“-- are you still out?” his father’s voice is barely audible and Blaine cups one hand over his unconcealed ear in an attempt to muffle the sound from the city street. The wind bites at his fingers, a harsh punishment for giving up his gloves.

“Yeah, I had a thing.” Like most strippers that Blaine knows, his parents operate with very little knowledge of how Blaine earns his money. In Blaine’s case, ‘a thing’ implies he had an obligation. If he were on the phone with his mother, he’d need to follow up with more information, but with his dad, it’s a good enough response. Blaine’s father has always regarded Blaine’s performing with as much interest as he read the morning paper- that is to say, it held only the most fleeting interest for him. He trusts that if the performance was incredibly important, someone would ask him to be there, and he would be.

“I’m guessing that it went well?”

“Yeah,” Blaine huffs in the cold, breath billowing out in a foggy wisp. For a few blocks, Blaine has been blinking back tears from the chill and sniffling his increasingly numb nose.

“Good. ”

Blaine doesn’t understand why conversations are always like this with his dad. Their phone calls have always been so stilted because the two men only give each other the bare minimum needed to continue, and eventually the conversation dwindles away. Blaine knows that ‘yeah’ can’t possibly ignite a conversation, but he doesn’t have a lot of energy to give anything else. It’s late, he’s cold, and he’s not sure why his dad’s calling. “It’s really late, dad, even for me. Is everything okay?”

“You know that I love you, right Blaine?” his father asks, sounding afraid to know the answer. “I know we’re not close. We never have been, but at least we used to try.”

Blaine slows to a complete stop on the sidewalk, air tight with each exhale. New York continues to bustle around him, people bumping into his shoulders and walking around him. A few people curse at him like a momentary halt makes him the world’s greatest inconvenience. The city is enormous, teeming with a million lives that Blaine will never see or touch, and Blaine marvels at how the world is still capable of shrinking to two people. He and his father are a pinpoint in the universe, but for a second, it’s like there is nothing greater than them or the conversation at hand. He mutters, “Hold on, Dad” before cutting around another man with a ‘Fuck you too, asshole’ and slips into a small coffee shop. The sign on the door says that it’s open for another half hour, likely in an attempt to sober up drunks after last call. Blaine’s never been here before, and the plump Italian owner looks up from where he’s sweeping. Blaine gestures helplessly with his phone, and holds up a finger to beg for one minute. “Dad? You still-”

“-yeah.” Dad tries to hold in a chuckle, but fails. “I don’t think that I’ve ever told you this, but your vocabulary has become so cosmopolitan now that you’re living in New York.”

Inside the shop, Blaine can tell his father’s voice is slurred. It’s not entirely sloppy, but the nuances of his timbre are no longer drowned out by the street. “Have you been drinking?”

“What does that matter?”

Blaine shakes his head, wiping his feet on the welcome mat, scraping off the sidewalk salts and slush. Rather than focus on the ache of disappointment, he focuses on how the warmth from the industrial heaters rouse life back into his fingers. It soothes the cheeks of his face and the tip of his nose. “I guess it doesn’t.”

“Did you hear me?” his dad asks in a low voice, like his loving Blaine is a secret that he doesn’t want anyone else to overhear.

“I did,” Blaine answers guardedly. The man in the shop is very obviously listening, making a show of sweeping. The broom barely makes contact with the floor, and his ears are pointedly turned to the phone conversation. “I think it’s nice that you want to be my dad now,” Blaine lowers his voice, turning his back on the older man. “-but how about you try it sober?”

“Harsh.”

“But not entirely unfounded.” Blaine replies with a half shrug that his father can’t actually see.

The seconds tick by and for once, Blaine doesn’t even stop to count them. He pulls out a chair at the table nearest the door, slumping into it immediately. There’s a slight chill coming from the glass, but Blaine thinks it’s better this way. He can’t get too accustomed to the heat, because he has a few more blocks to walk once he hangs up. He draws one leg up against his chest, resting the heel of his damp boot on the chair’s edge. The position makes the fabric of his coat draw tight across his shoulders. It feels claustrophobic, but if he’s being honest, so does the conversation.

His father drinks more than Blaine probably realizes, but these phone calls still don’t happen often enough that Blaine knows what to expect.

“Sorry,” Blaine says. He doesn’t feel particularly apologetic, but he wants the growing ache to go away.

“What’s wrong?” his dad tries. “This isn’t- you don’t sound like you.” There’s a clink in the background that Blaine recognizes as his father setting down a beer bottle.

Blaine sighs, about to object, but his father cuts him off. “Blaine, this is what me trying sounds like...”

Blaine suddenly thinks of his dad, about where he’s sitting, how he’s sitting, what his face looks like. A million mannerisms and ticks rocket through his memory, filling in holes that Blaine didn’t realize he’d let himself forget.

He can see his dad. He can see the man so clearly that Blaine knows without a doubt that he does miss him. He misses what they had, and he’s clinging to the hope that both of them will have a tomorrow to fix things.

