Blaine shoved his hands into the pocket of his jeans, shivering against the cold regardless of his thick peacoat and double-layered wool socks. He stole a sidelong glance at Kurt, who virtually glided down the icy sidewalk in his chocolate brown Marc Jacobs trench, a tartan scarf wrapped around his neck, looking utterly unfazed by the stinging cold.

“H-how are y-you not fr-fr-freezing?” Blaine asked in awe.

Kurt held his head high and shrugged. “Shivering is unattractive, so I simply don't do it,” he replied. A stiff breeze blew by, and Blaine trembled uncontrollably. That, along with Kurt's remark, made Blaine glare at him.

Kurt snickered when he noticed.

“But it's cute when you do it,” he revised.

Blaine huffed. “You don't have to patronize me,” he pouted, sticking out his lower lip and turning his face haughtily away.

“Oh! Poor Blaine,” Kurt cooed in a playfully patronizing tone. He nudged Blaine with his shoulder until Blaine smiled.

“Hey! Cut it out! You're making it hard to stay mad at you!”

“That's the idea.” Kurt aimed one final nudge at Blaine, but Blaine deftly dodged it. “Spoiled sport,” Kurt scolded. He watched Blaine laugh, his eyes twinkling with a combination of the cold and nerves. Blaine pulled the lapels of his coat closed tighter at his neck, but he no longer looked quite so frozen…or terrified. Kurt sighed. It was heartbreaking how much Blaine's crooked smile could still melt his heart, but he tried not to let it get to him too much. They were friends, the best of friends, and they were in a good place in their relationship, as evidenced by tonight's excursion.

A trip to a local bar they frequented to try and get Blaine a date (though in some of their conversations about the goal for tonight, the word date was often code for laid).

Their laughter died down, but their smiles remained. They walked along in silence, ignoring the tension building up between them.

“This isn't going to make things awkward, right?” Blaine asked out-of-the-blue.

“Nah” - Kurt waved a dismissive hand in front of his face - “of course not. We talked about this. It's time, Blaine. Time for you to get out of the loft and meet people.”

“I know people,” Blaine argued. “I know you, and Rachel, and Santana. That's…three people…”

“More people,” Kurt emphasized. “Preferably ones not from Ohio.”

They reached Club Amnesia and stopped outside the door. Kurt pulled up Blaine's collar and flattened down his hair. Blaine's smiling eyes shone up at him, and a lump formed in Kurt's throat. He forced a smile, looking into Blaine's eyes as if the anticipation in them wasn't killing him slowly.

“There you are, Mr. Incredible,” Kurt said. “Now let's go inside. Everyone's going to love you.”

They walked through the door, but Kurt bypassed the dance floor and dragged Blaine straight to the bar. He ordered a beer for Blaine and a martini for himself. The second the bartender set the glass down in front of Kurt, he raised it to his lips and took a long sip. Blaine watched, a questioning eyebrow raised, a silent comment about Kurt's sudden and immediate need for alcohol.

“What?” Kurt asked, starting on another sip. “It's just the one.”

Blaine shook his head and drank his beer, relieved that, for whatever reason, Kurt seemed as nervous as he was. They'd only discussed Blaine getting a date. That didn't mean that Kurt was planning on going home empty handed…if he went home at all. Kurt didn't date much either, but apparently that wasn't an issue. Kurt was more social than Blaine. He carried a heavier class load at school so he was there more often. He had an internship and a part time job. He was out and about seven days of the week, and of the two of them, he was the only one still performing with a show choir (partly because the choir director, Adam, had a huge crush on Kurt, and Blaine never felt welcome).

Blaine pretty much went from the loft, to NYADA, and then home again. He lived off a trust fund so he didn't need to work, however he did tutor kids from a neighborhood middle school music program from time to time. He guessed Kurt was right. He had moved to one of the greatest, most exciting, most culturally diverse cities on Earth…and had become a homebody.

It was time.

But moving on himself was one thing. Watching Kurt move on, too – that was another.

Blaine tried not to dwell on it. He turned around and scoped out the pickings on the dance floor. They hadn't chosen a ‘gay' club, per se, but there were plenty of men dancing with one other, in groups more than in pairs, and Blaine felt encouraged to join in on the fun. He finished his beer and returned the bottle to the bar.

“I think I'm going to hit the dance floor,” Blaine yelled over the music.

