“How you holding up?” Kurt asked, handing a flute of champagne to Blaine, who had retreated off to one corner of the room, sneaking away from the limelight long enough to catch his breath.

“Is it time to go home yet?” Blaine sounded so much more like Kurt's adorable submissive than up-and-coming rock star sensation Blaine Anderson that, despite the stress of the evening weighing him down, Kurt had to smile.

“That bad?” Kurt asked, watching Blaine drink down nearly half the glass of champagne in one gulp.

“I didn't realize that these release parties could get any worse than the ones Brad ran for Sing.” Blaine waved at a photog when they passed by, bothering the couple long enough to take a candid. “How long have we been here?”

“Ah, time, money, age, they're just abstract concepts,” Kurt replied, diving in to his own flute of alcohol.

“Are you trying to tell me that I don't want to know?”

“That's right.”

“Oh, God.” Blaine sighed. “We're going to grow old and die in here, aren't we?”

“How long did you sign on to stay anyway?” Kurt asked. These P.R. commitments of Blaine's were often fickle. Sometimes there was a set schedule of events with times meted out, and sometimes they were open ended. Parties like the one they were at fell somewhere in the middle. There were things Blaine was expected to do, but they weren't exactly planned. They just happened when they happened. Technically, he could probably sneak away and let his team come up with an appropriately vague excuse for him: family commitments, unexpected emergency, seasonal exhaustion. But this was Blaine's album they were pushing, and he always felt bad bouncing from a function early and leaving others to plug his work for him. Kurt would normally agree, and stick it out with him, except it was the week before Christmas. They wanted to be home with the kids, baking cookies and watching corny old movies, or in Kurt's playroom, enjoying an evening alone with the new toys Nick gave Kurt during last weekend's adults-only gift exchange. After weeks of partying into the night and then waking up early the next day for the obligatory day time talk show interview, with little time left for anything in between, Kurt and Blaine both needed some stress relief.

“I don't…I don't know,” Blaine said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, as close to an itinerary as he'd been given, and unfolding it. “It says that I have autographs to sign and that should be it.”

“Autographs?” Kurt got a strange sense of déjà vu. “That's not bad. That should only take…”

“About two hours,” Blaine filled in with a groan bred from experience. “Ugh! Whose bright idea was this anyway?”

Kurt gave his sub a look, but he didn't say a word. The question was most likely rhetorical anyway, but Kurt wasn't going to be a dick and remind Blaine that rushing to put out the new album in time for Christmas was Blaine's idea, as was most of these parties and press events. He'd hoped to make use of some of his old connections to give his publicity and sales a bit of a nepotistic boost before those lines went cold. Kurt felt for him. Blaine's getting back into show business after his ordeal on Sing was kind of like putting himself back on the market after an abusive relationship. On paper, when they were planning all this out months ago with Blaine's manager and agent, it seemed so appealing, and Blaine looked forward to the times ahead. But here, in the thick of it, Kurt could feel Blaine's stress levels rising, his anxiety overshadowing what should be a fun evening of doing one of the things Blaine loved the most – talking about his music.

But selling himself was the part of the business that had always been hard for Blaine to handle. He'd long since put his old coping mechanisms away. It was up to Kurt to help him out.

“Breathe,” Kurt commanded, taking a deep breath in, smiling when Blaine automatically followed suit. It was that easy with them. “Look, if you feel yourself starting to stress out, just think about what you've got on under your clothes. Focus on it.” Kurt lowered his voice in case any more photographers passed by, though it probably wouldn't matter. What Blaine and Kurt did in their private lives was what helped lift Kurt to stardom status himself. The particulars of their special relationship were hardly a secret anymore. “Feel the ropes of the harness around your chest, keeping you bound, keeping you secure. We're together, and you're safe. You don't have to rush through tonight. And whether you believe it or not, you can leave any time you need.”

Blaine nodded, taking another deep breath and exhaling long.

“It's not just that,” he said.

Kurt stood in front of his sub and looked into his eyes, blocking Blaine's view of the distractions in the room, the people who had started to notice his disappearance and were waving his way, vying for his attention.

“Tell me,” Kurt said.

“This record,” Blaine started, “is the most honest I've been with my fans, with myself, in my whole career, but I still feel like the actor - like I'm playing a part.” Blaine dropped his gaze to the flute in his hands, but Kurt put a finger beneath his chin to stop him. He wouldn't let Blaine look away, wouldn't let him hide from his feelings. Blaine surrendered, looking back into his Dom's understanding eyes. “I feel like a fraud.”

“Well, you are,” Kurt said. Blaine shot him a shocked, heartbroken look. “An actor,” Kurt clarified quickly, “not a fraud.” Blaine nodded, relieved. “What's underneath it all,” Kurt continued, putting his hands on Blaine's shoulders, massaging gently, carefully fingering the smooth ropes of the harness tied around his chest underneath his dress shirt, “belongs to you and me. You can only give your fans and the press and the industry so much of yourself. You can't ever give them all. You'd break down. So, no, you're not a fraud, Blaine Anderson. You're a human being.” Kurt's lips quirked at one corner, and he leaned in, nibbling his sub's lower lip in lieu of a kiss. “An exceptional, talented, sexy as fuck human being. You always have been, and you always will be.” Blaine smiled at Kurt's compliment, and even though his instinct was to bow his head like the good sub he was, he didn't look away. He knew Kurt didn't want him to. “And when we get home,” Kurt whispered against the shell of Blaine's ear, blushing from Kurt's praise so that his Dom could feel the heat of Blaine's skin against his lips, “I'll strip you naked, and take you apart, piece by piece. I'll lay you bare, undo the knots of your harness, and tie you down with it. Then I'll show you how much your honesty turns me on.”

Any instinct to look away from Kurt's gaze was swallowed by his words, and Blaine became trapped by that image. Tied down beneath his Dom was the one place he wanted to be right now, more than anything. He opened his mouth to comment, to agree, to beg, but one of the organizers pounced on them, clearing his throat and tapping Blaine on the shoulder in an effort to tactfully interrupt this private moment.

“Come on, Mr. Anderson,” he said with another throat clear. “Time for autographs. You've got a line of fans out a mile outside. Let's get this show on the road.”

Blaine turned to look at the man behind him, Bluetooth headset stuck in his ear, clipboard in his arms, knowing more about the actual itinerary than Blaine did, ready to whisk him away, then back at Kurt and his promise of a night spent at his mercy, long hours of being kissed and touched and teased and edged. One more glance back and forth, and Blaine came to a decision he could live with.

“Thirty minutes,” Blaine said to his Dom. “Give me thirty minutes, and we're out of here.”

Kurt raised a brow at Blaine's tone, but Blaine flashed Kurt a grin full of the old Blaine Anderson's cocky charm, a throwback to the day they first met - a somewhat awkward and awful memory, but also an incredible, amazing one.

“How are you going to sign two hours' worth of autographs in thirty minutes?” Kurt chuckled.

Blaine took Kurt's hand and kissed it, then gave it a tug, silently asking him to follow along.

“Watch me.”