Something happier.

He couldn't speak for the rest of the people he'd spent time with at parties, but it was definitely true for himself. He assumed it was the case for the rest of the party-goers as well. Why else go? Why else dance the night away if it didn't make them happy? If it didn't make them feel freer than they could under other circumstances? If it didn't let them let go of the entire world around them and just-...just be? No papers, no lectures, no exams, no nightmares, no mistakes, just three chords and a cup pressed into his hand...

There was something about being able to lose himself in sensations - in the feeling of the music pulsing through the floor and up through his shoes, in the dull burn of liquor that lingered in his throat, in the jealous glares boring into the back of his head as he danced with the prettiest girl in the room...something about the combination of all those things left him with a sense of being so completely right. Why wouldn't that feeling be enough to make all people happy?

But tonight was different. He wasn't big man on campus anymore, the senior and leader of almost every club a music major might be caught dead in. He wasn't on top this time, and the uncertainty left him with a restlessness he couldn't quite shake.

He'd made the choice, he reasoned to himself as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair wouldn't stay down the way it as supposed to, and tonight of all nights was not when he wanted people to become acquainted with the Medusa-lookalike on top of his head. His first partyas a graduate student was a time to show his best possible self.

It could have been worse, he reminded himself. He could be learning a new area at the same time he was meeting a new student body. At least he knew Stanford and its of-campus areas like the back of his hand. He'd found his way home so many times and from so many parts of town that he didn't have to worry about any of that. He would stumble home and wake up safely in his bed tomorrow afternoon...or, if the night went as well as it often did, he would wake up safely in someone else's bed and walk home around lunchtime.

...Maybe it didn't happen often, but often enough. But maybe there would be a difference between college and a masters program that would increase his odds.

...Did he really want there to be a difference? College had been pretty great, especially senior year. And now that the Mendicants weren't making him leave because he was the only guy left on campus who had more than eight months' experience with a cappella, he still had people he knew around. Maybe, with a little luck, this year would be just like last year but with a few new people.

Smoothing his hair finally into place, Blaine smiled at his reflection. With the few extra minutes he'd taken to do his hair, combined with the time he'd taken to select just the right bowtie for his first party as a graduate student, had helped virtually guarantee that he wouldn't arrive too early. he hated getting to a party before everyone else when it was just him and the host... the awkwardness of being locked in a one-on-one conversation like that as unbearable. It reeked of smalltalk he would hear in his mother's living room, over pre-dinner cocktails as the server readied the house for the meal. Only instead, there would be a beer in one hand instead of an elegant stemmed glass, and the host would be setting out bags of chips instead of waiting for the cook to bring out the roast duck. The silence of it made his skin crawl, but downing the drink more quickly in an effort to alleviate the rising tension would be rude even in such a casual environment...

Best to avoid it all together.

The walk was a little on the long side, but Blaine didn't mind the distance - nor the heat; he'd gotten used to that sometime in the middle of his sophomore year, even if he did kind of miss sweaters. It wasn't nearly as warm for as much of the year as if he lived further south, but the temperature range best suited for sweaters and blazers was in-season for a much shorter period than he as used to. In Ohio, the Dalton blazer only felt too warm during the first and last months of school, with the first snow often falling before Halloween; he doubted he could get away with such a wardrobe anywhere in California. Well- except for maybe San Francisco. He'd never been, but Mark Twain had said the coldest winter he'd ever spent was a summer there.

Twain? He thought that was what he remembered. Lit class was a little hazy, too.

But what he minded far more than the dry heat that lingered even as the sun set, was the silence of mid-evening that hung in the palm trees. With most of the student body moved into their dorms but not yet attuned to where the good parties were, and with no fraternities throwing bashes to attract a fresh crop of new pledges until next weekend, even the streets closest to campus were relatively free of noise, save the shuffling of Blaine's bucks and an errant pebble bouncing down the sidewalk.

Blaine quickened his pace, rendered uneasy by the stillness around him that threatened to release the clamour inside his head that he was barely holding at bay. By the time he turned the corner and saw a smattering of who he assumed to be his fellow music education masters candidates, he breathed out heavily in relief. He reached down to straighten his sweater vest and drew in a deep breath, a grin settling over his face.

This was going to be a great night. He could tell already.

