Outside the guest wing, the corridors are less bright, dimmed for the nighttime. More people move and loiter within them though. Blaine receives a few long looks and outright stares, but he does his best not to return the scrutiny. The manner of dress has—as Nick would say—degenerated. Men and women expose more bare skin, and colorful, sheer fabrics cling to bodies to accentuate the form beneath. Chatter is bright and quick—too fast for Blaine to follow. Pairs and trios hold onto each others arms and waists and press their faces to each others shoulders and necks. Some carry stemmed glasses with wine and other beverages. As he nears the ballroom, Blaine even glimpses a couple, tucked into an alcove, kissing, and the womans hand has slipped beneath the waistband of her partners pants to touch his backside.

If Blaines heart beats faster—if his skin flushes with warmth, and some strange new sensation seethes and twists deep in his belly to pulse even lower, he wont let it stop him. Hes not afraid.

The high double doors into the ballroom sparkle with blooming bursts of light; it reminds Blaine of the fireworks he once saw, when he attended the launch of their newest warship with the Ambassador last year. The light had scattered over the shining hull of the A.D.F.S. Medusa like a scatter of igniting stars. Blaine uses the memory to fortify himself, and the doors slide open for him as he approaches.

Its like walking into a towering wave of motion, light, and sound. He stands for a moment, absorbing the shock of it. Expected, yes, but still a lot of stimulation to incorporate. Still, Blaine feels dizzy as he steps forward. The music throbs like a heartbeat. He scans the rhythm of the crowd for any familiar face, but finds none. He moves toward the edge of the room rather than into the sea of dancing bodies. He keeps his gaze high, upon faces, but he sees enough in the riot of movement in his peripheral vision: bared arms and legs and torsos shining with sweat, hands gliding over bodies, round breasts and peaked nipples, muscular buttocks and strong thighs, faces contorted in expressions of emotion Blaine doesnt recognize. Is this what being drunk looks like? As unnerving as it is to see people caught up in any extreme of sensation, something about it—the lack of self-consciousness, perhaps—is beautiful in its own way.

Blaine looks for somewhere to sit and then he hears his name, barely audible over the noise, but clear. He turns and sees Tina, grinning at him as she approaches. She takes him by the upper arm and leans in close as she speaks, "Blaine!" she says again. "Youre here! How wonderful."

Her hair is pulled up away from her face and piled atop her head in a network of intricate loops and braids. She wears dark blue brocade, burgundy lipstick, and black eyeliner. Her dress is a brief pleated skirt and a sleeveless, low-cut top thats buckled tightly around her waist, from her hips up to her breasts, with several wide straps that only serve to push the naked tops of her breasts up into prominence. Blaine cant help but look down at them. Hes never seen this much bare skin on a woman so close.

"So… do you like what you see?" Tina asks playfully, swaying even closer to him.

"Im, uh." Blaine looks back up. "Im relieved to see a familiar face," he says and takes a step back; shes too near.

"May I get you a drink?" Tina asks. She lifts the glass in her hand. Its fogged with condensation and full of a pale liquid. Theyre serving some of my fathers wines tonight. This one is very crisp and refreshing."

"Thank you, but no," Blaine says. "I wonder if you can help me though—have you seen Kurt?"
Tina frowns and glances about cursorily. "Kurt? Youre looking for him?"

"Yes," Blaine says. "We were meant to meet after dinner, but he was detained. Hed mentioned giving me a tour of the Garden tonight. Elliott said I could probably find him here later, at the dance."

"Oh," Tina says, and her expression falls into disappointment. She steps back then too. "So do you prefer men?" she asks and sighs. "My usual luck."

Its not an answer to his question, and hes not even sure what shes talking about. "I was hoping to find Kurt," he says, redundantly.

"Right," she says, "Well, hell be performing with Elliott if hes here."

"Performing?"

"They sometimes sing together at these things. Theyre actually really good."

"Oh, I enjoy live music," Blaine says.

Tina laughs, and then she looks at him critically. "And look, Blaine," she says. "If youre wanting to get anywhere with Kurt tonight, you should probably lose the jacket and, um," she reaches toward his collar; her hands hover for an instant, and Blaine keeps still, unsure what her aim is. She finds the magnetic snap at his throat. "Loosen up your shirt a little." She pulls the snap apart—and the one below it. The air feels strangely intimate on his skin as she tugs his collar open and smooths the fabric across his collarbones.

He slips off his jacket, too, at her repeated prompting, and feels even more exposed without the weight of it; its just the thinner fabric of his shirt between himself and the air. He folds it over his arm for a lack of anywhere else to put it.

"Thats better," Tina says. "You still look overdressed, but at least you dont look entirely like a chaste case."

