Blaine hesitated a moment in front of the mirror, turning from one side to the other, trying to somehow convince his incredulous eyes that the guy reflected was actually him. Ms. Beiste had almost immediately started to “help” him out of his old, comfortable faded shirt and jacket upon entering her stateroom, and it had taken some strong words and Blaine all but leaping on top of a couch to convince her that he could do it himself. She’d backed off, thankfully, setting the long white box on the table and telling him to “have at it” -- but not before insisting on helping him with his hair.

That messy business had involved a large amount of some sort of smelly goo, spread liberally on his head like jam on a piece of toast, then combed back aggressively. By the time Beiste had patted him on the shoulder and said he looked more like a gentleman and less like a wild animal, Blaine was certain his curls had all uncurled for good. But now, looking in the mirror, he had to admit that the transition from his usual wildly curly hair to this slicked-back, tamed coiffure was actually pretty sharp-looking.

He wasn’t as certain about the suit, however. “I can’t tell,” he hollered back, finally, turning around and examining his backside in the mirror. He supposed the suit fit -- technically. It was well-tailored and the right length and it made him look like a penguin. Blaine wasn’t any sort of expert on formal wear, but he was pretty sure penguin-like was a good thing. But that was just the point -- he’d never worn anything like this before. He had no idea if it fit right or made him look ridiculous, whether people were going to accept him as a member of society, or if they would just point and laugh.

Oh god. What if they laughed at him? What if they all, as one, like a giant many-armed monster of cleanliness and money, pointed at him and made fun and chuckled and howled and guffawed until their faces turned red? What if they laughed at him in front of Kurt?

Fortunately, Beiste came barreling in at that moment, like the force of nature she was, an amiable grin on her face. That didn’t tell Blaine much at first -- she was perpetually grinning -- but the firm hand coming down on his shoulders and making his knees buckle did. “Lookit you, all spiffed up. I figured my nephew’s duds’d fit you. You’re a regular gentleman now, Blainey.”

“Yeah? You think?” Blaine was grinning too, now, and attempting to get one last peek at his rear end -- just to make sure the hem of the jacket coming down didn’t make it look enormous -- even as Beiste was picking up her fan and adjusting the feathers stuck haphazardly into her curly hair.

“I know so. Now, c’mon, your fancy pals are waiting.” Mercifully, she didn’t put her arm around Blaine’s shoulder this time, choosing instead to link arms with him as they strolled towards the first-class dining room. “Remember, try and blend. If you walk tall and look like you own the joint, they won’t suspect a thing.”

Blaine wasn’t as certain, but he reasoned that with the intimidating Ms. Beiste on his arm, nobody would want to mess with him. Or, at least, he thought that would be the case -- until Beiste spotted some friends or acquaintances or potential victims of her bone-crushing embraces and, with a hearty pat on the back, abandoned Blaine at the top of a stair-case.

Still coughing a little from the smack on his back, Blaine slowly looked around, first at the high, arching ceiling, which was made almost entirely out of a dome of glass, with elegantly designed wooden supports. Then, once he’d recovered enough to stand tall and appear dignified, he snuck a peek around at the other passengers. There were dozens of them, the ladies draped in glittering jewels and feathers and sequins, the gentlemen all in crisp suits that were tailored to perfection. Everything seemed to be primarily in shades of black and white, which was a relief -- everyone here looked like a penguin.

Clearing his throat and automatically trying to slide his hands into his pockets -- and frowning when his palms merely slid against the silkiness of his pants -- Blaine slowly descended the staircase. Looking around, he caught sight of both Mr. Tanaka, who’d found himself another brandy, and the Duchess Pillsbury, who looked as timid and small-animal-like as she had an hour earlier. But there was no sight of Kurt, nor of his guardian or escort.

So, with a soft sigh and a fervent hope that he hadn’t been stood up, Blaine leaned against a pillar of finely carved and polished wood that probably cost more than he did, to wait. However, after several people passed and gave him odd, confused looks, it dawned on him that gentlemen did not lean against pillars and wait. Judging from those standing around, they stood very tall and straight-backed, with one arm folded behind them, and the other slightly bent in front. It was a very stiff and awkward way to stand, but Blaine managed it, after practicing for several minutes.