“What do you know about historical preservation?” Blaine drops his forehead to his knee, feeling absurd for making himself so small. He feels stupid for trusting his dad with something so important when he knows that his father is incapable of taking care of it.

“Your mom and I tried to save a tree once,” his dad offers. “It was the oldest tree on our campus, it meant a lot to your mom, so we camped out in front of it for a week. We missed every single one of our classes, too.”

Blaine ignores the flare of irritation at the mention of college, convincing himself that it wasn’t a barb, but part of the anecdote. He moves his forehead off of his knee, expression softening from guarded lines to soft wonder. This is a story he’s never heard before, not even from his mother. “What happened to it?”

“The decision was made way above our pay-grade, Blaine. I’m pretty sure there’s a fountain there now.” His father sounds tired, rather than sad. “Those things don’t mean much to most people, only to people like your mom.”

“To people like us,” Blaine manages. There’s no doubting which parent he’s modeled the most after. He may have a lot of his father’s features and mannerisms, but his heart is all his mother’s.

“Yeah, to people like you.” his father’s mind might be addled with alcohol, but he’s always been one of the sharpest men around. It’s why he always stumbled around to the point of a matter quickly; it’s why it hurt when he missed everything else. “I’m guessing you got your own White Oak, huh?”

“Something like that. Shannon’s about to lose the building for her program and I’m trying to find a way to help her save it.”

“Oh,” his father sighs. He pauses before reluctantly continuing, “I don’t think there’s anything that can be done.”

“How could you know that? You don’t even know why, or... god...”

“Hey, I’m not your enemy, okay? I’m not even your personal punching bag, I’m your father.” his father’s tone is stern. It’s a prodding reminder of who’s the elder, and who’s worthy of the most respect. “She leases right? If her landlord is getting rid of the building, then it’s gone.”

“It’s not only an eviction, they want to level it.”

“Then it’s probably getting leveled,” his dad sounds both dismissive and reluctant to be frank. “I-”

“She said something about money. I mean, how would she have a figure if everything was already done? It’s- nothing is over yet.” He keeps repeating to himself over and over that Beiste has a deadline, and therefore, an agreement to reach it. A goal.

“If it’s a money problem, then maybe it’s best to let it go, ya’know?”

“There are kids who need that place,” Blaine disagrees. He lifts his head, carding his fingers through the curls at the crown of his head. They’re slightly damp from melted snow. “It’s not only a matter of being in the red. They’re... seriously, you know how much this stuff meant to me when I was going through every-” Blaine feels the weight of the Italian man’s eyes, and cuts off. “The arts can save kids, I know they can. I don’t know how you can look at me and think that I’d still be standing if I didn’t have them, because I wouldn’t be.”

“I’m trying to make things better,” his dad says, clearly upset. “I can’t take back everything that happened to you when you were a kid. I wish there was something that I could have done differently, but I’m telling you, there were no other options.”

“I wasn’t blaming you for anything.” At least, Blaine doesn’t think he consciously was. He chalks it up to the fact that the Anderson Patented Bender comes hand in hand with guilt. “That’s not what this is about. It doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“I called because I wanted to make things better.”

The problem is that making things better isn’t so simple. Neither of them had ever fully laid down arms from their previous battles. Each of them let scrapes and bruises fester into something far more grievous, and every time they try to move ahead, they keep piling new sores on top of old hurts. “Dad- I don’t think we’re in a good enough place to talk about the things that really matter, you know?”

“But I want us to be,” his father says so pitifully that Blaine’s heart aches with longing. “I don’t want you to think you can’t-”

“Dad.” Blaine sighs. There are some conversations he can’t have, no matter how much he longs for them. Tonight, he wants to sleep off this helpless feeling. He feels alone, and knows that his father can’t have known that, but if he keeps talking, it’s because he’s longing too much for companionship. He’ll forgive his dad tonight because he needs to be loved tonight. Tomorrow though, he’ll regret it. He can’t hear everything that he wants to hear, only to have his dad take it back once he sleeps off the booze. “Look, if you want to have this conversation- if you can remember trying to start it- call me back in the morning and we’ll have it. I’m sorry. I... can’t. I wish you understood how much this back and forth hurts both of us, not just me. The more you do it, the further apart we’re going to get.”

He’s more like his father than he likes to admit. He can’t hold his booze either, and both of them are so goddamn needy when they drink. They want to solve the world’s problems, they want to fix their relationships, the only problem is that Blaine wants to do that sober, too. His father has never given an indication that he does. “I appreciate you trying to help, but I don’t trust myself to do what’s best for me right now.”

“Blaine.”

“I... I’m going home. Showering. Sleeping off the tail end of a shitty day. And I’m going to wake up hoping that you’ll call.”