Kurt nodded, taking a final sip of his drink. “I think I'll go with you.”

Kurt and Blaine made their way to the crowded floor, moving with the rhythm of the music as they fought to get to a corner where a group of men gyrated and danced in a tight cluster. A tall brunette wrapped his arm around Kurt's waist, his hooded green eyes staring down the length of Kurt's body as he pulled him close.

“Hey, gorgeous,” the man whispered in Kurt's ear. “Wanna dance?”

“I think we already are,” Kurt shot back with a flirty laugh.

Blaine rolled his eyes and turned away, his face hot, but he convinced himself it was just the rise in temperature from the group of bodies moving closely together.

“Hey, short stuff,” a good-natured voice to Blaine's left called out. Blaine turned in the direction of the voice and saw a dark-skinned man beckoning him over. He was seriously muscular, with closely cropped hair, a thin layer of black liner around his eyes, and a t-shirt so tight that it left little of his upper body to the imagination.

His startling physique momentarily stunned Blaine into silence.

“Uh…” Blaine stammered, pointing to himself. “Do you mean…”

“Yeah, you,” the man said, flashing the whitest teeth Blaine had ever seen. “It seems like your date ditched you.”

“Oh…Kurt?” Blaine glanced over his shoulder to where Kurt swayed in the arms of a nameless man. “He's not my date. We're just…friends.”

Blaine gulped down the bitterness of that word. When Blaine had started calling Kurt that, it only mildly stung, but lately it's begun to taste like three day old rancid coffee in his mouth.

“Good.” The man reached out and took Blaine's hand, grabbing his fingertips and pulling him close.

Because the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets…

Blaine remembered those words, and how conflicted Kurt was when he said them, back when sex was still a taboo subject for him. But not anymore, Blaine thought, taking one last look at Kurt, grinding up against a complete stranger, before Blaine joined the man inviting him to the opposite side of the dance floor.

“My name's DeLeon,” the man said, shaking Blaine's hand.

“Blaine.”

“Well, Blaine, are you here for business or pleasure?” DeLeon asked as he tried to get Blaine to dance.

“I...I don't…” Blaine's expression went blank, and DeLeon laughed.

“I'm just joking,” he said. “I'm a flight attendant. I ask people that a lot.”

“Oh, so, you don't live in New York?” Blaine asked, distracted by checking over his shoulder for Kurt. He could barely make out the top of Kurt's head as he bounced to the music in the arms of another man.

“No,” DeLeon replied, watching Blaine with interest. “This is just a stopover.” DeLeon took Blaine's hands and put them on his waist, then seductively shook his hips, trying his best to get Blaine to loosen up, but Blaine simply went through the motions. He listened to DeLeon talk, smiled politely, responded to his questions with the simplest answers, but his mind was definitely elsewhere.

“Hey, honey, are you alright?” DeLeon asked. “You seem a little preoccupied.”

“What?” Blaine focused a little more on the man in front of him. He saw concern, and a hint of disappointment, on DeLeon's face. He felt like a heel when he realized what an awful dance partner he'd been. “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” he said, trying harder to improve his dance game and make it up to him. “I'm sorry. It's just…it's been kind of a long day. That's all.”

“Uh-huh.” DeLeon peeked over Blaine's shoulder to the stylishly dressed man that Blaine kept searching out every two minutes or so. “Okay, so, here's a question for you, Blaine – I know I invited you over here and all, but why are you dancing with me when it's obvious you'd rather be somewhere else?”

Blaine sighed. “I don't know…”

“Yeah, you do.”

“It's not that I want to…”

DeLeon's pointed look told Blaine that he could see through Blaine's bullshit excuses already.

“I mean,” Blaine started again, subconsciously looking over his shoulder at Kurt, “we're…”

“Let me guess,” DeLeon interrupted, “you dated, one of y'all cheated, and now you're best friends. From that pining look in your eyes, I'd say he cheated…”

“Actually…” Blaine stared down at his feet, which had given up on keeping any kind of beat and just shuffled back and forth, “I…cheated…”

“Oh,” DeLeon said. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agreed. “We're cool now, but I don't think he's ever forgiven me. Not really.”

“I dig that,” DeLeon said. “Well, I can see how you might feel stuck between a rock and a hard place, but it looks to me like your friend has forgiven you.” They both caught sight of Kurt, waving enthusiastically and giving Blaine a thumbs up, before the man that Kurt was dancing with grabbed him around the waist and spun him. “It also looks like he's moving on. So you need to make up your mind as to what you really want. Either fight for your guy…or move on, too.”