More confident, he strode across the lawn, up the porch steps, and into the two-story craftsman-style house that Blaine was certain housed more people than could fit comfortably. The party might not have been in full swing just yet, but it as definitely on its way there. Students stood around the base of the staircase, perched atop the second-hand, overstuffed couch, gathered around the radio as it played a Beatles song..but it only took a moment for Blaine to conclude where he wanted to start off his evening. A collection of wallflowers and life-of-the-party types had taken up residence around the kitchen table, which was absolutely covered inc ans and bottles - all full now, but not for long.

Blaine squeezed his way between two groups of guys talking about the addition of Oregon and Oregon state to the AAW conference. It was new this year, and a big change, even if Blaine was sure the Stanford Indians could still lose their division handily no matter how many people were in it. He could have gone somewhere with a better team to root for, he reminded himself ruefully. But there were more important things to worry about this year than rooting for a good team, and either way the games were always a good time. He popped into the kitchen and snagged a plastic cup from the counter, then studied the contents of the round wooden table. The booze was always best at the first party - when people still had the money to buy their favourites - but the quality went down in time with people's level of caring, anyway; by finals week, they would drink anything.

Well, he would, anyway. Some people were more picky.

He was deciding between a rum and coke and one of the many brands of vodka on the table when everything stopped. Looking back, Blaine wasn't sure whether he felt the arm first or heard the voice; he mostly just knew his body suddenly went warm, then his stomach descended icily through his torso - like drinking a huge gulp of a milkshake, but ending instead at the top of his hips, where his legs suddenly felt quivery.

"Excuse me."

An arm slid past his, shoulder leaning into him as a square, study hand reached between him and the next partygoer to grasp a bottle of gin. The voice as smooth against Blaine's nerves, resonant but light somehow. Blaine swallowed hard and tried to focus on the details of something tangible and innocuous to bring things back into focus and calm his inexplicable anxiety, settling finally on the boy's sleeve. It was odd - close-fitting and off-white, finely knit or oven with a bit of texture to it, not really a sweater but certainly not a buttondown shirt like his own. It reminded him almost of a longjohn sleeve at least, from what he'd seen of one on Bonanza - but who wore that if it as above freezing? Actually, did anyone wear one since 1880?

Just as quickly as the arm appeared, it disappeared from view and feel, taking the bottle with it.

Blaine's fingers clutched around the first bottle he could find, the glass warming quickly under his palm. The feeling - the quivering in his legs, the hot and cold passing each other throughout his torso, the panicked dizziness-...none of it was new. But none of it was how he planned on starting his first grad-level party...or any subsequent party, for that matter. With a sure movement, he poured himself a drink, then stepped back from the table, cup clutched against his palm. He lifted it to his lips, tipping it back quickly, swallowing as the rum slipped down his throat. Shaking his head, he grinned to himself and stepped forward again to pour another.

Those were feelings he would much rather have - the burn and the pleasant light-headnessness from drinking too fast instead of an icy flutter and unending queasiness.

After pouring a second drink, he moved into the living room to scope out his new classmates as he drank more slowly. they didn't look so different from his old classmates, though there were noticeably fewer females in the room than at the parties he as used to. There were always plenty of girls at back-to-school bashes for undergraduates...and, of course, any party with the Mendicants attracted a better-than-average turnout by girls. He wondered if it was because there were fewer female graduate students. He knew that Stanford had a limit on female students for a long time because Leland Stanford's mother didn't want it to become a West Coast Smith or Vassar, but college had been a lot closer to equal than he expected. Maybe his view was just skewed - after an all-boys school, any girls seemed refreshingly plentiful.

He didn't mind being around boys at school, it just made things so...complicated. He didn't need that, especially now that he wasn't 17 anymore.

Or maybe girls were just less likely to come to a party where they didn't know anyone? He hoped so. Otherwise they'd be a very in-demand group, and while he'd found that having a dozen boys singing backup for him helped get what he wanted, it wasn't-

He heard the slur first.

"So who's the queer?"

Though the tone was casual, almost amused, Blaine froze, cup halfway to his lips, looking around surreptitiously to see if anyone else had heard it, had seen him react-...god he hoped not... He tried to see where it was aimed. Not at him, surely, he wasn't- He didn't look- he wasn't. There was no way anyone at that party could know about a mistake he had made once, an illness he'd recovered from. It wasn't like the chicken pox scar on his shoulder, it didn't leave a lasting mark even if it felt as destructive as leprosy.

"Oh, that's just Gatsby," came the offhand reply.

"Who?"

"I dunno his real name, we all just call him Gatsby."

"I've never seen him - is he new?"

