By midnight, music was already rocking the house. The usual nighttime symphony of crickets and coyotes at Rhapsody was replaced by a thumping bass line. They were on a throwback binge: the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, some Talking Heads.

There was booze and bodies bouncing to the music — who decided the Pogo was a good idea? — and Blaine loosened his tie, leaned back against the wall and smiled. He hadn't planned this impromptu party of boisterous winemakers, but he welcomed it.

****

Hours earlier, the Studio Theater at the Mondavi Center was filled to capacity, a sell-out. The winemakers and their entourages, the executives and publicists and families, were seated at prime tables near the front, where they could been seen by the audience in the theater seats and by the media, which was located near the center back — a good angle for visuals but far enough away from the action to stay out of trouble.

Taste Magazine's corporate VIP table was front and center, located near the small staircase leading up to the stage, and flooded with enough soft light to allow everyone to see Quinn, Kurt and the corporate Powers That Be behind the publication.

Quinn was radiant, in her element, dressed in rose silk with upswept hair, a modern-day Grace Kelly. Kurt, simple but stylish in a trim cut black Thom Browne suit, was her best accessory.

The lights dimmed, and an acoustic guitar recording filled the air, "I Heard It Through the Grapevine", accompanying a short film documenting the history of the Judgement at Paris and the California wine industry today. 

****

Santana threw her head back and laughed — a deep, persistent, raucous howl that enveloped the room as she danced, twirling and bouncing from one partner to the next.

She didn't have a partner at all, Blaine realized. Everyone was her partner. She danced with the entire room, bottle of sparkling wine — from a Sonoma winery, thankyouverymuch — held aloft.

Blaine wasn't sure if he had ever seen her so demonstrably, publicly happy, but it was a welcome change of pace from the surly Santana he had spent so much time with over the past week.

****

One by one, the 10 judges walked to the stage: the sommelier from a five star New York restaurant, the Four Seasons' wine director, the wine columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and another from a prominent French wine magazine, the chief buyer for a wine brokerage and the department head of the UC Davis Department of Viticulture and Enology, among others. 

They stepped up, formally attired and solemn-faced, as Quinn introduced them. They sat at assigned seats at a table nearly as long as the stage itself, far enough apart to prevent them from comparing notes.

****

Diego found what he was looking for in Blaine's personal wine cellar, the one just off the kitchen, behind an inconspicuous door and down a narrow staircase. He picked up the magnum of Appassionato that Blaine suggested he open for the crowd of friends and colleagues, hiked back up the stairs and locked the door behind him.

He opened the oversized bottle in the kitchen and carried it out to the impromptu living room bar.

He poured two glasses and carried them, and the keys, to Blaine's comfortable corner perch.

"A toast," he said, handing Blaine one of the glasses, and the keys, which were swiftly pocketed.  "Te aventaste, güey. ¡Te lo mereces!" *

A broad grin swept over his face, and in a rare moment of open emotion, he pulled Blaine into a bear hug, lifting him briefly off the floor.

****

Sebastian Smythe sat, silent and motionless, watching the proceedings, his face etched in concentration. His look was almost nonchalant, except for an occasional tell: the brief bite of his lower lip as the judges inspected and sampled the wines.

At the next table to the left, Blaine sat with his elbows on the table, fingers folded in front of his face. Every few minutes, he leaned over and whispered something to Santana, who would nod, or look around the room, but rarely responded.

And when he thought no one was paying attention, he would look over to the VIP table at the center front near the stage.

****

A Lincoln Town Car pulled slowly up the drive at Rhapsody, maneuvering around a waiting shuttle bus, coming to a stop in front of the house.

Its passenger sat for a moment, giving instructions to the driver, then clambered out without assistance.

Moments later, the sedan left, a light cloud of dust in its wake. 

****

The judges tasted each wine in unison, without identification. The audience was likewise kept in the dark about the wines being judged, on the off-chance that someone would yell out a name. 

After each sample, each panelist filled out a form printed on white linen card stock, providing a score of up to 100 points and brief comments supporting it.

An assistant then walked the line, collecting each card ceremoniously, and delivering each collection to a waiting team of accountants who tabulated the results.

