The First Time Kurt Sees Him

“Ok, so I'm here. What was so fucking important that I had to leave my quiet Upper East Side penthouse and come to this ridiculous Masquerade Ball?”

Rachel spins on her heel when she hears the familiar musical, lilting trill filter into her ears. Clearly intoxicated, what with her bumbling spin and flushed face, she throws her arms around the slender, pale neck of the tall, sinuous man now in her line of sight.

“Kurtie! It's about time!” Rachel drunkenly shouts over the thumping bass and guitar riffs currently resonating loudly through the humid, smoky air of the ballroom.

Grumbling through an “Oomph!” Kurt, on instinct, wraps his arms around Rachel's waist to close the hug his best friend is so keen on giving him. As annoyed as he'd been with the litany of text messages blowing up his cell phone, he couldn't very well keep up his annoyance, what with Rachel's excited, warm, albeit inebriated, welcome.

Pulling back from Rachel's embrace, Kurt grabs the condensation-slick glass of what he presumes is some fruity cocktail and downs the remnants of it, feeling the hot sugary burn of it slide down his throat. It's only after downing Rachel's drink that his friend seems to finally see him rather than the familiar outline of his visage.

“Oh my god, you look fucking perfect Kurt.” Rachel gushes breathily.

Rachel practically preens at the sight of Kurt's Alexander McQueen navy wool tuxedo jacket with black shawl collar, matching slacks, and crisp black button-down, top button undone to expose the pale hollow at the base of his neck. The tuxedo, which he tediously and expertly tailored to his own exact measurements to ensure the perfect fit, enhances the breadth of his shoulder, the taper of his waist and the long, toned lines of his legs.

His mask, a glossy black bat shape adorned with simulated nail heads and studs has been carefully chosen to obscure much of his face – to hide the telltale marks, raised and hideous, that mar his once flawless face from view. Leaving only the stark crystalline blue of his eyes and the thin, pink width of his glossy lips exposed, the mask emboldens his presence: severe, dominating, powerful, elusive.

Not to mention, the hand-carved points on either side of the mask make his skillfully coiffed chestnut pompadour look even more impressive. All in all, for assembling the outfit at the last possible minute (Rachel really is the Queen of Bad Timing), he looks good. Damn good. He can already feel eyes on him – curious stares that seek to discover who this darkly elegant and strange newcomer is to the festivities.

Kurt rolls his eyes and points to the bar, signaling to Rachel that wherever this conversation is going it requires another drink – this time without the sugary fruity flavor.

Rachel follows behind; Kurt can feel his friend's eyes watching the swish of his trim hips and the graceful stretching of his long, lean legs as he navigates his way through the maze of meandering revelers.

Rachel is up to something. She only gets that feral gleam in her eye when she's planning on dosing Kurt with some good ole fashioned meddling.

Immediately upon approaching the bar, Kurt flicks his hand to catch the attention of the busty female bartender down the way. He knows that with his sharp jawline, angular nose that turns slightly upward at the end, wide mouth, high cheekbones and creamy porcelain complexion that women tend to find him attractive. Long ago he came to treasure the rare combination of masculine lines and feminine softness of his appearance.

He knows precisely how to wield such a combination. He is used to the lingering gazes, smirks and suggestive gleams but mostly he enjoys the flash of shock and disappointment when they discover he doesn't bat for their team. The headiest part? The women still gaze upon him, want glittering in their eyes, sometimes more intensely, once they discover his preferences.

Then again, this happened years ago, before The Event happened. But he supposes with the mask hiding the permanent aftermath, he may as well take advantage and wield the dusty, nearly forgotten weapons in his arsenal.

The bartender stops in front of Kurt who quickly orders their most expensive pinot noir. Not one for liquor, much less drinking usually, Kurt often resorts to wine should the occasion arise that requires alcohol. The fruity cocktail still hangs warm and heavy in hi stomach, the familiar earthy and spicy taste of the wine saturating his tongue with decadent relief.

He returns his attention to his friend who also with just a quick flick of her hand receives another fruity cocktail from the bartender.

“Okay Rachel Berry. Spill,” Kurt demands over the rim of his wine glass.

Rachel, for her part, feigns offense and innocence with well-timed doe eyes, taking a large sip of her drink. “Whatever do you mean, my darling?”

Kurt snickers. Okay, now he knows something is up. Rachel, while possessing a heart of gold beneath all the cold ambition and self-involvement, never speaks so saccharinely sweet unless she wants something.

“Why am I here, Rach? You know I hate these things. It speaks volumes of our friendship that I'm entertaining this – you.”