"No. He wasn't here last year, but he knows...shit. Janie's friend, with the long black hair. He's not in our program, he does something else. Anthropology or Italian or something? something with Romans, 'cause he said the togas were wrong at this one party."

"What party?"

Blaine finally felt inconspicuous enough to look at the speakers - two boys, neither of whom he knew, but one he'd seen around the Music department. A cellist, if he remembered right. Satisfied that they clearly weren't involving him, he let his gaze wander to see who the boys meant. It wasn't difficult to tell even in a house that was growing more crowded by the minute, the boy stood out. Not only was he tall even as he leaned against the kitchen counter, but who else wore suspenders to a party? Who wore any of that outfit?

Not outfit - ensemble. Maybe even costume, Blaine couldn't tell.

Gatsby's clothes clearly gave rise to the moniker, with wide-leg navy pinstripe trousers held up by brown suspenders. He wore wing tip brogues that looked like they'd been well-used over their 40-year lifespan, give or take. And on top- Blaine didn't need to look around the room to know it was the same white thermal undershirt that had brushed past him earlier. How many others could there be? The fabric pulled taut over Gatsby's broad chest, emphasized by the leather straps that hugged his torso with every movement, and Blaine swallowed hard as his gaze drifted upward, past Gatsby's clean-shaven neck and chin; the boy- man, Blaine thought to himself sickly - had a wideset mouth lined by pink lips, and a flared nose. But what really caught Blaine's attention were the eyes large, emerald green, and intense even as he gazed casually around the room. From the movements and generally apathetic expression, Blaine would have assumed that Gatsby was just idly perusing the crowd, but the eyes made the simple action seem so much more...intense.

Blaine jerked his gaze up further, past the brim of Gatsby's brown driving cap that made his already heart-shaped face seem even flatter and broader. The fluttery icy feeling was back with a vengeance, like a flock of frozen birds had swooped into his stomach and gotten stuck.

Not this again.

Anything but this again.

No matter how many times it popped up - flared up, like rheumatism or an unsightly skin rash - it still caught him off-guard and left him with the same sick, disgusted feeling. The same helplessness, like no matter what he did-...no matter how much he wanted to be different, no matter how much he wanted to be right, to be well...to no longer have to feel like this. To no longer be sick.

Would it always creep up on him when he least expected it? Would there never be a time in his life where that feeling wouldn't twist his stomach and send a rush through him and make him want-

Had anyone ever been truly cured of this feeling? He'd grown up hearing tales of his father's patients who could be cured, fixed, if only they worked hard enough and were willing to subject themselves to gruesome treatments, but he shouldn't have needed that. He wasn't a severe case; he regretted what he'd done, and he wasn't unrepentant. He had...manifested a little worse than he would have wanted to, but he wanted to change. He honestly did. That was supposed to matter.

So why didn't it? Why couldn't he manage to get himself straightened out? Why did these things keep sneaking up on him until the mere sight of a boy in a ridiculous, eccentric costume of an outfit could leave him feeling far more nauseous than any alcohol ever would?

He tore his gaze away as quickly as he could, searching the room for something else - anything else - to catch his attention. He could do this. He'd done this a few thousand times before, hadn't he? He just needed to find a distraction he could latch onto. Someone else he could like instead of the one he wasn't allowed to. He found his distraction laughing beside the staircase with a group of guys: she was fairly tall, almost eye-to-eye with several of the boys who seemed to be doing their best to flirt with her, which meant Blaine was certain she was taller than he was. Not that he necessarily minded that - he liked the feeling of leaning up on his toes to kiss a girl who towered over him. Her laugh was loud, enthusiastic, but genuine - not put-on to get what she wanted from the boys who would give her anything she asked. She held all the cards in that circle, and the glint in her blue eyes said that she knew it damned well, but she stood with a look of bemusement as the group of boys tried to one-up each other.

Blaine couldn't hear any of what was being said to her, but he knew the scenario well. Four years of college - plus three years of watching the students at an all-boys school try to con women into being their date - had let him see the ritual a hundred thousand times: some tried to get her to grin, to think they were funny, but so far that didn't seem to be doing any good; others put on the charm, wore smarmy smiles in the hopes of seeming like smooth gentlemen callers, but she rolled her eyes at those boys; others stood awkwardly on the sidelines, trying to catch her eye as the other boys clowned around to try to win her. Those boys thought - Blaine could guarantee from experience - that if only she would look their way, and they could bond for a moment through eye contact about the idiocy of the show-offs trying to get her attention, that they would win her heart by not being like the others.

