistance. "Where's your apartment?" Blaine asked Kurt once they were in the cab.

Kurt didn't reply immediately. He was staring out the window watching the lights stream by. "New York," he finally said.

"That's helpful," Blaine said, elbowing Jeff as the blonde began to snicker. "Where in New York?"

"New York City."

"Great," Blaine muttered. "My place it is."

"I'd better continue on to Victoria's," Jeff said when the cab stopped outside Blaine's apartment. "I'll see you again soon, Blaine!"

Blaine nodded at his friend and waved as the cab pulled away. He felt something on his shoulder and he looked around to see that Kurt had rested his chin there. "Who was that?"

"A friend from high school," Blaine replied, pulling away from Kurt and walking across the sidewalk.

"Boyfriend?"

Blaine turned to look at Kurt, who was glaring at him for a reason he couldn't begin to comprehend. "I already told you that I don't have a boyfriend, Kurt."

"Oh yeah." Kurt blinked heavily. "Blaine?"

"Yes?"

"I think I'm going to throw up." A few moments later, Kurt was bent over expelling his toxins and Blaine was gently rubbing circles onto his back.

"Uh, I hate stomachs," Kurt moaned as the elevator rose to Blaine's floor.

"Are you sure you don't hate alcohol?" Blaine asked, finding amusement in the situation in spite of himself.

"If I didn't have a stomach, the alcohol wouldn't have made me puke," Kurt lamented.

"That makes perfect sense," Blaine said indulgently. Kurt stumbled, and Blaine reached out to steady him. When he was right on his feet, Blaine didn't move his hands away. After all, he could so easily fall again – that was the only reason.

"Leaving with one boy and coming back with another," Mr. Hillard said as Blaine passed him. "You've been naughty, naughty, Blaine Anderson. Where'd that nice Mystery Blonde go?"

"Home to his fiancé," Blaine answered.

Mr. Hillard's face fell. "Oh…well this one is heavily intoxicated. I hope you don't plan on taking advantage of that poor boy, Blaine Anderson."

"No, I'm detoxicated," Kurt retorted, sticking his nose in the air. "Really, I detoxicated myself all over the sidewalk outside."

"Goodnight, Mr. Hillard," Blaine called quickly, before Mr. Hillard could reply and engage Kurt in a battle of crazy. In the light, Kurt was even more of a mess. "Look at you," Blaine muttered.

He'd straightened out Kurt's shirt, but it was still rumpled, and several of the buttons were mismatched. His hair was in complete disarray, and he had copious amounts of glitter and glow-stick filler spattered all over him. "I'm pretty, right?" Kurt asked, leaning too close to Blaine.

"You look like shit," Blaine said shortly. "You look like you fucked a pixie." Kurt giggled. "Come on, I'll wash this stuff off you." He led Kurt to the bathroom and sat him down on the closed toilet while he turned on the shower.

"Can you handle this?" Blaine asked uncertainly. "The shower, I mean? Can I trust you not to drown?"

"Why?" Kurt asked, already looking pleased with himself for a joke he hadn't yet told. "Is the ship sinking?"

Blaine's eyes lifted and he contemplated the ceiling. He could, theoretically, get in the shower with Kurt. They could just leave their underclothes on; it wouldn't be a big deal. That way, he'd be sure that Kurt didn't drown and he could get that atrocious glitter off the poor man.

"Come on." Blaine urged Kurt to his feet and began taking off his layers.

"Blaine," said Kurt amidst giggles – he'd obviously recovered from being violently sick. "Buy me a drink first! You're trying to undress me and we haven't even been on a date yet." His fingers reached Blaine's shirt collar again and he began tugging.

"I'm just getting you in the shower." In spite of his words, Kurt erupted in giggles when Blaine's hands traveled down and unhooked the button of his jeans. Calm down, Blaine, he told himself. It's just a button. It was just a button, and that was just a zipper. Pants were pants, and they had to get off for the shower. Any mild satisfaction he might have gotten from the action of stripping Kurt down to his boxer-briefs was completely tertiary to his desires to see the man cleaned up, and make sure there was no glitter to rub off on his sheets when Kurt went to sleep later.

He helped Kurt into the shower. Once he was satisfied that he could manage for five seconds, Blaine undressed to his own underwear. "I'm just helping him take a shower," Blaine whispered out-loud. "Nothing more to it." Nonetheless, he had to gulp down something very like desire when he pulled back the shower curtain and saw Kurt leaning against the shower wall. His eyes were closed, and little beads of water were caught in his lashes. Water poured down his pale body in rivulets, and made what little clothing he had left cling to him wetly. His hair was haphazardly ruffled. He looked beautiful, and Blaine couldn't help but stare.

"I'm tired." Kurt's voice brought Blaine out of his reverie.

"I know," Blaine said, grabbing a loofa and his bottle of body wash. "This won't take long." He leaned Kurt off the wall and began running the loofa over his pale shoulders. After only a few seconds, Blaine had to stop and squeeze his eyes closed tightly. "Jesus fuck," Blaine muttered, wiping his already sweaty forehead on his arm.

"Don't stop," Kurt whispered. Blaine opened his eyes slowly, in time to see Kurt lean back into the circle of his arms. "It feels nice."

