The sun had barely set before Tina rushed him outside, glancing behind herself before pushing him into a chair and pulling out a small container, reaching inside and-

“A muffin?” Kurt asks, squinting at her. “You could have just waited until we cut the cake.”

“But that would've taken too long,” Tina whines, “and besides, I have to leave at ten.”

“Since when?”

Tina sits down across from him, pulling out a small candle and squashing it into the middle of the muffin. “Since Mike's parents invited themselves to New York for the weekend, and he agreed to stay at home to finish homework, and they're leaving at nine-thirty, and-”

“-are you ditching my birthday to go fuck your boyfriend?”

Tina shakes her head, staring at the burnt-thick top of the muffin.

“Then what are you doing?” Kurt asks, annoyed. He knows that it's not every day that you get to spend a weekend alone with your boyfriend – for him, it's never, don't even go there – but you don't turn seventeen every day either. The top of the muffin bounces back into shape as Tina pulls the candle away, and she sighs.

“Fuck this.”

She reaches into her bag, pulls out a box of matches, lights the candle and holds it out to Kurt, the flame glowing up the night like a flare in the Atlantic. Kurt blinks at it. Tina hangs her head, tutting, like he's supposed to know what to do. “Make a wish, Kurt.”

Oh.

“Like what?” He says. “How about,” he clears his throat, “I wish Tina would stay for my party because this is the last time I'm going to get to see her for months because she's being stupid and going to Australia for the entire holidays?”

“You wish,” she scoffs, “you're Skyping me every day, idiot.” She holds the candle out further. “Quick, before my hands burn off from your stupid, non-existent wish-making skills.”

“Why are you ditching me?”

“I'm not, pleaseblowoutthecandlealready.”

Kurt sighs, closes, opens his eyes, blows out the candle.

“Was it a good one?”

Kurt stares at her. Tina shakes her candle hand before placing it on the table between them.

“I do feel bad about ditching you, so,” she rummages in her bag for a second, pulls out a small leather rectangle, slides it across to him like some multi-millionaire, secret-agent bribe, “this should help keep you entertained for the next few months.”

Kurt stares at her, then at the rectangle. “Will it explode?” You can never be too wary of these things around Tina. “I like this shirt, I don't want stains on it.”

“No,” Tina smirks, looking away, “but you might.”

Kurt glares for a second, slides the leather square forward and flips it open. He stares down for a too-long second before flipping it shut, pushing it back.

“No way.”

“Come on,” Tina pleads, turning to face him, throwing her body over the table. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to get a hold of one of these?”

“A fake I.D.? Tina,” he slides it back to himself, flips it over again, glances at the picture, the fake age, birthday, expiration date, ugh. “Do you really think I look nineteen?”

“You could if you had this,” she says, eyes wide and bright as fireworks, “and you do.”

“I – I don't go out, I wouldn't know what to do.”

“No worries – I found a gay bar!” Tina squeals in the back of her throat.

“What?”

“Scandals. It's not that far at all from here, and they don't really care about who goes in and out.” She waggles her eyebrows. “In and out. Heh.”

Kurt huffs. “I can't go to a gay bar, Tina.”

“But you have to,” she says, “because you have to tell me all about the gay bar.” He goes to reply but Tina shushes him, reaches forward, grabs his hands. Kurt groans to himself, slumps into his chair.

“Please do it at least once, Kurt,” she begs. “This is the last holidays we'll really be able to spend time together.” She faceplants the table, her shoulders relaxing, and turns her head to the side. “It's not like I won't be able to see you once you start at Dalton, but it'll be harder.”

“Tina-”

“-Kurt,” she says, sharp, “go have fun.” A moment passes. “After the last couple of months with Karovfsky, you deserve it.”

They sit there in silence for the next few minutes, until Tina's phone pings. “It's almost ten,” she groans, “I should probably go back inside.”

Kurt nods, eyes still closed. “I'll be there in a second.” He waits until he hears her footsteps clack off into the house again, opens his eyes.

The fake I.D. is still there, and he huffs to himself, picks it up.

“You're not exactly a boyfriend,” he mutters.

He has all holidays to get caught up on Dalton's curriculum, to pack, to cherish his room and the freedom to wear whatever he wants for two months, he doesn't have time to go to a gay bar. Even if it's only once.

He's not going.

*

Scandals is cleaner than he expected.

Tina had been right; they didn't care about their patrons. The guy monitoring the door had barely glanced at Kurt's ID before he waved him in, and he feels kind of underwhelmed. Some one-hit-wonder from the 80s is playing from the stereo, and everyone around him looks over the age of at least thirty; there's a pool table off to the side, and the overall fashion sense of the place seems more Dad-at-a-barbeque than gay-bar-superstar. Kurt's regretting this already. He orders a beer (it's the only drink he knows) and sits on one of the stools to wait for it. Two minutes and a few moments of eye contact with some guys Kurt's less than comfortable thinking about, he can tell from the smell alone that it wasn't worth the five dollars. He takes a sip, tries not to retch.

“Don't choke.”

Kurt pauses, manages to swallow the gulp in his mouth and sets his glass down. “Wasn't planning on it,” he replies, before he can stop himself.

He hears a laugh. “One doesn't normally plan choking.” The guy's voice is low, smoky and sweet at the same time. The stool next to his moves, and there's a figure in his peripheral vision. A moment passes before the guy reaches across, takes Kurt's glass and slides it into his other hand. Kurt scoffs, turns so he can glare properly and only just manages to stop his mouth dropping open; this guy is gorgeous. Messy, curly hair, white-glowing teeth, full, lush lips, and his eyes, god – they're like sparkling whiskey, glinting in the low light of the bar, mischievous and bright. The guy catches his eye, winks at him, raises Kurt's glass in a toast and lifts it to his lips.