She flashed a grin and patted one boy's arm as she excused herself, and though Blaine could tell that the guys were clamouring to refill her drink, she strode toward the kitchen alone. She wore a dress like Audrey Hepburn might wear - boatnecked and sleeveless, belted just above the pencil skirt, the cranberry fabric stunning with her brown shoulder-length hair and bright eyes. The skirt hugged her hips as she walked toward the kitchen, and if there were any girl in that room that could prove a ready distraction, she was it - Blaine was sure of it.

As the girl got closer, a slim cigarette delicately balanced between two fingers while the cup dangled in her other hand, Blaine opened his mouth to speak. Gazing at her from across the room all night would be better than gazing at- at him all night, but not by enough. He would get distracted from his distraction too easily. No; he needed to speak to her, to engage with her, to be close to her all evening until he forgot how the night began. But before he could get out a "Hi, what's your name?", she was past him and into the kitchen. She winked at Gatsby as he leaned against the counter, and Blaine turned quickly to keep himself from staring at either of them during the exchange.

This wasn't going to work.

There were things he could handle at a party like this, and things he couldn't. And pining mindlessly after a girl who didn't notice him as she passed wasn't going to end the night the way he wanted. It had been awhile since that had been a real concern of his; senior boys got their pick of girls at parties, really, and even if he wasn't in one of the well-respected fraternities...he was a Mendicant. That was almost better.

Actually, that was almost always better.

As much as musicians might not have ranked high on-campus compared to the football team or student government groups, the Mendicants were doing really well for an upstart group. They had been around less than a year, but girls on campus already came up to him and asked if he was the lead singer of the group - usually before scrawling their number or dorm room on his notebook. Unlike Yale, there weren't other acapella groups to choose from, which gave the Mendicants an edge, and no other schools in the area had groups at all which only helped. The group's standing was even higher among musicians on-campus...and within the Music Department. They were quickly approaching Beatles status, and if there was one thing that should get him...

Besides. If there were one time he could be himself and get the kind of attention he would need to prove himself in front of this new group of classmates, it was when he was performing. If there was one time he could feel like he wasn't hiding in a crowded room...

But he couldn't just yet. There was a certain amount of wooing he needed to be able to do. Blaine swallowed hard and downed the rest of his drink in a long gulp. He paused, waiting until he could hear the girl's laugh back near the staircase again, then headed into the kitchen. He kept his head down, trying to avoid looking up for fear that he might catch Gatsby's gaze.

It wasn't his fault, he told himself as he moved around the table to find something to drink. He never would have noticed Gatsby if the man weren't so eccentric about everything. He could have avoided looking at the man's eyes entirely if only-

He felt a hand on his arm. "Looking for something?"

It as the same voice from earlier, and Blaine didn't have to glance over to know what shirt sleeve he would see on the wrist. "I-..." he choked out nervously, shifting, not sure what to say. He wanted to tell Gatsby to get away from him, to leave him alone, to never look at him again because the rolling boil in his stomach was as revolting as it was terrifying, because the feeling of those green eyes boring into him made him feel so horribly uncomfortable that he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and leave it behind on the floor of the house as he ran off down the street.

When he couldn't say anything, Gatsby came closer, leaning over the table. "Rum, right?" he asked, fingers dancing over the bottletops as he plucked his way through the assortment on the table, trying to find the liquor he was looking for. Blaine shifted again, arms crossing over his chest. He could feel the warmth of Gatsby's body through both shirts, could smell his aftershave, could feel the musculature of his hips and thighs pressing close, and every moment felt slower and more agonizing than the last.

He had to get away. He had to get out of there and get Gatsby away from him and never look back - and then he could feel better. Then he could enjoy the party the way he had hoped to, and he could flirt with that girl, and he could win her affection and be top dog from the outset, and then everything could be easier. Everything would be fine if he could just get through tonight and get away from the guy with the entrancing green eyes and the spicy scent and the tight undershirt in public. If he could just-

"There you go." He could hear the smile in Gatsby's voice as the man poured him a drink. "Come back and see me if you need any more - looks like I'm the bar master tonight, Janie's off with some guy, so here I am."

"Thanks," Blaine replied uncomfortably, snatching the cup closer to his body as he moved away as quickly as he could. He drank the rum and Coke quickly, feeling dizzy as the third drink hit him. It was so much better than the other type of dizziness that had been plaguing him all evening, and he reveled in it.