Kurt tries to keep his voice calm, even but the scratchy roughness of annoyance thickens his tone making him sound petulant and whiny.

Rachel's grin, shit-eating and wide at its finest, illuminates her face and eyes, “Oh nothing, just him.”

Almost as if she'd strategically planned it, Rachel turns to point at the man now standing center stage beside a grand piano, fingers delicately ghosting over the ivory keys. Seemingly satisfied with what Kurt presumes is the tuning of the piano, the man turns his eyes to scan the room.

Kurt's breath catches, strangling his throat. He has to mentally remind himself to place his half-empty wine glass on the counter before stepping forward to get a better look at the magnificent man bathed in stage lighting.

Dressed in a deep red single-breasted tuxedo jacket, lapels lined with black piping, the man is – well, he's stunning, quite literally the manifestation of handsome and sexy. The deep red Xs sewn on black panels cinches at the man's waist, acting as guiding beacons to the narrow tapering of his compact frame. A matte black button-up shirt, matching black slacks, and a black satin tie complete the man's suit

The most alluring element of the man's attire is his mask: a Venetian-style black face highlighted with gold and sheet music. It contrasts beautifully with his suit and the olive-tone of his skin. Even with his dark hair gelled into submission he is a wondrous sight to behold.

Kurt's blood boils, flushing his porcelain skin to a rosy pink as he watches the man move about the stage, clearly setting up for something, gaze every once and awhile scanning the packed room.

Suddenly, the fuzzy, blood-fueled pounding of white noise thunders in Kurt's ears for the cacophonous ballroom seems to drift away and like a tunnel all Kurt can see is the man on stage. The man's cherry lips glisten from the unconscious flickering of his tongue, the Velcro of his lips peeling back to reveal a bright, slightly off-center smile. It lights up his face, tugging a string on Kurt's heart that he has long believed frayed and forgotten.

The man is positively beautiful – the most beautiful man Kurt has ever seen.

“Fuck, Rach. Who is he?” Kurt forgets his wine, his voice dropping to a husky, heated, desire-laced whisper of a breath.

Kurt feels by instinct rather than sees the satisfied smirk on Rachel's face.

“He is Blaine Anderson. He's the cute pianist NYADA hires occasionally to fill-in for bigger productions, the one I've been telling you about, Kurt. My friend Owen, who is throwing this fancy soiree, hired him as part of the live entertainment for tonight. You like?”

Kurt doesn't miss the upward pitch of too much self-assuredness in Rachel's voice nor does he miss the deepening satisfied smirk on his friend's face. He doesn't even care about that pitch or that smirk because all he can still see is him – Blaine.

God, even the way his name sounds, tastes on Kurt's lips quicken his pulse.

The telltale thrumming warmth of desire settles heavily in Kurt's belly. Blood, swift and sure, rushes south, making him dizzy with its relocation, and pools hot and heavy between his legs. It distinctly reminds Kurt how much he misses the flush, the excitement of seeing a creature so divinely crafted of beauty and that undeniable hint of sultry sexuality. It reminds him of how much he misses the thrill of catching the glimpse of a beautiful man's hip or the slope of his strong shoulders.

He has tricked himself into believing that he's somehow forgotten how much he misses wanting,craving a man rather than just settling for a quick romp with a nameless face (one he procures from an extensive and expensive database) to take the edge off.

No, no he – Blaine – is definitely, certainly and unabashedly different.

Blaine's entire body, even several feet from where Kurt stands in the shadows of the low-lit ballroom, vibrates with raw, visceral sexuality. Rather than making him appear garish, it settles around his person like a second skin, outfitting the movement of his muscles with a graceful fluidity that draws an aching moan from deep within Kurt.

“No, I fucking love, Rach. Holy shit, I've never seen any man like him. Is he – ”

Once more, Kurt feels rather than sees Rachel's reaction – a subtle flinching of her shoulder and a wincing of her eyes.

“Ugh, well I know he's definitely gay but um, he kinda sorta has a boyfriend.”

Kurt whips his head so fast to pin Rachel with a furious gaze that Rachel falters in her place next to him. Narrowing his eyes, Kurt seethes, “Are you fucking kidding me right now Rachel? I mean, really, are you? I don't have time for this shit.”

He takes a step backwards towards the bar with the intention to toss down some money for his wine and retreat to the comfort of his bathtub and his own wine bottle. Damnit. Fucking shit. He seriously hates when Rachel pulls this kind of crap.

Knowing that Rachel is not purposely out to mess with him or tease him, it still bothers Kurt to waste time salivating over some man he has no intention of having. Something tells Kurt that he can't exactly whip out his checkbook and purchase Blaine, like he has purchased so many others.