****

Late to the now-raucous party, he knocked on the front door to no avail — it could not be heard over the stereo, the singing, the stomping, the shouting. He opened the door, hinges squeaking, but that also went unnoticed. 

He poked his head in just far enough to see the living room, which had taken on the appearance of a high-end frat party.

Revelers were gathered in a circle, singing along — badly— to Aretha Franklin's "Respect,"  clutching each other with one arm while raising their glasses with the other.

****

Twenty wines and a seeming eternity of judging later, the assistant approached Quinn and handed her six golden envelopes. 

Quinn stepped up to the podium, which was adorned on either side by pillars holding two ornate Tiffany bowls destined for the two winners of the Taste Challenge. A line of 20 unopened bottles representing the finalists were staged on the judging tables off to her side. Next to them were set velvet boxes holding gold, silver and bronze medals.

Envelopes lined up in front of her on the podium, Quinn began her closing remarks: thanks to the judges, wineries and facilities that made the event possible. Gratitude for the dedicated followers of Taste Magazine, special thanks to her one-in-a-million wine critic and event organizer. 

Then she got down to business, explaining that she would announce the top three in both categories in reverse order. A complete list of scores and comments for all 20 wines would be available in press packets immediately after the event, she said.

"For the competition for white wines, in third place, with an average score of 94, the Allegrezza Roussanne from Rhapsody Vineyards and Wine. Blaine Anderson, owner and winemaker."

Quinn's stage assistant moved to the table, and placed a bronze medal around the neck of the bottle of Allegrezza.

Blaine rose from his seat, collecting hugs and handshakes and congratulations from his companions at the table. He stepped to the podium, where Quinn shook his hand, presented him with a bronze medal and the gold envelope, and posed for a photograph. 

Napa claimed the silver medal, earning a 95 overall with the St. James Estate's acclaimed 2009 Reserve Chardonnay, a woody white that the judges commended for its richness and depth.

The real surprise of the white wine division was saved for last, when the Tibideux Estate Vineyards' delicate 2010 Coastal Sauvignon Blanc outpaced a field of Napa competitors with bigger names and bolder flavors, with an average overall score of 97. The victory was all the more sweet for Sonoma as Carmen Tibideux, the winery's reserved owner, was one of the first women to run a commercial winery in California.

****

He stood in the foyer for a few moments, taking in the scene, before he was recognized by a drunk and jubilant Santana.

"Hummel!"

She ran over to him, took him up in an unwieldy embrace, and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips.

"You need a drink."

"So it would seem," he said, scanning the room.

Santana gave him a sly smile. "Over there, Hummel," she said, angling him toward the far side of the room.

Kurt navigated his way across the space, through the throng of boisterous and progressively drunken Sonomans. One handed him a drink. Several shook his hand. A few hugged him. 

In the far corner, smiling and relatively sober, stood Blaine. He was talking to friends, but he focused his concentration on the dark-suited figure making its way across the room. He excused himself, and took a step, maybe two, and stopped. Throughout it all, his eyes remained fixed on Kurt's.

He could see the rise and fall of Blaine's chest, and how his mouth opened slightly as if needing to take in more air. 

The room was a swirl of color and sound and light, an obstacle course of distractions, but Kurt remained focused on one spot, one person, one objective. It felt like the longest 25 feet of his life.

****

Quinn cleared her throat.

"And now, the reds. The judges let us know that the competitors represented a particularly elite selection of wines, and that each deserves commendation, but there were a few that truly stood out among the most rarified on vintages."

"The judges recognized our third place wine as unusually complex, blending soft floral notes with a lingering finish reminiscent of dark plum. In third place, with an average overall score of 95, the 2009 Rosedale Vineyards Pinot Noir."

Blaine grinned. He looked to the Taste VIP table and caught a side glance from Kurt, who shot him  a smug look suggesting that yes, he knew how to pick 'em.

"In second place is a traditional Napa Meritage that judges saluted for a heady blend of the very best Cabernet, Cab Franc, Malbec and Merlot. The wine presents a strong structure and a concentrated palate with deep, rich tannins."

Sebastian frowned.

"The judges noted the strong presence of dark-fleshed fruit, with particular notes of black currant, black cherry and blackberries, with hints of leather and clove on the nose."

The frown became a scowl.