Its not a phrase Blaine knows, but before he has a chance to ask Tina, the lights go out and the music stops.

"Here we go," Tina says.

It begins with a slower, deeper beat and a cascade of splintering light breaking from the high ceiling and falling down in spiraling filaments of gold, blue, and white. Then, a brilliant flash, magnesium bright and blinding, and the music speeds, electric strings scream and soar, and Blaine blinks until he can make out two silhouettes on either end of a raised platform in the center of the room. Some whoops of enthusiasm break from the crowd.

A voice carves into the spaces between the instruments, raw and powerful. The afterimage of the flash abates and Blaine sees that its Elliott, clad in shiny black, facing Kurt who wears a sheer white lace t-shirt and silver pants—and it looks like his clinging pants are made of mercury, they gleam mirror-like and appear so flexible and fluid around the length of his legs as he strides toward Elliott, with a swivel of his hips and a beckoning cock of his head—and then Kurt opens his mouth to join him in song. His voice is smooth and pure, light and clear, rising over the goosebump raising texture of Elliotts. Blaines never heard anything like either of them.

Nor has he seen anything like them. They face each other with an intensity that makes it seem theyre the only two people in the room. Then Elliott hooks a hand around Kurts waist and draws him closer, and Kurts shoulders drop back as his spine arches—he bends like a sapling in a breeze, even as he steps closer, leading with his hips and straddling Elliotts thigh. Kurt drags his pelvis up slowly with a sinuous flex of his spine until theyre pressed together just there, at their groins, in a manner so brazen, Blaine forces himself to look away. He looks down at the floor, watches the darker patterns of reflected illumination ripple under his boots. Heat and unfamiliar emotion rise in his throat and flood his mind, and perspiration begins to stick his shirt to his skin.

Nick was right, maybe he shouldnt have come. He shouldnt be here; he shouldnt be seeing any of this. Some other emotion threatens to close his throat with the colder grasp of humiliation. He doesnt understand it well enough to banish it easily. He came expecting— What did he expect? Kurts attention? Kurts interest? Something beyond the bounds of their professional dealings and the natural curiosity of his job? What was he hoping to achieve here? Friendship? What did he hope to discover? Nick had warned him, and he came anyway. He nods to himself. This is a distraction; hell go back to his room and meditate until hes clear-minded and focused fully on the start of negotiations tomorrow.

But then beside him Tina groans softly near his ear. "Theyre so gorgeous, arent they?" she says to him, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. Her hand presses against his back. "Look at them."

The way she says it, and the urge of her unexpected touch, Blaine looks back up to the stage before he can stop himself. And there his gaze arrests. Kurt has turned in Elliotts arms, is pressed back against the length of him, his head tossed against Elliotts shoulder as he sings. Elliotts hands are both on him: one splayed across his chest, rubbing possessively across his pecs. The darker ovals of Kurts nipples are clearly visible beneath the stage lights and the gauzy white lace. Elliotts other hand slides lower as Blaine watches, pressing down the center of Kurts belly and over the low waist of his pants, down even further to cup him between his legs. Kurt closes his eyes and rolls his hips forward into that touch, and the music climbs to a crescendo along with their voices.

Gorgeous, yes, and Blaine cant look away.

"You should have seen them at the Bacchanalia two springs ago." Tina murmurs close to his ear, and the tickle of her breath against his neck makes him shiver. "Theyd just gotten together, and it was breathtaking to see them."

He can believe that; he cant seem to take a full breath right now. But he finds enough air to say, "I should go."

"Why?" Tina asks. And before he can respond, she says, "Come on." She takes his hand and pulls him forward with her as she moves into the crowd. Blaine stumbles to keep up and not bump into too many people on the way.

A spray of sparks erupts from the perimeter of the stage as the music finally soars to its final note. Elliott twists and turns Kurt, dipping him back and laying a kiss full on his mouth. Then they break apart, straighten, and raise their joined hands to receive the applause of the audience. Kurts expression is radiant as he stretches his arms over his head. They bow together, and then step forward off the stage. Soon, the previous music resumes.

"Kurt!" Tina calls out with her other hand raised to catch his attention, and Blaine is impressed at the volume she summons.

"Tina!" Kurt calls back with a wave, and then hes pushing through the crowd toward them and dragging his fingers through his hair, which is damp and drooping with sweat. Then he sees Blaine, and his smile widens into delight. His eyes are wide and keen, and his pale cheeks flushed pink. He looks lovely. "Blaine?" he says and comes closer. "I wasnt expecting to see you here."

Tina lets go of Blaines hand and takes his jacket from his arm. "I invited him to come along at dinner," she says.

"Im so glad you did, Im sorry for missing you earlier. Elliott explained." Kurt says and his attention is so fixed upon Blaine, its almost palpable. "Please, dance with me?" Kurt offers a hand, palm up.