Perhaps it's the confident set of his shoulders, or the ease of his brilliant smile, or the way his eyes flash under the stage lights, brimming with alert self-awareness but whatever it is tells Kurt that Blaine is not for sale.

Rachel quickly counters Kurt's progress by softly grabbing his arm, “Hey, no come on Kurt. I'm not kidding you, okay? So yeah, I realize I should've started with the ‘he's-off-the-market' factoid but I don't know. You can't live inside your head all the time Kurt, and no judgment here, but your questionable ethics concerning certain purchases have got to stop. I don't know. Maybe I wanted you to remind you that there is…more out there.”

Kurt's lips press into a thin line. Rachel's tone drops to that soft, motherly lilt that never ceases to soothe Kurt's frazzled nerves, overactive mind and feel cared for, protected – even if it mostly annoys the ever-loving shit out of him. He is primarily the recipient of such a tone but he never minds; rather, in times like now, it's the exact tone he needs to hear.

“Are you calling me a slut or something?” Kurt lightly teases, breaking the tension between the two with the ease of a sharpened knife slicing through butter.

Rachel's eyes brighten with laughter, “More like a man with the morals of a teenage boy. Seriously, though, Blaine is an amazing singer and musician. Stay. Listen to some music. Get a little drunk. And for God's sake, relax Kurt.”

Resigning himself to the fact that he's more than likely not going to win this argument, Kurt merely nods his head and motions for another glass of wine, fully intent to take up Rachel's suggestion of getting a little drunk.Okay, maybe more than a little because something tells him that longer he watches Blaine he will need the soothing balm effects of the alcohol to suppress the raging inferno currently blazing throughout every inch of his lithe frame.

By the time Blaine exits the stage, Kurt is sufficiently turned on by Blaine's voice and presence on stage. Never in Kurt's life has a man so furiously ignited something so base, so genetically visceral in his body as that slightly off-center smile of Blaine's, the dips and sways of Blaine curving in and curving out body when he loses himself in the flutter of the piano keys, and the heave of Blaine's chest while he moves with, not against, the music. They haven't even made eye contact, let alone conversed, and Kurt is practically ready to push his way through the crowd, box Blaine against a wall and cover the seam of his mouth with a kiss so deep that it sucks the very breath from Blaine's lungs.

At this point, the four glasses of wine he has consumed aren't even taking the edge off, drunk more off the effects of desire for Blaine than the actual alcohol. Deeming the effort futile, he switches to bottled water and accepts the deepening, twisting ball of desire in the pit of his stomach as one that will only increase the longer he stays in the presence of Blaine and his piano.

Near the level of grumpy irritation, Kurt turns to Rachel with every intention of telling her that he really is tired and he needs to go home, to sleep and that yes, he really did have some fun.

But before he can utter a syllable he hears his now extremely champagne-intoxicated friend say, “So it'll be like forty-five before Blaine comes back on stage. He'll be in the crowd. I dare you to at least flirt with him – some innocent flirting never hurt anyone Kurt.”

Kurt's eyes narrow. When Rachel drinks, she becomes positively incorrigible and downright mischievous. Not that Kurt minds in this instance because while he realizes it's stupid and overtly problematic, he doesn't need another second of provocation.

With a smirk, he tosses his empty water bottle into Rachel's awaiting hands. Rachel knows precisely what she's done – Kurt can never turn down a dare. Once again, Kurt navigates his way through the crowd with an ease and comfort that seems at odds with his tendency to avoid things like this. He pays no mind to the brushes and barely there jabs from the other people in the ballroom for he espies where Blaine stands, surrounded by a mess of people evidently inebriated and gushing over the talented piano player and singer.

A tall, slender man with the face of a Meerkat and what Kurt can only describe as the smell of Craigslist stands just off to the side. Even with a cavalier glance, Kurt figures him to be the boyfriend. The man looks vaguely familiar when after only a few more seconds and a couple more brushes of people's shoulders Kurt processes his visage: Sebastian Smythe.

Fuck, Blaine's boyfriend is the cute (okay, maybe admittedly, Sebastian has an air of sex appeal, born of privilege and the knowledge he can get whatever he wants, whenever he wants and Kurt can respect that to some degree) guy from the cover of Forbes Magazine – he is one of the wealthiest hedge fund managers in the country, having somehow reappeared on the other side of the economic crisis unscathed and even richer. Kurt pays no mind to the possessive, predatory gleam in Sebastian's eye or how he remains in Blaine's peripheral vision, as if daring someone to approach Blaine without his awareness.