Blaine nodded again, meeting DeLeon's understanding brown eyes.

“And here's your chance.” DeLeon gestured over Blaine's shoulder with his chin. Blaine saw Kurt cutting through the crowd with his new friend in tow. Blaine felt a hand on his hip. He looked down and saw DeLeon sliding a business card into his front pocket.

“If you decide to move on,” he said, “give me a call,” and walked off into the crowd just as Kurt reached them.

“Hey!” Kurt sounded giddy, his cheeks flushed from dancing. But when he saw Blaine alone, his brow furrowed. “What happened to your friend?”

“Oh…” Blaine looked in the direction DeLeon had gone. “He…left.”

“Oh,” Kurt echoed with a sympathetic frown. “Oh!” But his face quickly lit up again, and he pointed to the speaker overhead. “Listen!”

Blaine stopped his pathetic shifting side-to-side to pay attention to the song, which had changed while they were talking.

“ABBA! Dancing Queen!” Kurt said. “Remember?”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, trying to mirror Kurt's excitement. “I remember.” How could Blaine forget? Prom. Another night when Blaine had danced with Kurt, except at Prom, Blaine could call Kurt his boyfriend. Now it just seemed like a cruel reminder of everything he'd lost.

“Don't just stand there! Dance with us!” Kurt pulled Blaine to the center of the dance floor, oblivious to the sour face of his companion. “This is Seth, by the way.”

Blaine gave Seth a wave.

Seth didn't wave back.

He could swear that Seth sneered at him.

Blaine looked at Kurt, who smiled at him in a way that Blaine hadn't seen since before they had broken up, and that was all it took to get him to forget everything, including unhappy Seth, and start dancing. The music drew them together more than once, Blaine taking Kurt in his arms to twirl him or dip him, and Kurt doing the same to Blaine. It wasn't until nearly three songs later that they realized Seth had taken off and they were dancing alone.

“Uh…” Kurt scanned the dance floor, but Blaine found him first and pointed. “What the fuck!?” Kurt exclaimed when he saw Seth talking up another man at the bar.

Blaine was upset on Kurt's behalf…but not too upset. He actually wouldn't mind if they left and put this off for another weekend…in another month.

“I think we're giving people the wrong idea,” Blaine said. “I think everyone thinks that we're here together.” He put a particularly exaggerated amount of emphasis on the word together, but it was lost in the pounding music.

Kurt seemed confused, but then nodded dramatically. “Ohhh,” he said as realization hit him. “Yeah. You're right.”

“Good,” Blaine said, glad that this was finally over with. He couldn't wait to get back to the loft and take a hot shower. Then he and Kurt could sit on the sofa, share a bowl of popcorn, and watch the latest episode of Cutthroat Kitchen.

Blaine had taken a single step toward the door when Kurt said, “Let's split up.” He patted Blaine on the back and bounded away.

Blaine sighed as he watched Kurt go. That wasn't the response he'd been hoping for.

***

“So then my fifth cat got hit by a truck, and I realized that maybe a cat isn't the best pet to have in a city like New York, so I got a parakeet, and I named him Pete…Pete the parakeet. Get it?”

Chandler giggled at his own joke while Blaine just nodded, blinking his heavy eyelids rapidly in an attempt to stay awake. Chandler seemed nice enough at first, and moderately attractive. At first blush, he had reminded Blaine of Kurt. But truth be told, Chandler was a little too thin, a little too angular, and he wore too much foundation. Chandler had cornered Blaine, drinking his second beer by one of the smaller tables lining the dance floor, and now, almost an hour later, was jabbering endlessly about his various pets, highlighting their pros and cons with regard to city living. He had gone through fish and hamsters, had moved on to cats, and apparently had come to birds. Blaine wondered how many animals Chandler might have killed since moving to New York last year, since that seemed to be how all of his stories ended.

“But then he died…”

‘And that makes 17,' Blaine thought.

Blaine took a stealthy peek around the bar and spotted Kurt talking to a buff man with dirty blond hair, wearing form fitting black jeans and a violet, button down shirt tucked in. Blaine felt green watching Kurt roll his eyes fondly, laugh a little too hard, rest his hand on the man's arm a breath too long. A lump formed in Blaine's chest. He tried his hardest to shove it down, but it wouldn't budge, so Blaine left it there and, instead, tried to be supportive.