And just in time too, as he heard the familiar boom of David Karofsky’s voice, going on at length about the Karofsky steel that had helped build this very ship. Blaine spun on his heels quickly, grinning at the thought of how that smug bast -- that charming gentleman would look, upon seeing the third-class trash all spiffed up. A brief check to make sure everything was right -- arm folded behind him, other hand outstretched for a shake, hair still firmly contained in it’s gooey prison -- and Blaine stepped forward to meet David as he descended the steps, with Sue on his arm...

...just in time to have David and Sue both take no more notice of him than they did the many carvings along the banister, and sweep right past.

Blaine was left standing, hand out, expression fading from smug anticipation to confusion. But he recovered quickly, scowling a little and pretending to shake an invisible hand. “Very nice to see you too,” he muttered, under his breath. “You self-satisfied, pompous --”

“Temper, temper.” The voice was high and airy and a complete and total relief. Blaine’s expression switched back to the grin within seconds, and he turned to look up at Kurt somewhat apologetically. The first-class boy was standing a few steps up, arms automatically affecting the proper placement for a gentleman, his hair lying smooth and in-control, seemingly without the use of excessive gel. Unlike the majority of the other gentlemen, however, his suit was a deep, almost black shade of red, set off starkly by the inky darkness of his shirt and tie. It was an almost somber ensemble, yet all it did was set off how pale and nearly translucent his skin was, and how bright and piercing his eyes were.

In other words, Kurt didn’t look a thing like a penguin.

“I’m sorry we kept you so long,” Kurt continued, apparently unaware that, garbed as he was in shades of midnight, he had the attention of everyone in the room. “I couldn’t find anything to wear.” Then he paused, head tilted to one side, taking in Blaine’s much less dramatic suit. “Though I see that wasn’t a problem for you.”

“...no. No, no problems, not even a little itty bitty problem,” Blaine babbled, grinning and bowing a little, like he probably should’ve as soon as he saw Kurt. Then, clearing his throat, he reached out and grasped one of Kurt’s hands, licking his lips and shaking it firmly. “Lovely to see you again, sir,” he managed, in his best “gentleman” voice.

Kurt blinked a couple times, first at his and Blaine’s entangled hands, then at Blaine’s eager, hopeful, earnestly smiling face. Then, so slowly it was like ice melting, he smiled back. “It’s nice to see you too,” he replied, softly.

Painfully conscious of their location though, he gently pulled his hand away and descended the last few steps to stand beside Blaine. “So. I noticed you were unable to catch Dave and Ms. Sylvester’s attention,” he said, lightly, starting to walk through the room.

“Um....yeah. I think they were ...otherwise occupied.” Blaine was trying to shake off his disgruntled feelings once again, first due to Kurt’s quick removal of his hand, and again because he was just realizing that this large, ornate, beautiful room was nothing more than a glorified foyer, and the dining room was down yet another set of stairs.

Also, he was very distracted by wondering if he could offer Kurt his arm like all the other gentlemen were doing to their walking companions.

Also, he was very distracted by Kurt, period.

“They tend to be,” Kurt remarked, rolling his eyes surreptitiously. Then, touching Blaine’s arm for a far-too-brief moment, he nodded towards where Sue and Dave were involved in conversation with the Duchess Pillsbury. “Come along, I want to see their faces when they see you.”

Blaine was pleasantly surprised by the note of smug satisfaction in Kurt’s voice, and even more pleased by how the first-class boy laid a hand on his forearm as he purred to his guardian and escort -- “Sue, David, you remember Mr. Anderson?”

Judging by the matching looks of disdain on their faces, David clearly remembered Blaine, while Sue clearly didn’t -- nor did she particularly care. But for the sake of politeness, they smiled and nodded. “Anderson. My god, you could almost pass for a gentleman,” Dave commented, with particular emphasis on the “almost”.

Sue lingered a bit longer, lips pressed together, expression unreadable. Then -- “I had no idea Shannon had a hobby as a seamstress for the fair folk. It does explain why she spent so much time in Ireland last year, though.” With a nod -- as this was clearly her word on the matter -- she grabbed Dave’s arm and steered him towards the dining room. “Move, I smell cocktail bratwursts.”