“I have these nightmares,” his father confesses quickly, hoping to get years unsaid out before Blaine hangs up. “I blame those CSI shows your mom watches. I... sometimes they’re pulling you out of a river, or they find you under a bridge somewhere. It’s so... I love you. I worry about you, and I feel so stupid because it’s like you were my son, but now you’re not. You’re this... grown man-- living in a city that I’ve never actually seen in person, an-”

“I’m fine, dad.” Blaine promises quietly. “I’m fine. They won’t find my body under a bridge, and I’m not going to be living under one any time soon, okay?”

“Are you happy?”

Blaine feels his stomach drop, because he knows that no matter how unhappy he can be in the quietest, most anxiety plagued moments, he’s always going to be happier than the man drunkenly calling his son at three a.m., asking if his son knows that he’s loved.

When he gets home, it’s four a.m. and the lights of the pawnshop are still on. It might have closed hours ago, but there are no less than three people moving around inside. Ricky bobs his head when he sees Blaine head up the outer stairs. Blaine waves slightly in return because even though he and Ricky keep the same hours, Blaine doesn’t socialize with his landlord.

There’s never not people downstairs. There’s more cash moving hands now than there ever was, too.

Blaine wants nothing to do with it and pretends that he knows less than he does, which is probably the surest sign that this city might make a New Yorker out of him yet. He’s grateful that it’s not drugs; enough of that shit gets peddled around the club, and he doesn’t know if can handle living above it too.

He can’t sleep for at least another hour. He’s too busy trying to catch up to the whirring in his head. Each time he blinks, it’s like his ‘to do’ and ‘to research’ lists double. By the time the sky starts lightening in through the slatted blinds, Blaine has a firm idea where to start but no discernible method.

He’ll go to the library once it opens. Maybe Beiste will even meet him there and they can go to the Department of Records together.

That morning, Blaine dreams that he’s living under a bridge. He doesn’t have money, but he has a guitar and his promises actually mean something.

Beiste comes into the library in full coaching gear: baseball cap firmly planted over her curls, tube socks snugly covering her shins, polo straining over her muscular arms.

A whistle hangs around her neck.

“So when I said, ‘bring your game face’...” Blaine trails off, letting a mischievous smile tell the punchline.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say?” Beiste sits down in the chair beside Blaine, sliding a clipboard across the table’s smooth surface. She does so harder than she intended and reflexively, Blaine stops it’s trek by flattening his palm on top of it with a ’No ma’am.

He spins the clipboard, using the table’s surface and the heel of his hand to inch it around. He cranes his neck to read it. “Information request? Nice.”

Beiste purses her lips, taking back the clipboard. “Maybe we’ll get a Hail Mary, or somethin’.”

Blaine sits back in his chair, surprised when Beiste doesn’t continue.

“What?” she asks, a little self-consciously, mostly gruff.

“That was like... a fully logical metaphor. And it was all about football. Not a cowboy in sight.”

“You gotta point?”

“Nothing... I just, I’m not used to your metaphors making sense.”

“Maybe we’ll get the cow to lay a golden egg?”

“There she is.” Blaine extends his hands in welcome.

Blaine has books stacked up in the chair beside him. The pile isn’t high, because he doesn’t know how much more coding legislation he can read before his eyes dry out and wither in their sockets. He knows that it can’t be much more, though.

“You paying rent at this table or what?” Beiste says, shoving a plastic bag full of Blaine’s snack foods out of her workspace. Between his laptop, the open spines of two books in front of him, a small pile of printed news articles, and the chairs to his right and left occupied with his coat and bag, it looks like Blaine hasn’t moved in days. In truth, he’s only been here for three hours.

Blaine grabs his snack-bag before she can carelessly crush anything in it. “Hey, I got us... well, I got me brunch and you a mid-afternoon snack.”

He’s pretty sure that eating in the library is frowned upon, but he hopes in this section he’s made enough eyes at the octogenarian librarian that he can get away with it. “It’s Wednesday, right? You’re carbo loading?” Blaine asks, digging an apple out of his bag. He passes it to her with a sleeve full of whole wheat crackers and a mini box of raisins.

He goes for a sip of his coffee after, but stops when a yawn quickly takes him.

“It’s nice of you to get up at the crack of-” Beiste lifts her arm and glances at her watch. “-three p.m. The rest of the world- you know, the one that’s been awake for eight hours- is glad you could make it.”

Blaine grins around his coffee lid, inhaling more of the smell than drinking the liquid. “Don’t hate me because you have a day job.”

Beiste is eyeing the crackers, even if she doesn’t dig into them. She’s always been reluctant to eat around him for reasons that he doesn’t understand. Normally, his dinner invitations are politely declined in favor of a beer or time in the gym. Blaine doesn’t mind the former, because Beiste is actually a blast to karaoke with, or the latter, because she’s one of the greatest athletes he’s ever met. He likes that, for her, exercising isn’t necessarily about beauty or physique, but about the strength of the human body.