Kurt pays no mind because his undivided attention is on Blaine – only Blaine.

Just as he stops short of the beautiful man he has been ogling for the better part of an hour and a half, the cavalcade of hangers-on disperses leaving only a foot or so between Kurt and Blaine. The air thundering in the chasm between their bodies sparks with electricity, peppering Kurt's exposed skin with feather-soft whispers of need.

Blaine catches Kurt's gaze right then and Kurt feels the whispers of need deepen into heated pants in the most intimate of places. And as the off-center tilt of a smile seamlessly brightens Blaine's face, Kurt honestly believes he reaches climax by the mere electric presence of the compact man.

Kurt nearly forgets the social nicety of introducing himself but quickly recovers just as he clears his throat. Holding out his hand to Blaine, Kurt says just loud enough over the dull roar of the ballroom for Blaine to hear, “I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel. Your performance was breathtaking.”

Blaine's eyes, fuck, they practically sparkle and glitter under the smoky lights of the ballroom. Kurt's mouth, now painfully dry as a desert, opens just slightly to release the tense breath clogging his throat. It of course doesn't help when Blaine slides his soft – oh wow, so, so very soft and so very broad – hand into Kurt's before speaking.

“Thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Hopefully you're sticking around for the next set? My name's Blaine, by the way,” Blaine's voice, smooth yet slightly rough from his performance, chaffs against Kurt's inside in the most delicious ways. Blaine's voice virtually drips with sex.

And Kurt certainly doesn't miss the lilt of hopeful expectation at the end of Blaine's question.

It causes Kurt heart to pitter-patter in his chest and that fuzzy, heady tingling throughout his body as his mind fumbles blindly through the fog in his head. How or where the urging, heavy courage comes from Kurt doesn't know but he presses tiny baby steps forward until he can breathe in the faint hint of Blaine's scent, something peppery and earthy and decidedly male.

It is positively divine.

And it only increases the ache in Kurt's chest.

“I wouldn't miss it. Can I be frank with you, Blaine?” Kurt breathily asks.

Blaine cocks his head to the side, his brow furrowing with confusion. For the love of all things holy, Blaine really needs to stop – just fucking stop – licking his lips like that, Kurt internally muses. It's only as Blaine begins to speak that Kurt realizes their hands are still wrapped around one another's and Blaine is making no apparent move to unclasp his hand from Kurt's.

“Yes, of course, please.”

Still in that smoothly rough timbre, Blaine's polite tone seems undercut with tremors. Kurt assumes the tremors are more out of confusion than a reaction to what Kurt believes is fraught with dazzlingly hot sexual tension between them. Allowing a dangerous smirk to dance over his lips, Kurt carefully flicks his tongue out over his bottom lip, letting it rest there long enough for Blaine's eyes to ever so carefully drift downwards.

That one slight reaction alone tells Kurt everything he needs to know – Blaine feels it; that charge, the illicit squelching of pretense and coquettishness that seemingly wraps the two of them in a neat little protective bubble against the self-conscious handlings of their better senses.

“My friend dared me to make a pass at you but I'm not one for subtly or asinine pick-up lines so I'm going to cut straight to the chase. I want to kiss you, Blaine. Is that okay with you?” Kurt asks it calmly, infused with a sudden surge of confidence.

Kurt cocks his head just enough to nonverbally signal to Blaine that he has no intention of backing down and when Blaine nervously flicks his eyes to catch sight of Sebastian, Kurt presses another few inches forward. Their hands are still breathtakingly entwined allowing Kurt to pull Blaine gently towards him. Blaine's eyes dart over the canvas of Kurt's masked face in desperate attempts to understand how this interaction started as well as where it might go should he consent to Kurt's proclamation.

Kurt sees the slight, very slight, twinkle of confidence slipping in the corner of Blaine's eyes. Blaine may be fierce and confident but it appears he is not altogether used to strange men coming up to him and stating forthrightly that they wish to kiss him. When Blaine flicks another sideways glance to Sebastian, Kurt leans in closer to Blaine until his mouth hovers near Blaine's, their breaths intermingling when exhaled.

“You can say no, Blaine. But if you consent, I'll make sure he doesn't see anything,” Kurt whispers softly, dangerously.

The sound of Blaine's guttural moan nearly sends Kurt over the precipice of abandon.

Okay, now he definitely knows Blaine feels something between them. What exactly, Kurt is not entirely sure but then he feels the slight pulling of his hand and quickly realizes Blaine has spun on his heel and is guiding both of them into a small room behind the stage.