"In second place, with an overall average of 96, the 2009 Dalton Meritage."

Sebastian's acceptance of his award for second-best in the elite field could best be described a "grudging".

"And finally, a note from our judges about our gold medalist for the reds," Quinn said, reading from  a card. "'If we had been charged with deciding a single winner for the Taste Challenge, this wine would have easily claimed the prize. When others look to make a strong statement with dramatic taste profiles, this blend exercises restraint and the art of subtlety to classic effect. Its texture is velvety and its color a lush, deep red. Its taste? An unexpected and delicate blend of dark berries and florals, with a hint of sweet smoke on the nose. Its finish is supple and lingering with perfectly balanced tannins. In a word? Unforgettable.' "

Santana turned to Blaine, who stared wide-eyed at the stage. "It's time to snap out of it," she whispered. "I think we both know what's coming."

"With a remarkable overall average of 99, the champion red is from Sonoma..."

Blaine looked at Santana, and squeezed her hand.

"... from Rhapsody Vineyards and Wine, the 2009 Sotto Voce Syrah blend."

****

Kurt set down the drink and found his way to Blaine, locking eyes until they stood face-to-face. He shifted his focus down the hall, and without a word, he took Blaine's hand, fingers entwined, and led him away from the noisy crowd.

"We might need another bottle or two," Blaine said, his voice shaky. 

A hint of a smile crested Kurt's face. He nodded, just slightly, just enough for Blaine to see. He backed down the hall, leading Blaine by his fingertips. They reached the cellar door, and Kurt rotated, turning Blaine like a partner in a waltz so that he was now alongside the door.

Blaine tried to lean in to him, as if to embrace, but Kurt stepped back slightly shook his head as if to say Not here.

Blaine reached into his pocket, pulled out the key Diego had given him earlier and opened the door. Then he reversed roles, taking Kurt's hand to lead him down the narrow staircase to the darkened wine cellar.

He flicked a wall switch to light the stairs, casting the rest of the space in soft shades of amber.  Each step down revealed more of the stone-walled room, more utilitarian than decorative, lined floor-to-ceiling with racked bottles of wine. An alcove built into one wall doubled as a bar, and in the center stood a wine barrel table and two chairs.

Kurt took both of Blaine's hands in his and guided him across the room, their own private dance,  until Blaine’s back rested against the wall. He stopped, eased in close and let his face bloom into a full smile.

"I just wanted to stop by and say congratulations," he said. And then he leaned forward, tilted his head, and pressed their lips together. 

Blaine's breath hitched. He opened his mouth for air and Kurt pressed for more. He licked at Blaine's lower lip, a request. And with that access granted, the flood gates opened.

Blaine let go of Kurt's hands and reached around his waist, pulling him close. He cupped Kurt's jaw with his other hand, trying to pull, hold, keep Kurt right there as he deepened the kiss.

They pulled and pressed and touched and kissed and kissed some more, hands moving in erratic rhythm to map the muscles they had only allowed themselves to consider, but not touch, for weeks.

Kurt ran a palm up Blaine's chest, fumbling briefly with the buttons on his shirt. As Blaine leaned his head back, Kurt let his hand guide his mouth, up Blaine's neck, pausing to suck at his Adam's Apple. He touched his face with a feather-light touch, a trail of wet kisses not far behind, until he slid a hand through Blaine's hair, grabbing and pulling to bring his face back in for more. 

Blaine pulled up, his breathing labored, and slammed his head against the wall.

"Ow!" he gasped.

Kurt opened his eyes, breathing hard, and laughed. "Sorry!"

"Don't be," Blaine said, pulling at Kurt's tie to reel him back in. He kissed at Kurt's jawline, nipping lightly behind his ear. He buried himself in Kurt's neck, feeling his own breath against his face as it reflected off Kurt's heated skin. 

"It feels like it's taken us forever to get here," Kurt murmured.

"It's like wine, Kurt. Sometimes you have to set it aside and let it mature, and it's just that much better when you finally uncork it."

"A wine metaphor? Now?" Kurt whispered in his ear, as he nosed along Blaine's cheek. "You know, the last few weeks have been..."

Blaine pulled back, met Kurt's glance and smiled. "...challenging," he said, finishing Kurt's thought.