“I just thought that you didn’t think about a snack today. If you’re not that hungry, then don’t eat.” He offers. Blaine heard once on the subway that a girl couldn’t be with a boy smaller than her, and he wonders sometimes if Beiste sees his compact frame and feels that there’s something to be embarrassed about.

He really hopes that she doesn’t.

Beiste is his friend and he cares a great deal about her. It’s not that her appearance doesn’t matter, because he knows to her, it does, but it’s more like he recognizes that her appearance isn’t the crux of what makes her Beiste. He likes that she’s solid, how much her strength building matters to her, her ever-present red lipstick. He loves that she puts so much effort into her hair, taming the waves everyday, because he knows how hard that is.

He sees how uncomfortable she can be in her own skin, and he hopes that he’s never added to that.

“So whattaya workin’ on?” Beiste shakes off a contemplative look, reaching for and opening the sleeve of wheat crackers.

“Architectural context?” Blaine says, like he doesn’t actually remember anything that he’s read in the last hour and a half. At Beiste’s blank look, he continues. “You have cities like ours, where you have the old bricks and the new skyscrapers. You can’t throw a stone without hitting something with a little historic... and then you have cities like Atlanta, where they didn’t restore anything after Reconstruction. It’s all new.”

Beiste looks at him expectantly, eyebrows quirking up impatiently. “Tell me the time, don’t build me a clock.”

“Okay, so we have these neighborhoods that mix the old and the new. Developers come in with architects, and they build new structures to go with the old fixtures of the neighborhood. If you tear down one of those old fixtures, the new structure loses a little piece of context. There have been a few buildings saved on those grounds. I mean, I’d take the platform of ‘tear one down, you might as well tear them all down’, but I’m afraid that the City might take that as some kind of challenge.”

“You’re a smart kid.”

Blaine laughs brightly, earning a glare from a table down. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No- not surprised.” Beiste purses her thin lips thoughtfully. “You ever give a thought to goin’ back to college? I can’t help but think of all the people you could be helpin’ but aren’t because you’re too busy... settling.”

Blaine’s brightness dims immediately, a little flame doused by a bucket of ice water. “I’m not settling.”

Beiste says grimly, “I think that the life you got is close enough to the one you want. I know you’re happy, but I’m afraid that you’re happy because you think you have it good enough.”

“Wow,” Blaine’s mouth parts, hurt. He’s blinking, if only because he’s too shocked to speak. “So that’s how you feel?”

He’s shaking his head as he reaches for a printed news article. He’s not even sure what he’s reading, just that he can’t really look at Beiste right now.

“Hey,” she tries. “Hey.” Beiste uses her pen to tip the top of his article-shield down and away from his face. “I think you have limitless potential, I do. You could save the world if you really tried.” The look on her face is so anxious, like a puppy cowering with the knowledge that it’s disappointed someone. “I don’t always say the right thing when I care about somethin’, but I care. That’s all, I promise.”

“I never wanted a degree,” Blaine shifts under her gaze. His mother is so far away, his father is a drunk who didn’t call this morning, and Beiste is the only adult he knows and consistently sees who’s stable and doesn’t come bearing dollar bills. “I like learning, but a degree was never really important to me. I only ever wanted one when I thought it’d make my dad happy. Once I realized that wasn’t an option, I didn’t see much of a point.”

Blaine, for as much as he tries to willfully assert his independence and strength, ultimately buckles under the weight of disappointing the people he cares about. He feels embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” Beiste says.

Blaine nods, “Okay.”

Beiste nods, sitting back to filling out the few forms attached to her clipboard. She doesn’t fare as well in the face of Blaine’s emotions as he does hers. He accepts that. If he’s honest, he needs a few seconds to pull it together anyway.

“So,” he starts. “How long til you hear back with those?”

Beiste looks up from the form, “Three days, minimum. At the most? Three weeks. If it’s not on the internet, it’s buried in a basement. I figured it’d be best to file the inquiry and then search.”

“I’ll pray to the Patron Saint of Search Engines that we find something, then.”

Beiste chuckles. It’s a warm sound, rich and raspy around the edges. Instinctively, the corners of Blaine’s mouth lift in response.

“Three weeks is a long time.” Blaine knows it’s too long. They have one month, and yeah, a Google search takes a fraction of a second, but Google hasn’t come through for them yet.

“We’ll keep trying. Between the two of us ramming our heads together, I’m sure somethin’ll rattle loose.”

“If we get really lucky, maybe Eleanor Roosevelt blew her nose inside, or something. If her cold virus doesn’t qualify as historic, then our country values nothing. Ooh! Or maybe J.D. Salinger squatted there when fame got to be too irritating.” Blaine muses.

“At this point, I’ll settle for Woody Allen walking by the place.” Beiste chews a cracker thoughtfully. “So Architectural context?”

“Architectural context,” Blaine echoes, wondering if this was some sort of a game.

“What’s that about again?” It’s not much, but it’s still a lot more of an effort than most people make for Blaine.