* * * * *

The best part about parties with a bunch of people in a music program - the really best part? Aside from them all being really talented and pretty and fun and cool and everything? Was that there was always a setup for people to start singing at some point during the night.

Blaine wasn't sure what exactly it was he was drinking as he stepped up to the microphone, or what number drink it was, but he knew it was tasty. Really tasty. The guy behind him - someone named Julian, he was a second year...something, Blaine didn't remember exactly what. Something with a Masters in the music department but not in education - was banging out the familiar riff on his guitar, and even if Blaine didn't understand why people had thought to bring instruments, he was really glad they had. He could've played it on piano if there were one here, but it wouldn't sound right. Someone else had an upright bass and was plucking it, and someone named Gil who Blaine usually saw pushing a timpani through the basement halls of the music building was banging pencils enthusiastically - and mostly in-rhythm - against a desk. The effort was completely drowned out, but he didn't seem to care.

He tipped his head back and emptied his cup, dropping the empty plastic to the side so he could grip the microphone stand with both hands as he started to sing.

Girl, you really got me going
You got me so I don't know what I'm doing

The crowd had started to gather as the song began, and by the time he got through the first line he could start to pick his way through the slightly-fuzzy people filling the living room and area by the stairs to start making sense of who was where. Aside from a few couples that had peeled off to make out in the corners - or upstairs where Blaine assumed the bedrooms were - the entire party was watching him sing. The knowledge fueled him; it always did.

There were so many people here who didn't know him. They didn't know anything about him - at most, a couple of the second-years might have seen him around Braun, but passing someone on the way to class didn't mean they knew him. They didn't know where he was from, or what he'd done before Stanford, or what he'd been like in undergrad, or what mistakes he'd made or things he wished he could take back. That meant he could pick what he wanted these people to know about him...what part of himself he wanted to show them. And this - singing at the top of his lungs with an intense look and occasional grin - was exactly the Blaine he wanted them to know.

Also the Blaine who could get any girl in the room he wanted. That would be great for them to see, if he could manage it.

And oh, he could manage it.

Yeah, you really got me now
You got me so I can't sleep at night

It took him another couple lines to find the girl in the crowd. She was about halfway back, in the center, watching with the same bemused grin she'd worn earlier. That wouldn't do at all. That was the look the other boys got, the ones she rejected. No - he needed to show her why he was better, why he was worth her time. Why he'd make it worth her while.

There weren't many girls at this party, and she was clearly the most popular - and with good reason. She was gorgeous and looked like she was full of fire, and he loved that in a girl. None of the vacant types who were after an M-R-S degree - no. He wanted a girl who could challenge him, who wouldn't just go for every guy but who would go for him.

Someone strong. Someone who would keep him strong. That was who he needed to woo tonight. And that stunning girl with the smirk would be just what he needed to keep him from falling into old weaknesses.

Yeah, you really got me now
You got me so I don't know what I'm doing
Oh yeah, you really got me now
You got me so I can't sleep at night
You really got me
You really got me
You really got me

It only took a few seconds to catch her eye this time, and she smiled more genuinely - still not a full-on grin, but much closer to what he wanted than it had been. Perfect.

He broke eye contact to work the crowd, planning on circling back to her later. They were loving him, loving everything he was doing - loving his voice and his attitude and the impromptu performance in front of a fireplace at the first party of the year- Blaine beamed to himself as he sang.

No matter what else was going on, this was safe. This felt right, like the knots that had been building in him all night were loosening and the icy birds in his stomach were finally put out of their misery instead of flapping around inside him. He could just let go and feel the right things - all the things he didn't know how to fell any other time.

She was beautiful and he was taken with her, and he couldn't say that any other way. What else but music had that kind of power? What else but music could transform something like that? ...What else but music could make him not sick anymore? Because as long as he was on that stage, just him and the guys behind him playing backup...

She don't ever set me free
I always wanna be by your side
Girl you really got me now
You got me so I can't sleep at night

He was doing fine until his eyes made their way over to the threshold to the kitchen, where Gatsby leaned easily against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. His smile was easy, like he was enjoying the song - not that Blaine cared - but there was something deeper to it. Just those damn eyes, Blaine told himself sternly. He just happened to have a very intense gaze that made everything seem bigger and fierier and- and- sicker than it would from anyone else. That was all it was.

Really.