"Impossible," Kurt said, exhaling on the word, purging weeks of frustration. "Want you," he whispered, his voice deep and ragged.

Blaine nodded, and ran his fingers along Kurt's neck, to the knot on his tie, wriggling it loose and unbuttoning the top of Kurt's shirt.

Kurt could already feel arousal stirring deep. He moved forward, melting into Blaine, folding his arms around his neck and aligning their bodies, locking Blaine's thigh between his legs. He could feel Blaine growing hard as he rolled his hips forward.

Blaine responded with a moan, and with hands grasping for skin, one running under Kurt's jacket to pull at his shirt, the other sliding under the waistband of his slacks.

That's when they heard the click, followed creak of a door.

"I take it everything's looking up down there?" Santana called down to them, laughing. "For the record, the sudden disappearance of our host has been duly noted."

Then she walked away, leaving a trail of laughter in her wake and the door to the cellar gaping open.

"Oh god," Blaine huffed, "house full of drunks."

"Your room?" Kurt offered.

"Right now? With everyone partying right under the bedroom? I think the chances of us getting any privacy are pretty remote. If Santana stuck her nose in here, imagine what she'd do with a bedroom."

"Barn?"

"Cold and smelly, and not comfortable. Your hotel?"

"That's at least half an hour away," Kurt said, beginning to sound defeated. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair, exasperated.

"I want this. We want this. But you have a house full of guests. You're the host and the guest of honor. This is a big night, and they're here to celebrate you."

"But..."

Kurt silenced him with a prolonged kiss.

"I can't let you bail out on your own party. We've waited this long,” he said, resting their foreheads together. “What's one more night?"

Blaine pulled his hands back, supporting himself as he leaned back into the wall and exhaled.

He was going to need a few minutes before he could head back upstairs.

****

They rejoined the party after a while, Blaine finally accepting the attention he had been casually avoiding earlier in the evening. He sang along with the music, got pulled on to the impromptu dance floor where he followed Santana's lead and danced with everyone and no one.

Kurt hung back from the group, enjoying both the party and the view, but keeping himself slightly distant from it. He would smile and drink and sing along, but stayed firmly rooted to the side of the room. Blaine could see it, and would make a point to catch his eye frequently to exchange a knowing look.

Soon, someone started slipping songs into the mix they deemed "thematically appropriate," and heavy on P!nk: ”Get This Party Started”, "Sober", “Raise Your Glass”.

The last one tipped the scales, and found Blaine in the center of a circle of singing, dancing and and drinking. Off to the side he could see Kurt, covering his mouth and doubling over in laughter. Still singing, Blaine bounced over to him, took his hand and drew him into the circle.

"No hiding!" Blaine laughed, diving back into song, still holding Kurt's hand, ensuring that he had a dance partner for the rest of the night.

They stayed close from that point on, fingers tips grazing each other, hips accidentally bumping as one walked past the other. They grew bolder as the night wore on, swaying together, resting a chin on a shoulder, with little thought to whether anyone saw or cared. 

As the music quieted and slowed, Blaine pulled Kurt to the center of the room, settled his arms around his neck, and swayed to the music, settling his face into Kurt's neck and breathing him in.

"I really did win tonight," he whispered.

Kurt closed his eyes and pulled Blaine close.

"We both did."

Santana, watching from a spot on the floor where she had taken up residence after one last round of drinks, shook her head and declared the party over.

"Troops! Time to drag your sorry asses back on the party bus."

Blaine stepped over to her and helped her to her feet. She clung to him for a moment. 

"See? That coach rental wasn't such a bad idea, was it? We will safely pour these sorry slobs off at their doorsteps, and you'll have your house to yourself," she said with a wink. "Enjoy."

He watched the coach drive away, his now-weary body supported by a patio pillar, when Kurt slid in behind him, wrapping his arms around his chest and nestling his face into the back of Blaine's neck.

"Your house looks like a war zone," he said, kissing he back of his ear. "And you look like you're about to fall asleep on your feet."

Blaine rested his weight against Kurt and nodded.

"Mmhmm. The mess can wait."

****

* Footnote: This translates to "You really threw yourself into it, dude. You earned this," which was about as close to “You kicked their ass,” as I could get to while making the translation work.