“Is this the general etiquette for gay bars,” Kurt says, clearing his throat, “or are you just being rude?”

The guy shuts his eyes as he drinks, tilting his head back, his throat bobbing with every gulp. He drains the entire glass in what seems like seconds, places it back on the bar, lets out a high-breathy sigh as his shoulders sink.

“I don't really like to think of it as rudeness,” he says, turning to Kurt.

“Then what do you think of it as?” Kurt scoffs, “you stole my drink, how is that not-”

“-you weren't going to drink it.” The guy says. “I wouldn't call that anything but helpful.”

“You – you don't know whether or not I was going to drink it,” Kurt splutters, indignant; what's with this guy's nerve? He's treading the thin line between charming and rude, and Kurt really doesn't know what to think. “Either way, I bought it.”

“Oh gosh, really?” The guy says, like it's some great realization, “how rude of me.” A moment passes, and he stares at Kurt, licks across his lips to catch the last few drops of Kurt's stolen beer. Kurt swallows. A moment passes.

“Seriously,” Kurt says, quickly, “you don't even know me-”

“-and that gives me two incredibly substantial reasons,” the guy interrupts, “to buy you a drink.” He grins again, easier, and turns back on his stool, waves over the bartender as Kurt stares, tries to think. He opens his mouth, closes it again.

“You can call me B.” B smiles at the bartender, places down a twenty and orders two of something Kurt's never even heard of before. A moment passes.

“Really?” Kurt scoffs. “You can't even come up with a whole fake name?” He really could have bought another drink on his own. He really shouldn't be letting this guy who won't even tell Kurt his name buy him a drink.

“I could say the same for you, Kurt Hummel.”

Kurt freezes. “Excuse me?”

“I have to say, it looks convincing enough,” B says, smirking, pulling out a small leather rectangle from his pocket, holding it up and raising an eyebrow. Kurt pats his own pockets, his eyes widening; his ID is gone.

“Convincing enough?” Kurt echoes, his nerves freezing up.

“For a fake,” B mutters.

“Excuse me?” Kurt repeats, a little too fast.

“Come on,” B deadpans, “you don't know the first thing about drinking.”

“Why would you think that?” Kurt says, his chest tightening. “And what does that even have to do with anything?”

“The first thing you ordered was a beer,” B replies.

“Which you drank.”

“No self-respecting, adult gay man drinks beer,” B says, “when he can drink something else.” As if on cue, the other two drinks arrive, and he passes one to Kurt. He pauses, taking the second drink cautiously.

“Why did you steal it, then?” He asks, after a moment, staring down at his drink; he can see at least five different shades of green, and the bitter-sharp scent of mint wafts up from the glass.

“Well,” B laughs, “I didn't have a choice.”

Kurt narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

B grins. “How else was I supposed to start talking to you?”

“I don't know, by asking?” Kurt says. “Saying hello?”

“Like I said,” B counters, “this way, I have two reasons to buy you a drink.” A beat. “A good drink.”

“You could have just bought me one,” Kurt scoffs, “if you were really that desperate.”

“See, but now you have a reason to drink it,” B says, voice growing lower. He knocks his glass against Kurt's, raises it in another toast, and swallows it in one gulp.

Kurt eyes his own. “Maybe I don't,” he says, slowly spinning the glass in his fingers. B raises an eyebrow, and a beat passes while they stare at each other.

“Why are you here tonight, Kurt?” B asks. Kurt can't detect any snark in his voice, any clue as to what he's thinking. Kurt pauses, thinks.

“It's my last holidays before my senior year,” Kurt says, finally, rubbing his fingers along the side of his glass to un-fog it. “My friends wanted me to have – have fun, before all the stress starts in a month or so.”

B nods. “And are you having fun?” He asks, quietly, observing. “Is Scandals all it's cracked up to be?”

“Could be worse,” Kurt shrugs. “It's alright.”

B nods again, smiling. “But is it fun?” He asks, eyes glinting. “Was it worth coming all the way out here, going to all that trouble and not even having one good drink?”

Kurt blinks. “You can't pressure me into-”

“-I know,” B says, looking a little apologetic, but it fades as soon as it comes. “I'm not trying to.”

A moment passes.

“I'm just saying,” he says, “why go to all this trouble and stop now?”

Kurt pauses, starts spinning his glass again. “You could be dangerous,” he says, biting his bottom lip.

“Life is dangerous,” B says. Kurt swallows, avoiding his eyes.

“You might want to seduce me into the back of your car,” Kurt says, “and, I don't know, have your wicked way with me.”

“Who says that I don't?” B asks, no hesitation, low and sweet and smoky again. Kurt raises an eyebrow, his heart jumping, and B keeps his gaze. Kurt pauses, drinks; it tastes like peppermint and sweetness and lime, burning around the edges of his mouth. He licks his lips.

“So?” B asks. “Is it good?”

Kurt pauses. “It's alright.”

“Because you would totally know,” B says, raises his ID again, slides it back across the bar to Kurt.

“Is it really that obvious?” Kurt asks, as subtly as he can, sliding it back into his pocket.

“God, Kurt,” B says, “nobody cares about age in here.” He grins at Kurt, purposely lets his gaze drop to his lips, pulls it back up. He stands up from his stool, walks closer, leans down to whisper in his ear. “It's all about having fun, y'know?”

You don't even know his name.

“If you're still up for a little fun,” B says, “I'll be here tomorrow night.”