Blaine leans over the table, greedily digging a few crackers out of the sleeve. Beiste is completely and clearly forgiven when he speaks, “Okay, so we have these neighborhoods that mix the old and the new. Developers come in with architects...”

“Guys like that don’t notice guys like me,” Kurt shakes his head, chin held high. He reaches for another jello shooter, trying to rip his eyes off of Blaine’s body. He says it like it’s fact and not some insecure gleam of truth.

Puck, who for all purposes, shouldn’t be here seems to be taking notes. He has no problem with staring the dancers down, dissecting the way they move, and depositing some of it in his drawer of tricks. Kurt doesn’t think he’s aroused, but when one of the dancers draws an audience member up onto the stage and forces her to draw his vest’s zipper down with her teeth, he hears Puck clap out a “Nice!”

Kurt’s comment draws Puck’s attention enough for Puck to elbow Kurt like they’re bros and like he’s about to lay down the secrets of the universe. “Kurt, guys like that are being paid to notice you. They’re kind of a sure thing.”

Kurt nods imperiously, trying to school his face but instead looking uncomfortable. He doesn’t want the attention from a stripper; any time he finds one of them attractive, he immediately starts worrying about the state of their relationship with their parents. He has trouble fetishisizing people who are so over-sexualized. The dancers seem bored to him, miming through a dance that they’ve done a hundred times, with little care about the outcome.

Tina grabs two tubes from the holder, thrusting one in Kurt’s hands and taking hers with a tipped hand. Mike has the kids for the weekend back home and Tina got the frequent flyer miles. It seems like she’s celebrating for the both of them. “You don’t like it?” she asks, wiping her lips. “I think it’s amazing.”

“I don’t know why we’re here,” Kurt shouts over the music. “This isn’t really my kind of thing... and well-- none of you are gay.”

Tina squeezes his knee and half nuzzles into his side; a lightweight, yet perpetually friendly drunk. He’s always loved that about her. “I like men!”

“You’re damn right you do-” Puck says around the lip of his beer bottle, attention drawn... somewhere. Kurt realizes that it’s Tina’s breasts, which are still a cup heavier from her last pregnancy.

“No, I do!” she insists. “Why shouldn’t I like to watch them? Some of them look so-- strong.”

Kurt nods, wrapping an arm around her for an affectionate squeeze. “You’re drunk... already. It’d be cute if it didn’t make me worry.”

“Kurt.” Tina pushes off of his side to hand him a third shooter in a matter of minutes, “Drink! Seriously, we’re out celebrating YOU and you’re acting like the designated driver.” Tina wriggles her shoulders, holding up the tube and swaying it like a pendulum holding some kind of precious anecdote. She’s flirting in a harmless bubbly manner, looking beautiful and mature in a way that Kurt still has trouble divorcing from the awkward girl pretending to stammer. How she got here, to this, was anyone’s guess.

“It’s New York!” She inches the glass tube into his reluctant fingers, wheedling out the smallest of Kurt’s smiles. “You’re young, you’re successful, and I’m only here for two freaking days. Drink!”

Kurt tips his head back with a condescending shake of his head, “Fine. Fine! Don’t say I never was irresponsible.” He barks out a laugh, almost choking on the noise and the Jello when Tina whispers in his ear. It isn’t a particularly funny joke but he’s glad she’s here. Rachel and Finn saw a different New York, one regulated to staring dreamily at Times Square and visiting every god forsaken tourist trap the city had to offer. He’s happy that if he has to be here, in this New York, it’s with these two people. Puck won’t judge him. Tina wants him to be free.

Behind him, Blaine can hear the masculine bellowing at the stage floor. He knows, without seeing, that the six dancers spread across the stage are dancing furiously to the music. A round of catcalls suggests that a few of them might be grinding up against one another, rather than the polished steel poles.

Blaine is sweating, curls damp only at his temples. He’s been working hard tonight, and yeah, his abdomen is sore from the swinging of his hips, but the music is good and the pay is even better. He’s dancing on one of the tables, a quick and complimentary tease for a small group crowded into a booth.

“Lift up your hands,” Blaine says, lifting up his own in example.

Kurt rolls his eyes, but Blaine is undeterred. He swivels to a crouch, before folding his knees to kneel against the table.

Kurt is horrified, hoping they haven’t spilled any booze on the table, because... Blaine’s pants. For God’s sake, they aren’t even tear-away. From where he’s sitting, a foot away, he can see that the costumed fabric is actually quite fine. The seams on his thighs are drawn in a way that can only emphasize the dancer’s trim hips and the solid three inches of skin between the waistband and his navel. Above his hipbones, a black vest dangles, open and inviting.

Blaine is still moving to the heady thump of the music, pivoting his hips with each pulse of the bass.

It’d be hypnotizing, if not for the way that his focused gaze is making Kurt’s cheeks flush, “Lift your hands?”