The word no suddenly doesnt even exist in Blaines vocabulary. Thoughts of reminding Kurt of the proposed Garden tour, thoughts of asking Kurt if they can go somewhere else to talk vanish. Blaine hasnt danced with anyone since his school days. Its another activity rarely pursued in public in adult life, but its one he enjoyed and at which he excelled as a child. He wants so badly to reach out and take Kurts hand, wants so much to say yes to Kurt, even if hes not supposed to—even if its a distraction. So he does. "Yes, I think Id enjoy that," Blaine says.

"Ill make sure you do," Kurt replies with a quirk of an eyebrow. Then his fingers are closing around Blaines and hes drawing Blaine into his personal space. His other hand settles at Blaines waist, the heat of his palm and the pressure of his fingers is vivid, like a brand through the fabric of Blaines shirt. Kurt guides Blaine into an easy rhythm and swaying step, nothing too complicated.

But one thing nags at the back of Blaines mind, even though he knows things are different here. "Are you sure this is appropriate?" Blaine asks. Where he comes from, only married couples dance together as adults, and generally its a fairly private affair—at a wedding, with their family, though he understands well enough, too, that Elyssia has more liberal ideas about privacy. He remembers his parents dancing together on their anniversaries with fondness.

"Hmm? Were both off duty, arent we? We can indulge ourselves tonight and still be professional in the morning."

"Not that," Blaine says, for he trusts himself to maintain his professional decorum, and how

Kurt does his job is up to Kurt. "But I didnt know you were married."

Kurt gives him a confused look. "Married? Im not."

"You and Elliott—"

Understanding widens Kurts eyes. "Hes a friend. A close friend. We perform together, and were lovers on occasion, but were not exclusive. Why would you assume we were married?"

Theres too much in the sentence Blaines uncertain of, so he just answers the last question Kurt puts to him. "The way he was touching you on stage? Tina said you were together."

"Oh, we were together, for about a year, but thats past, so please dont worry." Kurt smiles in a more promising and hazier sort of way and shifts closer until Blaine has to move his hands over Kurts shoulders lest they become trapped between them. The sheer lace of Kurts t-shirt is so fine and soft its barely perceptible to Blaines touch. He can feel the silky texture of Kurts skin more clearly, the slight dampness of perspiration, the heat and shape of his body. He holds Kurt loosely as their bodies brush together, and Kurt bends his head near enough Blaine feels his breath on his lips and Kurts hair tickles against his forehead. "Id rather focus on you, now that youre here." They never danced like this at school.

It sends a rush of fresh heat to simmer beneath Blaines skin, and his head goes muzzy with it. The flutter and shift in his belly sharpens and spikes a rush of inchoate wanting; it floods a heaviness to his groin that he hasnt experienced since the onset of puberty. The whimper that surges up his throat barely passes his lips before Kurts leaning in even closer, angling his head to press his mouth to Blaines jaw and his hands are sliding around to the small of Blaines back, to pull him close enough that Blaine feels it: even through their clothing, Kurts penis is an unmistakeable hard ridge pressing into his hip, and hes aware of his own rebellious flesh, stiffening in sympathetic response.

Sometimes Blaine dreams of drowning. In times of stress, its one that recurs. Its puzzled him
though, because its not a nightmare. In the dream hes never in pain, never truly afraid.

Instead its a flood of bliss and longing that surges up and covers him as he drifts down into soothing darkness. He struggles toward the surface at first, because hes meant to. But his struggles have little will behind them, and soon he gives up, the light above him dwindles, and he lets go. Sinks. This—dancing with Kurt—feels like that, for hes overwhelmed, his rational mind sluggish and feeble as the thread of sensation of Kurts lips on his skin tangles with the urgent responses of their bodies. Held and pressed against Kurt in a such shockingly intimate embrace, the pull of desire is deep and dark, and it threatens his reason.

He could let go. He could let Kurt guide him down toward whatever his body is hungering for. The friction between them is something delectable and tempting to pursue, and it feels like its building toward something even better. Each grinding shift of their bodies together in the music increases the pleasure of the next pass.

But Blaines got enough of his wits to also understand this remains—for him—an embrace for spouses to share, preferably in private. And even though Blaines body is telling him it wants this very much, he blinks his eyes open and lifts his head to look around. He sees how unprivate this is, how other people are looking at him—how Tina is still nearby, dancing with Elliott and looking at him (she smiles encouragement)—and his awareness skews into a sudden flash of embarrassment to clear his head. Hes not a person to behave so carelessly. This isnt why he came; its not what his intention was in finding Kurt. They were to continue their conversation and see the Garden, he reminds himself. This is… This not a conversation.

"Kurt," he says. "Wait. Please?"