Blaine was trying on his third pair of pants in the last 10 minutes.

First it was the heather gray slacks. He turned slowly in front of the floor mirror, mentally checking himself out. Nice drape. Good tailoring around the ass, but too ... formal. Next. 

So he let the fashion pendulum swing to the other extreme, to the bright red chinos. Blaine knew those pants like he knew the Katy Perry song catalogue. He rocked the red chinos. Those pants did wonders for him, and vice versa, but they screamed, "Look at my ass!" Not that that was a bad thing. They were just too ... loud. Next.

So there he stood, in selection number three: Dark washed Levis. The 511s, skinny enough to clutch the areas they should, without looking like a teenage skateboarder ditching class. Serious adult skinny jeans, paired with a slim-fit Penguin polo and a tailored, coordinating cardigan. All body-conscious enough to hint at what was underneath, without being overt about it.

"What the hell am I doing?" he asked himself.

The last time he had been this stressed about choosing the right sexy-but-not-trying outfit was his first date with his last boyfriend, but this wasn't even a date. Not necessarily. But maybe. Hopefully.

He took one last approving look, heaved a sigh, grabbed his keys and wallet, and left.

****

He walked into the darkened restaurant bar and let his eyes adjust for a moment. It didn't matter, because there might as well have been a spotlight pointed on the crossed legs in the skinniest of shiny waxed jeans spun a quarter-turn from the bar. Blaine's eyes focused quickly, scanning up past the tight black turtleneck and the collarless leather jacket to the finger slowly circling the rim of a dirty, dirty martini.

As Blaine stood in the entryway, simply absorbing the view, Kurt looked up from his drink and locked eyes. Blaine had to consciously take a breath. A deep one.

"Well, hello there," Kurt said, in a deeper tone that Blaine remembered.

"Hi!" he responded, in a voice higher than his usual register, bordering on squeaky.

Kurt's finger resumed its circle of the glass. He eyed the barstool next to his, inviting Blaine to sit. "Drink?"

"Yes, yes, drink. Good," said Blaine, once again losing his ability to use verbs around the attractive designer. Blaine mentally shook himself off, sat down and looked Kurt in the eye. "Scotch, straight up please."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Kurt said, flagging the bartender. 

Blaine regained his balance by diving straight into business. "I'm glad you could meet me this evening," he said. "I was thinking about what you said, um, about remodeling, and, um I was hoping you might have some ideas for me."

"Oh, I've had plenty of ideas," Kurt said, sipping his drink. "All kinds of ideas."

Blaine paused, a bit dumbstruck, his eyebrows climbing his forehead in shock.

"Look," Kurt said, backing off just a little. "You want me to work with you on this? I believe design shouldn't just fit the space. It needs to reflect the person. So we should get to know each other, maybe over dinner? You can tell me all about yourself, and then maybe we can go from there."

One drink became two. Two drinks became dinner. Dinner became a late night of talk, of histories, of dreams. Bathroom fixtures didn't even factor into the discussion until plates were cleared and coffees served.

"Do you still want me to see the space?" Kurt asked. 

"Are you inviting yourself over?"

"That depends. If you're serious about me consulting on a redesign, then I'll need to see it sometime. If, on the other hand, this evening was just a ruse to see me again, then what happens next is entirely up to you."

Once again, Kurt had stolen Blaine's ability to respond. So he did the next best thing.

"Waiter? Check, please."