Blaine turned away from the kitchen, trying to put the boy out of his mind. He couldn't - and didn't - need him. Not now. Not with however many drinks were in his system, and an entire room in love with him, and a beautiful girl in front of him, and music pumping through the room...

Yeah, you really got me now
You got me so I don't know what I'm doing
Oh yeah, you really got me now
You got me so I can't sleep at night
You really got me
You really got me
You really got me
Oh lord!

He danced his way through the break, letting himself live on the notes of the guitar solo and the sounds of the gathered crowd enjoying themselves. The upright bass notes sounded a little out of place against the electric guitar but sent the same vibrations through the floor with each bum-bum-ba-bum. He ran his hand through his hair, tugging the curls free of the gel, feeling so uninhibited as long as the music was playing - as long as he was there on that makeshift stage in front of the fireplace, as long as he could be this person who he wanted to be...let them see his hair. Let them see his curls and his bowtie askew.

He tripped over the base of the mic stand, hands flying out to the side as he caught himself, giggling. He heard a few people in the crowd cheering that he didn't fall, and he stood up with a fist in the air, victorious. It was little things that made a night great, right? Little things like not falling and picking a song they could all rock to...and that gorgeous creature staring at him.

...one of them. Not the other one.

She don't ever set me free
I always wanna be by your side

He kept staring Blaine's way - he could feel Gatsby's green eyes boring into him. There was no doubt about it. He stole a glance in the direction of the kitchen, and surely enough the man was watching him with the same kind of fierce interest he'd seen earlier. Even the momentary meeting of their eyes sent a shiver through him, and that made him feel queasy - but not nearly as queasy as before. It was hard to feel queasy with alcohol...until there was too much alcohol and he got too queasy.

But Blaine had gotten good at knowing his limits, and he turned toward the girl again, using his best showman face to ratchet up the intensity, even as he emphasized the most important word of the lyric in his mind.

Girl you really got me now
You got me so I can't sleep at night

Her smile was still more bemused than he would have liked. He didn't want a 'nice try, you're cute' face, he wanted a 'yes, that's what I want in a man' kind of face and so far she seemed unconvinced. But even if speaking to her would have left him lost, singing was another story entirely. He poured everything he had into it, and never had he been more excited to hear a decent portion of the room joining in on the last set of harmonies. God, he loved music majors. He loved people who knew what harmonies contributed to a song - and how much they helped elevate the music, how they pushed the feeling higher and higher until it filled the entire room and transcended four guys with makeshift instrumentation and a microphone.

Yeah, you really got me now
You got me so I don't know what I'm doing
Oh yeah, you really got me now
You got me so I can't sleep at night

Looping the microphone out of the stand with a well-practiced motion, Blaine hopped off the hearth and waded into the crowd; the guys separated as he made his way to the girl. Now he could feel everyone's gaze on him - not just Gatsby's; every boy in that room wanted her, and they wanted to know what she would would do when put on the spot like that. Blaine was undeterred and let the pressure fuel him, singing his heart out as he stared into her eyes, letting himself feel the music and the words - she had him. She had him and would leave him crazy and unable to sleep if she didn't say yes, and if he could just sing it a little harder, mean it a little bit more-

You really got me

Her smirk gave way to a smile, then to a grin with a roll of her eyes like she couldn't believe she was doing this. Blaine held out his hand, inviting her, practically begging her with his eyes to say yes - to be his for the night, to give him a needed distraction, to save him from the man with the penetrating gaze and the too-tight shirt. He would make it worth it, he swore silently, if she just said yes-

You really got me

She shook her head but kept grinning, setting her hand in his with a look that said so clearly 'oh, you think you're so charming, don't you?'

But she had to think it, at least a little, if she was agreeing, didn't she?

Blaine beamed, handing the microphone over to the first person he saw, leading her back through the crowd toward the stairs. Even now there was a chance this was all wrong, that she could do something humiliating like reject him or tell him he was a pig and she wasn't that kind of girl - even though all the girls at this kind of party were that kind of girl and he respected them, he swore. But she could say no any second...

She didn't. When he glanced back, she grinned at him and nodded up the stairs.

Hell yes.

He threw his fist up in the air, his other hand firmly in hers, and let out a victorious whoop. The room cheered back at him - happy for his show and more happy for his success with the girl, even if they wanted her too. Knowing the party couldn't possibly have gone any better for him, he hurried up the stairs with his gorgeous companion trailing just behind him, leaving Gatsby behind completely.