Blaine blinked a couple times at the rather abrupt exit, looking to Kurt for reassurance that it wasn’t him. Kurt looked nonplussed, almost immediately turning and grabbing two flutes of champagne off a nearby passing tray and handing one to Blaine. “So, that was Sue and Dave. Succinctly,” he said, sighing heavily and downing half his glass in one gulp.

Apparently fueled by the drink -- which was so light and golden and fizzy that Blaine could almost feel the bubbles dancing their way down to his toes and back again, with every sip -- Kurt lingered outside the dining room, pointing out the various high class members of society as they passed. “You remember the Duchess, I imagine...and there’s Finn Hudson, the richest man on the ship. His wife, Quinnie, is my age and,” here Kurt lowered his voice, whispering so close to Blaine’s ear that his breath tickled a wayward curl. “In a delicate condition.”

“Ohhhh,” Blaine nodded, seriously, though he didn’t quite understand the call for such hushed tones. He nodded politely at the Hudson’s as they passed, then turned his attention to the next bit of gossip served up. Apparently Kurt had dirt on everyone on the ship -- Noah Puckerman was traveling with his mistress, Miss Lopez, while his wife Lauren stayed at home with the children, Ms. Rhodes over there was a prominent chairwoman for several charities, as well as the designer of naughty lingerie in her spare time. On and on it went, rumors and half-formed stories of lies and betrayal and infidelity. By the time Kurt appeared to get bored and gestured for Blaine to follow him into the dining room, the glittering finery of the first-class folks seemed significantly tarnished.

That didn’t stop Blaine’s heart from racing when the Hudson’s approached, and the impossibly tall Finn gave him a polite, if calculating look. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, amiably, as Quinn and Kurt exchanged pleasantries. “Are you a friend of the Sylvesters?”

“Mr. Anderson is an acquaintance of mine, yes,” Kurt interjected, smoothly, lifting his chin and looking up -- way up -- at Finn. “He’ll be joining us for dinner.”

“Anderson. Of the Philadelphia Andersons?” Quinn inquired, one arm held just so, in order to hide the swell of her stomach with the fringe of her shawl.

“...the Westerville Andersons,” Blaine replied, after a moment of trying not to stare at her apparently scandalous belly.

The Hudson’s exchanged glances, briefly, then nodded slowly, plastering on fake smiles. Obviously Blaine had succeeded in convincing everyone that he was, indeed, a gentleman. No doubt the couple would spend the evening asking everyone what they knew about the Westerville Andersons. But at the moment Blaine and Kurt had nothing more to worry about, because Ms. Beiste was swooping down on them, taking each boy’s arm and booming, “C’mon, fellas, escort a lady to dinner! Champagne’s not gonna drink itself.”

Blaine smiled, a bit weakly, glancing around Ms. Beiste’s impressively feathered bust to meet Kurt’s eyes, for reassurance. To his pleasure -- and surprise -- Kurt was already looking back, with a faint, gentle smile. There was a gratitude in it that was bewildering, like Kurt was thanking Blaine ahead of time for doing this. Apparently dinner was going to be more of a gauntlet than Blaine had first anticipated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But surprisingly, it wasn’t entirely horrible. Yes, Blaine was seated between Beiste and the Duchess, while Kurt was across the table between Sue and David. And yes, there were more forks, knives, spoons and glasses than Blaine thought strictly necessary, even for a multi-coursed meal. And yes, he’d taken one of the little cracker things with black goo on it, thinking it was blackberry jam and finding out too late it was caviar.

But at least nobody pointed and/or laughed? In fact, everyone seemed to treat him with that same cautious, curious sort of respect, assuming him a gentleman because of his clothes, yet not quite able to place him.

Everyone, that is, save one person.

“So, Anderson,” David Karofsky began, halfway through the sea bass. “What’s it like, way down in steerage?”

Blaine paused with a bite of fish halfway to his mouth, completely taken aback.. Across from him, busily cutting his food into miniscule bites, Kurt sat bolt upright, face going very red, fork and knife dropping onto his plate with a loud clatter. He turned to glare at Dave, who was apparently both blind and deaf to any rage.

“...pretty good. The rats are all friendly, and the bread’s pretty good, after you soak it for an hour or so.” That was Blaine, always recovering quickly, always ready with a two-edged remark. Granted, he’d assumed there was an unwritten rule about not mentioning where he was from, but if Dave wanted to try and ruffle him, well. So be it. He’d ruffle right back.