Some strippers grab and force, but Blaine has never been able to. He never wants to feel unwilling hands on his body. He doesn’t want it even in play, which to him, is all stripping is.

Kurt nods dumbly. When he raises his hands, he’s almost suspicious. He’s not afraid, he doesn’t know what the dancer wants his hands for.

Blaine’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, reaching for Kurt’s hand, winding their fingers together. They remain entangled for a full eight-count, before Blaine tugs gently forward, silently urging Kurt to his feet.

To Kurt’s left, Puck is treating this like an educational experience, because as far as he knows, Kurt’s a prude. If a stripper could have him drooling and on his feet after a minute, this was a skill that must be learned. In Kurt’s peripheral vision, he sees Puck nodding seriously.

The chorus picks up the beat, so Blaine doubles the vigor of his movement, rocking his body in smooth figure eights, shoulders broad and revolving one way, his hips another. They’re close enough that Kurt can feel Blaine panting stray breaths against his cheek, even if he can’t hear it over the music. Kurt realizes that he wants to hear it, but more than anything, he wants Blaine to turn around so he can see the rhythmic shifting of the muscles in the man’s back.

With his free hand, Blaine smoothly unbuckles his belt, an unnecessary accessory if Kurt has ever seen one because Blaine’s pants are practically painted on. The motion is tried and easy, even with the thrusting of Blaine’s hips.

When the next verse kicks in, Blaine drags in a deep relieved breath. Sweat winds down his collarbones, which hollow out when he breathes in. He drags Kurt’s hand low, lower, near enough to his pubic bone that Kurt gasps. “It’s okay,” Blaine reassures him breathlessly. He releases Kurt’s fingers, stroking them from knuckle to fingertip, before hooking Kurt’s finger around the brass belt buckle, and easing his hips backward, a motion that guides the leather cord from Blaine’s belt loops.

It’s not trashy. Even though he has a stranger’s belt in his hands, Kurt can’t handle how not trashy this is. It’s one of the most playfully erotic moments of his life, and he’s only embarrassed because Tina and Puck are sitting right there.

Blaine isn’t bored and lifeless on the table. He’s not moving like he’s obligated to, but like he can’t bear to be anything but a part of the music. Kurt knows a performance when he sees one though, and he’s sure that he’s watching something Tony-worthy, mere inches away from his waist.

Kurt sits down and immediately Tina dives for his arm, crushing his bicep in her fingers where she promptly hides her face in an amalgam of childlike joy and mortification.

Blaine rises back onto his heels, casting a look to Puck that suggest he might be the next target.

“Bark up another tree, bro.” Puck shouts immediately and Blaine tips his head back with a generous laugh, nodding in concession. Tina it is.

Before Kurt can process everything that’s happening through a haze courtesy of the club’s low lighting, alcohol, and the stirring of desire, Blaine is turning again, waggling his forefinger, beckoning Tina forward.

“Hold on, hold on!” Tina fumbles for her phone, holding her arm out like she’s trying to prevent someone from holding her back. No one is. She’s giggling when she takes a picture of Blaine’s abs, swaying unsteadily in her heels. Kurt’s not sure if it’s possible for the picture to have turned out. The lighting of the club is pretty dark and Blaine’s stomach is catching different hues from the colored neon.

Bless his heart, Blaine smiles over Tina’s head, dropping to a crouch when she curses so she can take a closer shot.

She thrusts her phone at Kurt, who sees a text message go out. After a few seconds, Blaine chucks the underside of her chin, slowly turning and easing his open vest down his shoulders. He wriggles them a little, and Tina takes the hint, reaching up and giddily stripping it off of his glistening skin. She’s laughing so hard that she burrows her face into the fabric of the vest, allowing it to drown out her elation.

Kurt feels Tina’s phone vibrate and instinctively passes it back to her. “From Mike,” he explains.

Tina looks like it’s Christmas morning and folds Blaine’s top over her inner elbow. She slides her phone open with a snap. Sure enough, she’s howling with laughter again, turning the phone so Blaine can see the message that Kurt doesn’t get to see until Blaine is laughing too. Blaine’s laugh is beautiful and Kurt has never wanted to be part of a joke so badly.

“Boyfriend?” Blaine shouts over the music.

“Husband!” She shouts back, proudly showing off her rings.

“Wonderful,” Blaine says genuinely, making the movement of his hips far less raw, adjusting his approach with the new information. He’s still prodding Tina, but by the outro, he’s only lightly cupping her shoulders.

Kurt finally sees the text message, which is in all-caps: “SHOW HIM THIS”. Above it there is a short video of Mike pointing at his eyes and giving the universal “got my eyes on you” gesture.

The song dies down and Blaine breathes out with a whoosh, momentarily looking both proud and like he could collapse. After a second, he clambers down off of the table, sliding easily to sit on it’s edge. His legs cut between Tina and Kurt, one foot resting on Kurt’s seat near Kurt’s thigh.

