Kurt only ends up going to Scandals a total of eight times – once every week for the entire holidays – but every single time, B manages to make it memorable.

The first two times, it's just his voice and words and lips, saying smarter things than his leather jacket and cigarettes give off; it's his hair and hands, somehow perfectly soft even though B refuses to talk about his life outside Scandals, let alone his showering/moisturising routine.

The third time, Kurt gets drunk enough to touch his hair, his face, and B gets drunk enough to have Kurt up against his car, or Kurt's car – he can't remember, all he can remember is the hot, wet press of B's mouth against his, on his neck, making him shiver and gasp and slump back on the solid metal until he managed to get back his breath for a second, shake his head.

B stays there for a second, breathing warm air on his neck, before muttering up to you and pushing off the car, walking back into the bar. Kurt calls Mercedes to drive him home (one of Tina's many backup plans – god forbid if his Dad found out) and in the fifteen minutes he has to wait, B comes back out with another guy. They walk straight past him, laughing loudly, walk to one of the many cars littering the area, and Kurt shuts his eyes after that but he can't really shut out the moaning that echoes through the car park.

The fourth time, Kurt drives there, is two feet away from the door when he decides that he's not up for it tonight. He sits in his car for what seems like hours before he drives away.

The fifth time, Kurt makes himself go inside. B's surprised, and he buys him another Mojito, and they find a corner and talk about Lady Gaga's discography of wonderful madness until Kurt can feel his limbs growing loose. B walks him back to his car, such a gentleman, and the five-second kiss he gives him leaves him reeling harder than he thought boys could reel.

The sixth time, they drink rum and coke, and talk about birds and flying and how far up the sky goes, and B teaches him all the dirty words he knows in French, and Kurt corrects his pronunciation. B kisses him harder, and Kurt knows that it's his car this time, and he kisses back, rubs back up, doesn't let himself worry. This is fun, remember?

*

Blaine Anderson's been to Scandals too many times to count.

It's so easy to shed the tie and the pearly whites, wash out the preppy hair gel that he's kind of addicted to, shove on the jacket and just drive until he loses himself. Here, he doesn't get attached, doesn't think, doesn't have to think – he just drinks until he falls over, or falls on someone, and then he wakes up hours later in his car, aching in all the worst places and sweaty but so fucking alive it almost makes him cry to go back to Dalton.

He starts counting the first time he sees Kurt Hummel. The seventh time, Blaine almost whimpers out loud when he walks in; the boy's too pretty for Scandals, too pretty for anywhere, and Blaine's doing everything he can not to get attached but it's hard when Kurt talks intelligent-sass with that voice like birdsong, looks at Blaine like he's some hot, mysterious bad-boy enigma and lets out those high, breathy sighs he probably can't even hear and it's all Blaine can do not to rip off his clothes right there and kiss him back like he's made of oxygen.

This isn't fun. This is dangerous.

*

The eighth time, Kurt knows that it'll be the last. It's the day before New Years Eve, and he comes earlier than usual. B meets him at his car, holds up a bottle of some fruity wine and raises his eyebrows.

“It's too expensive for Scandals,” B says, eyeing Kurt's car, eyeing Kurt.

Kurt stares back, thinks for a second, unlocks his car. “Totally,” he says, stepping back inside. They sit in the back, and B was courteous/cheesy enough to buy some plastic champagne glasses, and they pre-toast to the new year and talk about whatever comes rolling off the other one's tongue.

“So,” Kurt says, swallowing, “school starts back up soon.”

B laughs, breathy and sarcastic and a little angry, and drains the rest of his wine. “Indeed.”

“I – just – with homework and having to go places and stuff,” Kurt splutters, “I – I don't know when I'll be back.”

B freezes, in the middle of un-bottling the wine again – he's only gotten through three, which Kurt has kind of accepted as a blessing – and stares at nothing.

“Oh,” he says, softly, no snark, no laugh, and Kurt doesn't know what to say. B takes Kurt's half-filled glass (as great as it is, he's barely touched any) and pours it all into his mouth like it's a shot, drops his head back down as he swallows, and Kurt's always avoided looking at his neck but it's two feet away right now so he couldn't care less.