Blaine froze as Kurt's back pressed against his chest. Their skin pressed hotly together and Blaine's heart rate skyrocketed. Kurt's head leaned backward on his shoulder, exposing the pale, tender expanse of skin that was Kurt's neck.

"Small dead animals," Blaine muttered with resolve. He closed his eyes as he moved his arms around Kurt's body to wash his chest, which had somehow also accumulated glitter. If he'd been thinking logically, he could have flipped him around instead, but rationale had fled Blaine's mind. "Crying old people. Titanic. Floods. Forest fires. World hunger." All the morbid things he could think of were not helping Blaine; he was become quickly and strongly turned on by the mere feeling of Kurt's bare body pressed against his.

He sighed in relief when Kurt mumbled something and leaned up. Blaine's hand was shaking as he brought it upward to gently scrub the remaining glitter off of Kurt's face, where it was most populous. Kurt's bright blue eyes opened and stared at Blaine.

"I don't want to get soap in your eyes," Blaine said softly, still trying to drown his inappropriate lustful thoughts.

"We're wearing the same underwear." Of all the responses in the world, Blaine had least expected that one. "Calvin Klein, except mine are grey and yours are blue."

Blaine's eyes flicked downward. He'd known he was half-hard, but the fact that Kurt had somehow had an opportunity to examine their underwear meant that he had probably seen it too.

"Blaine Anderson," Kurt whispered. His hands trailed up Blaine's arms, making the other man's amber eyes go wide. Half-under the running showerhead, steam continued to flower all around them, fogging the mirrors and windows and making it seem to Blaine as if he were dreaming. "You're charming, and awkward, and adorable."

"T-thank you." The response might have been the stupidest one in the world, but coherent thought had abandoned Blaine long ago. Kurt was still advancing toward him, and soon Blaine was the one leaning back on the shower wall. "Oh…oh my God." His breath hitched as Kurt leaned in, his lips barely tracing over Blaine's neck.

In flailing motions, Blaine skittered to the side and tossed open the shower curtain. Careless of being dripping wet, he hopped out of the shower and turned to disguise what had become a certifiable hard on. He snatched a towel and tied it around his waist, hiding its obviousness from view.

Working in quick motions, he turned off the water and threw several fluffy towels over Kurt. Now a bundle, Kurt teetered along, helped by Blaine, to his bed. "Pajamas," Blaine muttered absently, dodging around the room and eventually finding pajama pants. "You can change in here, I'll be back in…okay. I'll be back."

Leaving Kurt to find his way into the pants on his own, Blaine made fast tracks back to the bathroom to take care of his need. Being a Good Samaritan had been a bad idea. Elphaba was absolutely right – his road of good intentions led where such roads always lead. That was the last time he was being helpful. He'd only been trying to help wash Kurt up so he didn't look like the male stripper version of Tinkerbelle. He knew that he hadn't ended up getting more than half the glitter off, but he had needed to get out of there. The sight of Kurt, soaking wet and almost completely bare had affected him more than he had anticipated, and Blaine had even mentally prepared for it to do so to some degree.

He tried not to moan too loudly as he took care of his business, but his hands shook as he cleaned himself up. The lingering thought of what had caused him to orgasm – Kurt, hot, wet, naked, and now alone in his bed – would pretty much be a reality in two minutes and yet Blaine immediately felt guilty for having gotten off at the thought of Kurt in such a way. The man had thanked him multiple times for not objectifying him, and here he was doing just that. Though Kurt didn't know about what had just happened, Blaine secretly vowed to somehow make it up to him.

He'd had the presence of mind to bring pajamas with him to the bathroom, so Blaine slipped them on and carefully tiptoed to his own room. The lights were off, as he'd left them, and Kurt was on top of the covers in Blaine's pajamas. His face was pressed against the pillow and his eyes were closed.

Carefully, Blaine advanced toward the bed and coaxed the sheets out from under Kurt and on top of him instead. He looked at his sleeping face, which was as pale and fragile as that of an angel. "Goodnight Kurt." Before sense could stop him, Blaine had leaned down and touched his lips lightly to Kurt's cheek.

"Blaine?" Kurt's voice stopped him just before he reached the doorframe. "Blaine, is that you?"

"Yes, Kurt." Blaine's lips twitched up in a soft smile. "It's just me. You can go back to sleep. I'll be in the living room if you need me."

"Don't leave." It was so quiet that Blaine thought he'd imagined the words until Kurt said them again: "Don't leave me, please. Can you stay with me?"

Blaine reached up and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. Sleep in the same bed as Kurt? Right now? Well…Kurt was asking, and Blaine would just be doing him a favor if he obliged. He was probably afraid to sleep alone in a strange room, in a strange house. "Of course I won't leave," Blaine said, unnerved by the softness held in his tone. "I can stay with you."

Kurt inched over to one side of the bed and Blaine carefully lowered himself onto the other side. "Goodnight, Blaine," Kurt breathed quietly. One of his hands reached out and gently brushed against Blaine's.

"…Goodnight, Kurt." He'd fought enough with his willpower for one night. Finally giving in to the smallest impulse, Blaine turned up his hand to catch Kurt's fingers with his own. With their interlocked fingers resting between them, the two men fell into a deep sleep.

A/N: Yay for sexy glittery showers! Um, you guys like? Yay or nay? Feel free to leave comments or suggestions or what have you :D

Thanks for reading!