‘Good for him,' he thought, trying to mean it. He wanted to be happy for his ex-boyfriend, even if it meant that he himself would be miserable if the two hit it off. He imagined listening to Kurt talking on the phone to this guy and laughing at his jokes. Blaine pictured walking in on them making out on the sofa in the living room…or hearing them have sex in Kurt's room.

Blaine's ears began to ring, his jaw aching from how hard he had started grinding his teeth.

Kurt summoned the bartender over to order another drink. While Kurt's back was turned, Blaine saw the man he was talking to pull something out of his pocket. When Kurt's martini arrived, the man “accidentally” dropped something on the floor. He made to reach for it and winced. He put a hand to his back and grimaced, and Kurt offered to get whatever from the floor. As Kurt bent over, the man reached for Kurt's glass. Blaine's eyelids narrowed, peering at the closed fist hovering over Kurt's drink. He saw something small drop into the alcohol and sink straight to the bottom.

“My third parakeet, Jimmy---“

“One minute,” Blaine said, cutting Chandler short, not noticing the crestfallen expression on his face.

“So, NYADA…” Blaine could hear the man cooing as Kurt leaned in close, drink in hand. “I bet that's…”

Blaine grabbed Kurt's drink and slid it across the bar. He stepped in between the two men, glaring threateningly into the stranger's eyes.

“What the fuck, asshole!” the man snapped. “You're messing with my game!”

“Blaine! What are you…”

“He put something in your drink, Kurt,” Blaine said, not risking taking his eyes off the other man for a second. “I saw him.”

Kurt stepped back, mouth hanging open.

“What…are you delusional?” the man barked. “I would never…”

“Then drink it.” Blaine indicated the drink with a tilt of his head. The man looked at the abandoned martini sitting on the bar.

“I don't really like gin martinis,” the man said firmly.

“Do as the man says,” the bartender commanded, walking over at the sound of the commotion. “Take a sip.”

The man looked from the martini, to Kurt, to the bartender, and then to Blaine. He slammed his hand down on the bar.

“Fine,” he said, sliding off his bar stool. He shoved a twenty in the direction of the bartender. “I'm outta here.”

“I don't think so. Marco!” the bartender called to the bouncer at the door. “Can you babysit our friend here while I call the police?”

“Surely,” the burly man said, leaving his post.

“Oh, come on!” the man complained, but the bartender put up a hand to shush him, already on his cell phone.

“Come with me,” Marco said, grabbing the man by the upper arm. The man looked like he might try to push off and run, but Marco tightened his grip, flexing his arms through his long-sleeved tee, and the man gave up without a fight.

“Whatever. Little slut isn't worth a five dollar martini anyway,” he muttered as Marco led him away.

Kurt gasped. Blaine turned when he heard it. Kurt saw Blaine's eyes and couldn't stand it. Why did this have to happen? Not just that he was nearly drugged, but that it had happened in front of Blaine. Kurt hadn't seen the danger, but Blaine had, and he ran to his rescue.

The ex-boyfriend that Kurt was trying to help find a date, the boy that Kurt was trying so hard to put behind him, had swooped in like Prince Valiant and saved him.

He dropped his head, thoroughly humiliated. Of all the stupid, bad luck…

“Hey” - Blaine put a hand on Kurt's arm, rubbing gently - “are you okay?”

“No,” Kurt said honestly. “I was almost drugged, that Neanderthal called me a slut, and to top it off, you had to leave your…” Kurt glanced over to Blaine's table, his forgotten companion glaring in their direction. “Wow. He does not look amused.”

“It's alright,” Blaine said, ready to blow Chandler off. “You're safety is more important.”

Kurt shook his head. What Blaine had really said was, “You're more important,” but Kurt couldn't let himself hear that, because that wasn't what Blaine was supposed to say.

It was nice to hear, but…

“You know what? I'll be fine,” Kurt assured him. “Besides, he's waiting for you. You don't want to be rude.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I'll be okay,” Kurt repeated with a weak smile. “Go. Go talk to your friend.”

Blaine didn't want to leave Kurt, and not because he'd almost been drugged, and definitely not to go back to Chandler.

But Blaine couldn't put pressure on Kurt. It wouldn't be fair.

“Alright,” he said. “As long as you're sure.”

