He'd seen them come and go. They'd never stuck around for long.

The pianists. They were the transients of the house band, the Big Band, that played Birdland Wednesdays and Fridays since it had opened two years before.

They weren't exactly a part of the band, not part of the group. They backed it up, they played along, they filled the intermission gaps. Sometimes, they sang. But they weren't really a part of the Birdland Big Band.

And when a better gig came along, they left.

From his perch behind the bar, Kurt Hummel had seen them all. A couple of them had lasted as long as a couple of months, playing the rhythmic background to Satin Doll and Moonlight Serenade. A couple of them had lasted no more than a week, catching a lucky break for a solo gig at a smaller club.

The piano wasn't the feature of the Big Band. People came for the horns, the sweet soul of the alto sax and strident blast of the trumpet. And the drums, of course, the moments that the percussionist could cut loose and guide the band to parts unknown, all with rhythm.

But the piano? It filled in the gaps, that was all. It carried the tune, yes, but was lost to the brass.

And pianists hated that.

So, from his perch he watched them come and go. They looked right at each other sometimes, the butt of the Steinway pointed directly at the bar as it was, he would sometimes make eye contact, but never for long, because they all looked like they wanted to be somewhere else.

That must be why the new guy had him so off-balance, and so tuned in.

Kurt stood in his usual spot, pouring whiskey sours and Manhattans and taking what moments he could to watch the band as well as listen to it. There was a a special dynamic, watching the horn players riff off each other, and Kurt loved to watch it.

But tonight, he couldn't be bothered. His eyes were glued to the man at the keys.

He was wearing a black tux and a soft grin, and seemed to spend as much time looking across the room as Kurt did. From the bar, his stare looked as dark as the curls in his hair.

He'd finish the uptempo songs with thunderous cords; the ballads with a flourish. Then he'd looked up, smile towards the bar, then turn his head and acknowledge the crowd with a nod.

He played through the first break, little more than background music, but adeptly played, even if the crowd paid little attention. Kurt would set down whatever was in his hands and lead the room in applause.

Then back to the band, and the rhythm they had set earlier in the night.

A song.

A look.

A smile.

A nod.

They flew through their set for the raucous, appreciative crowd, a combination of standards and classics that appealed to the late-night jazz crowd: Bessame Mucho, You Made Me Love You and, finally, In the Mood, the band's standard closer.

As the rest of the band packed its horns and guitars to leave, the pianist stuck behind at the Steinway, playing riffs and cords that should have been familiar, but weren't.

Only a handful of people remained: the cashier, closing out for the night; the janitors, mopping up the back floors; Kurt, who'd removed his white dinner jacket and rolled up his sleeves as he wiped down the bar and stacked clean glasses for the next night's show.

The pianist had loosened his bow tie, letting it drop in parallel lines down the front of his dress shirt. Otherwise, he simply kept playing. Kurt could swear that from time to time, he heard him singing softly.

He looked up, wiping down a glass, and made eye contact.

The music paused.

"Would you like a drink?" Kurt asked across the floor.

"Whiskey, rocks," came the reply.

Kurt poured, a generous pour, and carried it to the stage, along with a gin and tonic for himself.

"I'm Kurt," he said, setting the drink down.

"Blaine. And thanks."

His eyes were the amber of the drink, catching light like the veins in the cracked ice that chilled it. Kurt couldn't look away.

"It's my job," Kurt said.

"I'm not talking about the drink, but thanks for that, too. I was talking about the show."

"Hmm?"

"You clapped. The crowd followed. Thanks."

"You earned it."

"Did I see you singing back there?" Blaine asked, still playing soft trills on the keys.

"That's a well-guarded secret," Kurt said, blushing.

"Well, it would be a shame if you didn't."

"And why's that?" Kurt said, leaning against the piano as if he was being reeled in.

"Because I'm working on a new arrangement of Body and Soul, but it really needs a second voice."

"A duet?"

"A duet."

"Scoot over," Kurt said, seating himself shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip with the pianist. "I love a duet."