And apparently he did a good job, because there was a general murmur of amusement from all those seated. Most importantly, Kurt picked his fork back up, smiling briefly at Blaine and nudging his foot against the other boy’s, under the table.

Dave was less amused, sitting back in his seat and forcing a chuckle, for the sake of propriety. “Well. Good to hear. Mr. Anderson is joining us from steerage this evening,” he informed the table at large. “He was of some assistance last night, to Ms. Sylvester’s ward.”

“Plucked him off the end of the boat, like an unusually rosy-cheeked and wayward apple,” Sue interjected, already halfway through the meat course. Adhering to the courses of a meal was not something a Sylvester practiced.

“Mr. Anderson is a musician,” Kurt offered, before his guardian could compare him to any more varieties of fruit. “He was kind enough to show off some of his compositions this morning on the bridge.”

And that afternoon and that evening, and that entire day, really. Blaine smiled a bit at the impressed looks from the diners, and started nibbling at his roll. “Musician’s kind of a strong word,” he added, unused to all the attention. “I like trying to see how things can become music, that’s all.”

“How poetic,” Quinn remarked, with a smile. “Is that what you do for a living, then, Mr. Anderson?”

“I live for a living,” Blaine replied, grinning and going from polite, gentlemanly nibbles to big old bites of the roll. Honestly, he’d slept on pillows that weren’t as soft as this bread was. The night was wearing on, and the gel Beiste had slathered his head in wasn’t quite able to keep his curls in check, so several of them were coming free, dangling down across his forehead, waving around as he gesticulated. “I’m kind of between homes at the moment. Focusing on my education, in a way.” Then, when he was met with confused looks, he grinned, that same cheeky, cocky kind of grin he’d given up on the bridge. “You see, I used to travel around France, listening and looking. That’s the best kinda education a guy can have, I think.”

“However did you manage to get on this ship?” David’s words were icily polite, but his eyes were hard, intently fixed on Blaine. The implication was clear -- how did a poor, uneducated, unemployed boy manage to book passage on the world’s finest ship?

But Blaine never faltered. “Won tickets in a lucky poker game,” he replied, matter-of-factly, gulping down the last of his champagne, then looking around for a waiter.

Kurt, who’d been quietly listening to this entire monologue, watching the steady liberation of Blaine’s wild curls, seen how much more this animated joy suited the other boy’s face, chuckled softly, sipping at his own drink. In spite of himself, he yet again nudged gently at Blaine’s foot with the toe of his shoe, a gesture meant to applaud the spirit and boldness that no amount of gel or silken suits could stifle.

Blaine glanced over, a fresh glass of champagne in his hand, meeting Kurt’s eyes across the table. His foot moved, nudging Kurt’s back, then staying, the toe of his borrowed shoe resting gently against the other boy’s ankle. He smiled, less cockily, but no less warm, and raised his champagne glass a little. A sort of a toast, but to what, Kurt couldn’t imagine. But neither could he look away.

The sound of Noah Puckerman’s voice unfortunately broke through the spell the pair had cast on each other, stating to anyone who could listen, “Life’s just one big game of luck, isn’t it?”

Dave, who’d been watching Kurt and Blaine’s subtle interaction with a look commonly described as sheer rage, shook his head slightly. “Not quite. When you want something in this world, you go ahead and get it. By any means necessary,” he said in a low voice, not taking his eyes off Kurt. Aware of the gaze, Kurt cleared his throat and ducked his head, tucking his feet under his chair, far away from Blaine.

Unaware of all this, Puckerman gave a scornful sort of sound, turning and waving his fork at Blaine. “What do you think, Anderson?”

Blaine was still frowning slightly, not liking the way Karofsky was looking at Kurt, the way Kurt’s broad shoulders hunched protectively under the intent glare, the way the lovely, proud, confident young man seemed to shrink in on himself every time he was around Dave. But the question drew his attention and he cleared his throat to answer. “Well, I think you’re both right.”