Kurt represses a tiny trill of an excited giggle when Blaine presses his back up against the wall and brings Kurt's body flush against his own. Feeling brave and drunk off the sight of Blaine, lips slightly parted, and that gorgeous sheen of sweat coating the olive-toned skin, Kurt surges forward to capture the mouth that has so entranced him all night but stops just a hair-breadth away when Blaine utters, “I – I don't know why I'm doing this. I have a boyfriend.”

Kurt doesn't hesitate, “Because you feel it too, Blaine. That charge, the instinctual pull towards something so magnetic it's undeniable, natural – like breathing. I wanted you the second I laid eyes on you so I'm asking you again, is it okay that I kiss you?”

Blaine releases that guttural moan again giving Kurt the only permission he needs. Tilting his head just slightly, he seals his lips over Blaine's.

Desire, unlike anything he's ever felt, floods each nerve ending of Kurt's body with white-hot need. He presses herself forward, wanting to feel every inch of Blaine's shorter, compact body that he can and slips his hands up to cup Blaine's sweat-slicked cheeks. Blaine's response, instantaneous and decisively bold, sends his hands to fist the lapels of Kurt's tuxedo jacket to bring Kurt closer, closer, closer still.

Sliding the tip of his tongue along Blaine's bottom lip, Kurt tests Blaine, silently seeking permission to deepen the already heady kiss. Blaine parts his lips to accept Kurt's offering and as their tongues slide along one another's in a delicious tumble of friction and exploration, Kurt whimpers. The lingering taste of spearmint gum coupled with the slightly bittersweet flavor of leftover wine on Blaine's tongue drives Kurt into a frenzied state of need, need, need. He can't get enough of Blaine, craving more of Blaine – his taste, his smell, and God feel of him beneath Kurt's fingertips.

Kurt very nearly takes Blaine right then and there.

Yet Kurt is not the only one pontificating on the notion of total wanton abandon in that small room. Blaine, too, shivers, trembling with the sudden, typhoon-like flood of hunger that radiates throughout every inch of his body – even the ends of his hair burn – flare – with this wild ache for the tall, slender man kissing him breathless.

When Kurt approached him only moments before, Blaine immediately felt the roundhouse kick of electric desire. Through the thickness of Kurt's expertly tailored clothing, Blaine sees the hard, masculine lines of his lithe build and with Kurt's strong jawline, pink mouth, and blue eyes, he is magnetic, ethereal – otherworldly. It causes his stomach to swoop just a bit. 

Blaine hasn't felt that for a man since before he and Sebastian met (something he still hasn't felt when in Sebastian's presence, even years later). But there is something, well something as natural as breathing as Kurt noted earlier that sparks between them when their eyes met for the first time.

Blaine instantly knows he wants to know Kurt, wants more of him.

What draws Blaine in so dangerously, so precipitously he doesn't know but now that Kurt's soft, wet, pliant mouth works over his own, a branding kiss stripping him of breath, Blaine knows he can't let Kurt just disappear into the crowd.

When Kurt finally breaks contact, Blaine mewls in protest, chasing Kurt's mouth for more, just more. He wants, no craves more – more of Kurt's kiss, more of Kurt's taste (so distinctly spicy from wine and traces of chocolate), more of Kurt's hands on his body, any part of his body. He continues to cling to the lapels of Kurt's tuxedo jacket, not wanting to lose the closeness of their bodies after the smacking unsealing of their lips.

Blaine really has no idea why he is acting like some horny, overly eager teenager who just discovered the pleasures of the flesh because damnit, he is a twenty-year-old man with a boyfriend whom he has been unfailingly loyal. But then Kurt presses another brief kiss to halt Blaine's chase, Blaine forgets all sense and decorum.

Trailing a feather-stop path of kisses along Blaine's jawline, Kurt stops, hovering over Blaine's ear as he whispers teasingly, “I want to lick every inch of your perfect body, kiss you and touch you and fuck you until you're begging for mercy.”

Blaine barely manages to breath “Ohmygod” before the already familiar weight of Kurt's body cleaves off from his own and Kurt disappears into the crowd, leaving Blaine breathless and wanting in the small room behind the stage.

It is only later when Blaine is undressing at home that he finds a cream-colored business card stuck into his pocket. He hadn't even realized that Kurt slipped it in when their hips rocked and rolled against one another's during that world-altering kiss.

And it is only before Sebastian turns off the las of the light in their bedroom to shower the room in darkness does Blaine finally, secretly, and consciously read the black typeset words: 

Kurt Hummel

CEO & Designer, Blackbird Designs

New York, New York

(212) 876 – 9305