“Nice dance,” Kurt says awkwardly. He can admit that much, even if he doesn’t know how to speak to Blaine.

Blaine takes his discomfort to mean that Kurt’s being disingenuous. “Hey, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I get it.”

“No, no. I meant it. You have a very... I don’t know if it’s presence or what, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” Magnetism, Kurt thinks vaguely. Blaine was coming apart at the seams with magnetism. “I don’t mean that as a come on either, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. Their heads are closer together, tucked down in their own conversation. “So, you look like you’re either going to crawl out of your skin... or it’s going to get up and leave without you.”

“... Thanks?”

“No seriously, are you uncomfortable?”

Kurt nods, sheepishly.

“Then why are you here?” Blaine asks, genuinely wanting to hear the answer.

“I’m ‘celebrating’,” Kurt says, framing the word with air quotes. “Apparently this is how adults celebrate.” His tone is almost flirtatious, like he’s trying to be in the moment. He’s failing, but he hopes it’s at least an endearing attempt.

“Apparently.” Blaine says without passing judgement. He made his living off this place after all. How could he regard it with complete contempt?

“What are you celebrating?” Blaine asks loudly, sheepish because the music has drowned out, leaving him talking far too loudly.

Puck speaks before Kurt can get a word in edgewise, “It’s his birthday.”

Blaine looks happy, like he doesn’t see someone come through on their birthday every night. His eyebrows are raised and his mouth drops open, ready to offer his congratulations before Kurt cuts him off decisively. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Shut up, dude.” Puck looks to Blaine, sternly. “It’s his birthday.”

“No it’s not,” Kurt snaps. “Why are you even saying that?”

Puck leans over, trying to be subtle as he jerks his head over to Blaine. In response, Blaine just crosses his arms and waits. “I’m trying to get you a dance... I figure if it’s your birthday or something, he might give you a little something.”

“You’re so... gross.” Kurt says. He returns his eyes to Blaine, looking warm and apologetic. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Kurt laughs, the small noise a titter.

“What are you celebrating?” Blaine tries again.

Puck slumps back into the booth with an irritated thud. “He got some stupid... magazine thing. I bet you don’t give lapdances for shit like that.” He’s petulantly nursing his beer now, disappointed.

“Magazine thing?” Blaine hasn’t heard this one before.

Kurt preens a little, clearly proud of the accomplishment that Blaine hasn’t yet heard. “Yeah, Twill wants a few pieces for a photo-spread. It’s... the focus isn’t on me, but it’s still mine. You know? It’s huge.”

Blaine nods, “So you’re a model?”

Puck barks out a laugh, startling Blaine. Blaine looks legitimately confused, an expression that Kurt thinks might be one of the cutest he’s ever seen. “Like that’s crazy?”

Puck looks between the two men, looking to Tina for backup. Tina doesn’t even look back from where she’s rapidly texting Mike. Her fingers fly over the keyboard every thirty seconds or so. “It’s Kurt.” He points. “He’s so freaking Kurt. Look at him...”

Blaine does look at him, appraising Kurt intently. There’s nothing too intense about his features, and Blaine really feels like he’s not getting the joke, because what he sees is so enviably beautiful. He’s perfectly polished. A heart racing mixture of high cheekbones that offset round eyes with thick eyelashes. Kurt’s top lip is perfectly bowed, thick and rounded at the top. The nose... the nose is just adorable. It’s perfect. And that’s coming from Blaine who’s seen a lot of noses that people have actually paid obscene amounts of money for. “I’m looking and I still don’t think it’s crazy.”

“I don’t get it, man.” Puck scoots over to Tina, immaturely snatching the phone out of her hands.

Kurt shakes his head, looking like he wants to be embarrassed, except for the fact that he’s clearly not. “I’m a designer. They wanted a few of my vests, a jacket. It sounds small when I say it like that, but I’ve worked really hard. It’s very important to me.”

Blaine nods. “Then I’m happy for you.” He can’t say that he knows Kurt’s earned it, because he doesn’t, but he guesses that the boy has. “Very happy. It’s not small at all.”

It’s Tina who interrupts, “Do you do private dances?”

Kurt thinks it’s the most sudden, inappropriate, and confusing question she could have asked. Then he remembers where they are and what it is that Blaine does.

Tina’s half standing, resting her elbows on the table and looking between Blaine and Kurt like she’s trying to solve a very big and very unspoken problem.

Blaine nods, smile wavering for such a small second that Kurt only notices because he’s standing right there. Kurt can see each dot of stubble on Blaine’s chin. It’s plucking up enough to color the skin, not enough that it would scrape against the palm of a hand. Of course he saw the dimming of Blaine’s smile.

“How private are we talking here, dude?” Puckerman’s interest is clearly piqued. He’s leaning over pausing from typing, face drawn in straight lines and hard angles.