“Yeah,” Kurt says awkwardly, half-smiling. Blaine takes their empty glasses, and the wine, and puts them in the front seat, catches Kurt's eye. His eyes are like brown sugar and hazelnuts, and Kurt's never really noticed before but he's noticing an awful lot of things right now. Like how B's looking at him, how he's feeling hot and flustered even though it's the coldest night of the holidays so far, how quickly his jeans got so tight.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” B says, and Kurt can't bring himself to blink.

“Is that all?” Kurt breathes out, surprised by his own words. He's more surprised when B's on him in a second, groping his shirt and hips and ass and kissing, kissing like Kurt's made of oxygen. B's kisses reach his neck, hands making short work of his shirt buttons.

“I want to kiss you,” he mutters, “everywhere.”

Kurt sighs, high and breathy, and paws the back of B's shirt, anywhere he can reach.

You don't even know his name!

B moans, kissing and sucking down his chest, his hands finally reaching Kurt's crotch, reaching for his zipper. Kurt whimpers.

I don't care.

Around three seconds pass before Kurt's pants are around his thighs, and so are B's hands, and then they're on his hips and he's kissing back up to his neck, kisses him on the mouth, long and hard and bites Kurt's lip when he pulls away, moves to his ear and god, he's so warm.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” B says, stroking the top of his hip with his thumb as he waits.

“I – yes,” Kurt groans, “please-”

B kisses him again, and Kurt kisses back, and then he's gasping because there's a hand on his cock, warm and wet and slippery and Kurt's thrusting upwards as B strokes, whispers in his ear.

“God, you're so hot like this,” he says, squeezing Kurt's cock, “so fucking pretty.”

Kurt moans at that, and B slows his strokes, starts sucking on his neck in time with them. Kurt can feel his heart trying to break his ribcage.

“Yeah,” B pants, “god, moan for me, Kurt.” Kurt moans, gasps at the next squeeze.

“Do you want to come?” B asks, quickening his strokes again, moving back up to mutter hotly in Kurt's ear. “Do you want me to make you come? Mess up your pretty little car and your clothes?” Kurt can feel every nerve in his body tensing as B speaks, licks his earlobe. “Do you wanna come down my throat, baby?”

Kurt cries out, spilling over his jeans and B's shirt as he milks Kurt through the shockwave, kisses back up to his mouth and kisses him without breathing. There's a pack of tissues on the floor, thank god, so they don't get as sticky as they could have, and once their clothes are back on Kurt really can't be bothered to stop kissing him, so he doesn't.

They probably lie there for hours before Kurt remembers where he is, what he's done, who he is, who B is.

Kurt hesitates, hates himself. “I should probably go.”

A beat. “I see.” No emotion, no snark, no laugh, and everything is cold.

Kurt sighs, refuses to let himself cry. They don't speak as B un-moulds himself from Kurt, sits, grabs the wine and exits the car. He stands there for a second before walking away, and Kurt doesn't let himself look after him. He swipes the plastic champagne glasses to the floor, takes a breath and starts his car.

You don't even know his name.

*

Tina's flight gets back in just in time for New Years Eve, and the first thing she does is call Kurt.

“Jesus Christ it's so hot over there,” she says, and Kurt can hear her grinning, “a-and the animals are so weird but they're all so pretty and there's this one that just jumps around, like, it cannot physically walk-”

“-you mean a kangaroo?”

“God, what's in a name?” Tina asks. “Kangaroo does not even begin to describe how great the real thing is.”

Kurt closes his eyes, brushes his thoughts away.

What's in a name?

“God, I can't wait to see you,” Tina says, “you have to wait to run off to Dalton so I can give you a proper goodbye.”

“Tina, we leave tomorrow,” Kurt says.

“Hey, I can cut corners,” Tina says, and the line goes dead.

*

Blaine Anderson sits alone in his dorm room, the wine bottle half-full, staring into the darkness. It's not even nine-thirty yet, and he knows it won't last him until the New Year. He wishes it would.

Nothing ever does.

*

Tina brings a bottle of champagne, and Kurt smiles, politely declines; he's done enough drinking this holidays. She stays until almost midnight, when Kurt makes her go home, get some sleep.

11:55

Kurt glances at the clock, sighs to himself, picks up one of the plastic champagne glasses he'd recovered from his car. It still smells like the fruit-wine. He should probably throw it out soon; it'll start to stink. He carries it over to his window, opens it, looks out into the night. It's colder than he expected.

Kurt hesitates, and throws the glass out the window. He doesn't watch it fall.