That got everyone’s attention, right as the plates were being cleared away for the fruit and cheese course. Shifting a little in his seat, but refusing to back down, Blaine shrugged a shoulder. “I think a lotta times you do have to go out and fight for what you want. Hard work and perseverance and courage and all that. But, sometimes...” He hesitated, licking his lips and glancing over briefly to make sure Kurt was paying attention. This was more for him than anyone else. “Sometimes...things happen. Sometimes there are these moments where...where things or events or...people come into your life, out of nowhere. Out of the blue. And you find yourself looking at them and realizing that...oh, that’s it. That’s what you’ve been looking for.”

There was a pause, full of thoughtful “hm’s” and slow nods. Nobody really seemed to entirely understand what this surprisingly eloquent third-class boy was saying, but it sounded nice, at least. Nobody understood -- except Kurt. He was smiling a little, softly, head tilted to one side, eyes fixed on Blaine, entirely uncaring that people might notice or whisper. He knew exactly what Blaine was talking about.

So, reaching out and lifting his champagne glass, he said, “To those moments, then.” Pleased to have a toast to wrap things up so nicely, the rest of the diners raised their glasses and parroted Kurt’s words, then happily finished off their champagne.

Beiste, who’d been sitting next to Blaine all this time, leaned over and murmured, “Now the menfolk’ll go off and smoke cigars and talk about how great they are, while us ladies will go to bed like the delicate little flowers we are.” And, like her whisper was a cue, all the men rose, seemingly as one and bid their various wives and mothers and whatnot a good night.

“Will you join us, Mr. Hummel?” Finn asked, helping Quinn stand up slowly from the table, and accepting the chaste kiss she placed on his cheek.

“Kurt doesn’t care for smoking,” Dave interrupted, before the still-seated young man in question could even respond. “He says it ruins one’s voice, or some such nonsense. Ms. Sylvester, would you care for me to escort you?” The question was directed at Sue, but Karofsky was looking pointedly at Kurt, who was just as pointedly ignoring him.

“The day I need your help to find my way to my own room will be the day I finally snap and murder you all with an oyster fork.” With that, Sue stood, yawned widely, then set off without so much as a goodbye to the other ladies.

Dave frowned, looking down, first at Kurt, who was refolding his napkin like it was the most important task in the world, then at Blaine, who was standing and smoothing crumbs off his suit. “Don’t stay up too late, Kurt,” Karofsky said, finally, giving Blaine a mistrustful look. “You know how tired you get.”

“I’m aware,” Kurt replied, setting his napkin on top of his plate, then moving on to examining his cuffs for dust. David lingered a moment more, then, with a curt nod to Blaine, moved off with the rest of the gentlemen.

“Guess I’m not invited to that party,” Blaine remarked to Beiste, who laughed and patted him much too hard on the shoulder. Again. Then, with a sigh, Blaine stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket -- because at least that had pockets -- and felt around for a moment to make sure what he’d hidden there was still safely tucked away. “So.”

Kurt looked up, lips pressed together tightly, trying to hide the faint disappointed frown that threatened to overtake his face. “You have to go?” Despite knowing the answer, his voice still rose hopefully at the end -- though he certainly had no idea why.

“Yep. Back down to the brig, for my hard tack and rotten ham. Or whatever it is they’re serving the prisoners these days.” Blaine laughed a little, then held out his hand for Kurt to shake. However, rather than the simple, brisk, gentlemanly shake, Kurt slid his hand into Blaine’s, the way he had in that horrible, wonderful, life-altering moment up on the bridge, tentative and nervous, unsure if Blaine would pull away.

But he didn’t. Because, as he’d said before, there were moments, moments like the night before, moments like right then, when your future presented itself and looked you right in the eyes, and you couldn’t believe you’d never seen it before.

Oh, there you are.

“Good night,” Blaine said, softly. He squeezed Kurt’s hand once more, then turned and slowly walked out of the dining room. He didn’t look back, not once, not even to see if the small bit of paper he’d slipped to Kurt was being unfolded and read, if the simply scribbled words -- This is the moment. Courage. Meet me by the clock. -- had any effect whatsoever on their reader, if Kurt made some excuse to get away and followed him up the staircases.

Blaine didn’t turn around until he heard the familiar step on the stairs, the hesitant “ahem”, the rustling of crimson and black clothes. He didn’t turn around until he was certain that Kurt was there. But when he did, he was smiling.

“Wanna go to a real party?”