“Back there,” Blaine points to the curtain. “The song of your choice, from beginning to end... it’s private, but I can handle myself.” More aptly, Blaine knows when to cut and run. The way that Puck is looking at him isn’t necessarily predatory, but it does make the hair on Blaine’s arms stand on high alert. Blaine’s been beaten down, bloodied and abandoned in a high school parking lot. He hasn’t allowed himself to be vulnerable, so reckless with his own safety, since.

Guys have pushed, a few have managed to squeeze bruises into his hips and forearms, but Blaine has always managed to come out clean. Normally it takes a look, or a stronger than they expected shove. “There’s a bouncer outside the curtain.” Blaine masks his discomfort playfully, eyeing Kurt first like he wants him to join in on the joke. Kurt thinks that maybe Blaine believes that he and Puck are a couple. “You’re already in a gay club... the secret’s out. You don’t have to be em-”

“-Whoa, hold the breaks there, Skippy. I’m Noah Puckerman.”

Blaine looks again to Kurt, shrugging playfully. The name isn’t familiar. He’s not going to pretend he knows it. “And Noah Puckerman is...?”

“He’s not gay for starters.” Puck explains with no uncertain terms. “I’m all about my boy here, Kurt-- but I’m not all about him, you understand?”

Blaine draws out a long ‘oh’ of understanding. “So you’re asking how private the dances are for Kurt?” He looks to Tina next. “And you’re asking if I give them because-”

“Kurt think’s that you’re... well, look at you. He’d never ask.”

Kurt hides his face in his hands, “Oh my god, you two. I’m so ashamed to know both of you.” The music drums up again, Guns and Roses pushing in with a familiar guitar riff. Kurt groans in horror.

Blaine laughs warmly, leaning over to gently wind his fingers with Kurt’s, tugging the man’s hands away from his face. The look he gets in response is so gentle, so bashful that it’s almost arousing. It’s also embarrassed. Blaine squeezes Kurt’s fingers, letting a joke die in his throat. Instead of teasing, Blaine leans forward, in line to whisper. With the music, whispering is more talking at an audible, normal tone. It’s still quiet over the din, over the shouting, over the thump of the house mix. “You’re very sweet, Kurt.” Blaine releases his fingers. “There’s nothing wrong with being sweet.” He leans back, breaking out of Kurt’s personal bubble as softly as he had entered it. “I’d be honored to dance for you.”

“Honored,” Puck says, slamming his beer bottle on the table like the matter was settled. “Honored, Kurt. Don’t insult the man, geeze.”

Kurt shakes his head, reaching for the final jello shot. “I can’t... I want to, but I... the thought of it makes me wonder if your parents know where you are.”

“They’re probably at home... tucked into bed and watching Leno, trying to figure out why I’m not actually in the studio audience since I actually live here.” Blaine shakes his head, reluctant to back away, but he knows that he’s working. He’s singing in an hour. For now, he’s danced and he’s lingered. Nothing more is going to come out of this, and if he stays for much longer, he’s going to start thinking that he’s at the table because he’s a part of it. “Look... I... what’s your last name?” At Kurt’s blank, distrustful look, Blaine explains. “So I know what I’m looking for in the magazine. I want to see.”

“Hummel.”

Blaine nods. “Congratulations Kurt.”

Blaine leaves the table after collecting his belt and shrugging his vest back on. Puck starts telling Kurt immediately where he went wrong, and Tina’s starting to dig more ones out of her purse, wondering aloud if she really did give Blaine a twenty instead of a ten. She stops rooting when she realizes that hey, Puck’s been texting her husband for a few minutes now. She leans over Kurt to read what Puck is texting, mouth gaping in horror, “Don’t you dare send that, Puck. I swear to God.”

Kurt’s distracted by Blaine, who’s pulled into quiet conversation with a waitress. His hand is between her shoulders, his mouth is very close to her temple, and if Blaine wasn’t still looking at him over her head, he’d have sworn they were a couple.

The girl nods, smiling brightly, a tad too longingly for them to have been a couple, and Blaine moves back toward the line of tables across the distance.

“He was cute. What’s the harm in a crummy little lapdance?” Tina asks, phone reclaimed.

“It’s still early. He’ll crack... look at him, he’s eye-fucking that guy now.”

They’re interrupted by the waitress bringing over a tray of shots, sliding them on the table. They’re more Jello tubes.

“Who-- we didn’t?” Kurt starts, looking to Puck or Tina for confirmation that neither of them had developed telepathy in the last few minutes and had ordered the booze.

“The House takes care of it’s birthday boys,” she says with a cute half shrug. “Consider this comped, ‘kay?”

Kurt wants to laugh, in fact he’s smiling when Tina hands him his shot.

Across the floor, Blaine is already wearing another man’s hat, sliding his fingers around the brim and wearing it like he was born in it. The owner of that hat is stroking Blaine’s ribs beneath the open vest. When he looks up, Kurt shakes his head and raises the tube thankfully in his direction.

Blaine mouths ‘Happy Birthday’ and smiles, and it’s breathtaking.