“I'm sure,” Kurt said. “I'll probably pack it in soon anyway. I think I've had more than my fair share of excitement for one night.”

Blaine wanted to say something else. He didn't want Kurt to walk home alone. He didn't want Kurt to leave him with Chandler, or anyone, even if that was the original plan. But Kurt put on a brave face and shooed Blaine away. Blaine left him at the bar, and returned halfheartedly, but with a sincere smile, to the sullen man waiting for him.

“What the hell was all that about?” Chandler griped.

“I had to help out a friend,” Blaine said, shakily taking his original seat.

“I see.” Chandler tapped his foot. “He looks like more than a friend, actually. Are you going home with him?”

Blaine frowned at Chandler's scowl. “Well,” he said sluggishly, his head spinning as the adrenaline level in his body plummeted, making way for the beers he'd consumed to take over, “not right away. But we live together so…”

Before Blaine could block it, something wet slapped him in the face.

***

Blaine's recollection of the evening from then on was fuzzy at best. He vaguely remembered having a drink tossed in his face, the sugary liquid dripping down his brow and into his eyes triggering massive déjà vu. He saw a blurry Chandler storm away, and wondered why the man seemed so offended. Blaine's eyes began to burn as daiquiri collected in the corners. He groped around the tabletop for a napkin to clean it up with.

A comforting arm wrapped around him from behind, and a hand press a napkin into his. While he blotted the dripping liquid from his skin, lips pressed against his neck. A silky tongue collected the drops he hadn't gotten to and licked them away.

Blaine turned in the embrace and blindly captured a pair of startled lips, not caring for the moment whose they were. He couldn't help himself. He felt himself breaking down. The night had become too much to bear. He needed solace. He needed another human to connect with, any other human. He needed someone to take care of him for a little while, to fill in the holes that had been progressively forming through the course of the evening, holes he thought he'd already sealed up tight.

Apparently, he hadn't done too good job.

He felt himself being led to the dance floor. Lady Gaga blared out of the speakers overhead. Another body moved with his to the beat of the music, never going farther than his arms.

I live for the applause, applause, applause,

I live for the applause-plause

Live for the applause-plause…

Hands palmed his ass, slid down the front of his jeans to tease and caress, while those soft lips kissed him breathless. His head became fuzzy, his vision fuzzier, but he couldn't care less. He needed this. He wanted it. Blaine left the club with someone that night.

After that, he didn't remember much else.

Blaine woke slowly, blinking open eyes that painfully adjusted to the low light of what he knew was his own bedroom by the smell of the sheets and the comforting feel of his Sobakawa pillow underneath his head. He attempted to move, but a tangle of limbs kept him locked in place.

He smiled.

He had done it. He'd gotten himself laid. It was a bittersweet victory, but it meant that he had gotten Kurt out of his system long enough to let someone else in.

This could be the start of something beautiful…if he could only remember who he was with.

Please, don't be Chandler. Please, God, don't let it be Chandler. Please tell me he didn't feel guilty about assaulting me with a daiquiri and came back to take care of me. Please, oh please, oh please, oh please…

The only other person that Blaine could think of was the man with the sexy, come hither eyes, and the good advice who had given him his business card. Blaine had seen him walk off into the crowd, but he never actually noticed if he had left. What was his name again? Oh, God. If it was him, Blaine hoped he remembered his name before he made an ass out of himself.

Blaine knew he should get up, hop in the shower, and wash the stench of bar off of him, but he rejected the idea of getting out of bed in favor of turning in the arms that held him tight and coming face-to-face with the man who might help him mend the rest of those holes that were torn open last night; the ones that were made when he and Kurt (mostly Kurt) had decided not to pursue a romantic relationship.

“Well,” Blaine said, sensing from the change in the man's breathing that his mystery lover was awake, “good morning hand…some…”

Panic-stricken eyes greeted him; familiar blue eyes that he had woken up to dozens of times before.

Eyes he saw in his dreams.

Eyes he even saw in some nightmares.

Blaine stared into those eyes with no idea what to say.

“Uh…” Blaine gaped, grasping for something deep, something romantic or emotional to break the ice.

He failed spectacularly.

He considered singing, but quickly decided against it.

“Did this get awkward?” Blaine asked finally.

“Yeah…” Kurt dropped his eyes to the blanket beneath them, unable to hold Blaine's gaze. He ran a shaky hand through his mussed hair. “It got awkward.”