The strobe lights dance around, throwing glowing spots of coloured light around the room and illuminating the twisting, dancing mass of people on the floor. The music blares out, reverberating off the walls, the beat throbbing like a pulse to guide the dancers. Blaine’s always thought that good dancers have a way of following the music like they’re obeying the command of some invisible puppeteer jangling them around by invisible strings. He’s had plenty of opportunity to observe clubbers; this is his third year of bartending, after all. He started out in a small, dingy bar with horrible, warbled country music and regular bar brawls, but since then, he’s worked his way up, and now he’s finally here at Seraphim, and here he plans to stay.

It’s a good place to work. He has great co-workers, especially Lucy and Nick, who have taught him a lot and who take him out for karaoke night so often they’re beginning to get rather famous at their usual haunts. The crowds always cheer when they get on stage, although Blaine suspects that might have more to do with the fact that Lucy mostly wears delicate white dresses and blouses, and neither Blaine nor Nick has found the heart to tell her that the stage lights turn them nearly transparent, because she always looks so happy when the audience cheers extra loud for her. That very same effect certainly helps fill the tip jar whenever she’s behind the bar, and Blaine makes sure to coordinate at least two of his four shifts a week with hers. That way, his tip share is bigger, and he can be sure to look out for shady types who look at his friend the wrong way.

Blaine really likes the club itself. It’s rather exclusive, tastefully decorated, and has a cleverly set up sound system that blasts music over the dance floor, but actually leaves the area by the bar relatively quiet, as well as the small plateau behind it that’s artfully cluttered with overstuffed armchairs and pouffes, mismatched lamps and tiny, rickety old tables. The drop in noise means that Blaine doesn’t have to bring earplugs or try to lip-read people’s drinks orders, and for that he’s insanely grateful. It also means that he overhears some pretty interesting or downright funny conversations sometimes and that, once, he was able to save a girl from choking on her maraschino cherry because her panicked wheezes caught his attention and made him look up and spot her in the crowd.

Tonight has already been highly entertaining. The two blonde girls at the end of the bar keep trying to flirt with him, resolutely ignoring Nick, who can’t quite keep his eyes off the shorter one of the two, and who keeps giving them discounts. Blaine has reminded him twice already that his generosity is coming right out of his own paycheck, but Nick ignores him and Blaine rolls his eyes. There’s a lull in the rush of people at the bar – tonight’s dj is very popular and nearly everyone is dancing, so Blaine uses the spare time to take out the trash, which is dangerously close to overflowing with lime peels. When he gets back inside, a small group of people have made their way to the bar. They seem to be mostly girls, but the tallest one is clearly a boy, his short brown hair and broad shoulders standing out from the others. The boy is sending scathing looks down the bar, where Nick is chatting with the two girls instead of doing his job of manning the bar. Blaine heaves a sigh, puts on what he hopes is a disarmingly apologetic smile and slides in behind the counter to take their orders.

“Sorry for the wait, guys. My friend is mesmerised by shiny things, as you can see.” he nods his head towards Nick and the two girls, who are both wearing short, sequined tops. “What can I get you?”

The short girl at the front of the group giggles, bats her lashes at him and orders a cosmopolitan. She tells the others to get whatever they want, it’s on her, and then turns back to lean in and tell Blaine in a conspiratorial voice, “We’re celebrating! I got my first big role at the spring showcase at the New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts (Blaine can actually hear the capitalisations as she speaks), and I’m the only freshman in the production!”

He smiles at her.

“Congratulations. You must be very talented, then.”

She beams at him and lingers as the others place their orders and leave to find a table at the back. The girl, who’s introduced herself as Rachel Berry, is still talking as the boy makes his way to the front and cuts off her rant with an annoyed, “Rachel, leave the poor guy alone. We’ve talked about this. No harassing people who are too polite to admit it when you’re boring their lights out. Go sit down with the others, I’ll bring your drink.”

Rachel shoots him an indignant look, but shuffles off, and Blaine turns his attention to the boy in front of him.

This close, the boy is absolutely gorgeous; his eyes are the greenish blue of a tropical sea, his skin almost translucent, and Blaine kind of wants to trace the strong line of his jaw with his finger. Or his mouth.

It takes a moment for the boy’s order to filter through to his brain, and Blaine almost reaches for the vodka to start mixing the White Russian when he has a brilliant idea. He really wants to know the boy’s name, but straight out asking seems a bit weird. So he does something else.

“Do you have any ID I could see?” he asks, mentally congratulating himself on this stroke of genius. His elation is short-lived, though, because the boy’s face falls.

“You’re carding me? But… you didn’t card any of my friends! Rachel’s younger than me, you know.”

Blaine can’t think of anything to say. To be honest, his brain freezes a little, because this was not the way it was supposed to go. He didn’t mean to embarrass the boy (although the blush looks good on him)!

The boy rummages through his wallet furiously, mumbling something about his stupid baby face and Blaine blurts out, “No! You have a lovely face!”

That makes him look up, his cheeks even more flushed than before, and Blaine feels his own cheeks heat up too and closes his eyes in embarrassment.

“Forget about the ID. I didn’t mean to… I-I only asked because I wanted to know your name and not sound like a-a stalker or something.”

The boy’s mouth falls open and he stares at Blaine like he’s not sure what to think.

“Oh.”

Blaine recognises defeat and decides he can never chastise Nick for making eyes at a disinterested customer, because clearly he’s no better himself. He tells the boy he’ll be over with the drinks, but can’t help himself adding, “You really do have a very lovely face.”

“Kurt.”

“What?”

“That’s my name. Kurt Hummel.”

“O-oh.”

Kurt finally smiles, and there’s a glint in his eye when he says, “That’s usually when you say yours.”

“Blaine. Anderson. Blaine Anderson. Hi.”

Kurt chuckles a little, but shakes his hand nonetheless.

“Nice to meet you, Blaine.”

Blaine spends a good portion of the night sneaking glances over at Kurt and his friends’ table, but they leave at around two, and then he feels ridiculously sad for the rest of the night. Just as he’s about to leave and go home to get some sleep, Nick calls out from where he’s wiping the tables down.

“Blaine! You want this or shall I throw it out?”

In his hand is a folded-up napkin, and Blaine looks at him blankly, because that is just bizarre, even for Nick.

“It says ‘Blaine Anderson, if you want to talk to my face. Kurt Hummel’ and then there’s a phone number.”

Blaine almost falls on his face in his haste to get to Nick, and he knows that he just doomed himself to weeks of friendly teasing, and nosy questions, if Lucy gets wind of it, but when he walks home, it’s with Kurt’s number tucked away in his pocket like a talisman.