Naturally he’d protested when Blaine first grabbed his hand and tugged him down an endless series of stairs, saying that he should go tell someone where he was, or that they should return Ms. Beiste’s suit, or that he should change or something. But when Blaine paused at the top of a flight of stairs that seemed to lead down into a sort of mob and told him not to be scared...well, that was as good as a challenge for Kurt Hummel-Sylvester. He’d squared his shoulders, replied haughtily that he wasn’t the least bit scared and, after rolling up the cuffs of his pants so they wouldn’t get dirty, descended into the “party”.

And, if he was going to be honest with himself, it wasn’t awful. In fact, it was almost pleasant, once you got used to the scent of sweat and unwashed clothes and people that closed in on every side. Unlike the parties he was used to, full of elegantly attired people who floated about like swans on a lake, wearing the same matching polite smiles, this gathering was chaotic, vibrant, wild. The people were constantly moving, dancing and laughing and playing some sort of music that got under Kurt’s skin and hummed up and down his spine. This was a celebration of life, thrown by people who knew firsthand how fragile life could be, and wanted to make the most of it.

In an odd sort of way, Kurt felt he had more in common with that than with the high society he’d been born and raised in.

Shifting a little and making sure the two jackets -- and vest; Blaine had shed almost every layer of clothing that he could, once they’d joined the party -- draped over his lap didn’t slide off onto the grimy floor, Kurt tapped his toes to the music and took a hesitant sip of his drink. It burned in his mouth and going down his throat, but it was a pleasant sort of warmth, spreading all the way to the tips of his toes, perhaps driven there by that wildly thudding drum.

Kurt exhaled, taking a bigger gulp of the liquid -- probably beer, which he hadn’t had in ages -- and looking around the room. He caught sight of Blaine, who was dancing, not too far away, in his fancy white shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up, without a care in the world. Clinging tightly to his hands was a tiny blonde girl, who’d all but tackled Blaine’s knees the minute she saw him, and begged him to dance with her. Kurt was by no means overflowing with paternal affections, but looking at the way the child gazed up at Blaine, bright-eyed and delighted, and the way he focused his entire attention on spinning her in circles, until her homespun skirt flared out around her...well, it was impossible not to smile at that.

...or, perhaps, to feel a little jealous. In a weird sort of way. Kurt shifted his attention over to Blaine’s blond friend, Pava-something, who was happily dancing with a very pretty young lady, who was either named Charity or Chastity -- it had been hard to tell, seeing as Pav spoke Italian and the girl was Swedish. But despite the language barrier, the two seemed to be having the time of their lives, holding each other close and whirling around the people and pillars with a sort of wild grace that Kurt envied. Even if Bla-- if someone asked him to dance, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage this spinning, twisting, nearly primal style.

Just then, like he’d thought it into existence, Blaine and his tiny friend spun to a halt, right in front of Kurt. The little girl was giggling and hugging Blaine around the waist, and she was certainly very cute and charming, but Blaine was beaming, flushed and panting a little, his hair in wild disarray, his shirt hanging open at the neck and showing off his collarbone and neck and just the slightest glimpse of his chest. Kurt wasn’t even aware he was staring until Blaine spoke -- fortunately not to him.

“Okay, Beth, I’m gonna dance this next one with my friend.” This brought about an instantaneous pout, which made Blaine chuckle, hunching down to sit on his heels, so he could be eye-to-eye with the girl. “Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. You’ve tired me out. Besides, I’ll get in trouble with all the other fella’s if I keep a pretty lady like you all to myself all night.” The girl -- Beth -- smiled, a little reluctantly, then hugged Blaine around the neck. He grinned, hugging her gently, then sending her off to find her mother.

Kurt found he was smiling as well, setting his beer aside and watching Blaine straighten and brush himself off. “You’re very popular,” he commented.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, she’s a sweet little thing.” Blaine chuckled, reaching out and scooping the jackets off Kurt’s lap -- and promptly dropping them on his Irish friend, Rory’s, who gave him an indignant look.

“Who are you dancing with next?” Kurt asked, in what he sincerely hoped was a casual voice. He was somewhat grateful for the removal of the suit jackets, shifting a little in his seat and crossing one long leg over the other. However, this didn’t last long, because Blaine grinned, reached out and grabbed Kurt’s hands and tugged him gently to his feet.

“You.”

The protests came at once, crowding over each other to get out of Kurt’s mouth. However, since he was too stunned to decide if he should mention the impropriety or his soon-to-be-apparent lack of dancing skills, what he ended up saying was nothing. He just stared, wide-eyed, jaw-dropped at this brazen, beaming being who was relentlessly tugging him into the heart of the dancing throng.

“Blaine,” Kurt managed, once his throat started cooperating. But by then it was too late -- Blaine’s arm was firmly around his waist, his free hand was grasping Kurt’s, his face was inches away. “Blaine, no,” Kurt said again, softer, his fingers sliding up over rumpled white fabric, feeling the contours of arm and shoulder, without his conscious consent. “I can’t, I...”

“Don’t worry, it’s pretty simple,” Blaine said, with a wink, misinterpreting the reason for Kurt’s protests -- perhaps on purpose. “Just hold onto me, okay?”

“People will see,” and there was a raw fear in Kurt’s voice that scared him. Even as his body was rebelling, as he was pressing forward and feeling Blaine’s broad chest against his, so alien, another male body this close to him, so alien but so much like coming home -- even as he melted against his rescuer, his savior, he was looking around, waiting for the judgment, the glaring, the whispers.

And, like he’d read Kurt’s mind, Blaine leaned forward, squeezing the arm circled around Kurt’s waist, his thumb rubbing tiny, soothing circles at the small of the other boy’s back. “Nobody is watching. And even if they were, it’s okay. They won’t care.” He tilted his head to one side, beseechingly, dark curls tumbling over his forehead. “Dance with me, Kurt.”

Another moment of hesitation, Kurt stopped looking for the rejection from the others, and satisfied himself with the welcoming look in Blaine’s eyes. He managed a tight, tense sort of smile and a nod, and let himself be swept off into the dance that was as wild and rolling as the sea they sailed upon. The tense grin soon melted like ice in summer, as Kurt whirled and spun around the dance floor, feeling the music drumming in the floorboards under his feet, in the air all around him, in Blaine’s hands on his body. Before long he was smiling, then laughing, in loud, piercing, delighted near-shrieks that were swallowed up by flute and fiddle.

Blaine heard, though, of that Kurt was certain. There was no other explanation for the look on his handsome face when they finally spun to a stop, arms around each other, breathless and laughing. That blazing, enraptured look, like a man seeing the sun for the first time, the way Blaine’s parted lips curled upwards, the way his eyes were on fire, brilliant and adoring -- it had to be because Kurt had finally loosened up. It had to be.

Panting softly, Kurt stepped back, trying to ignore how Blaine’s hands slid along his side, over his fingertips like they hated to stop touching him. “I-I need a refill,” he shouted above the din, gesturing vaguely at where he’d left his beer.

“Huh? ...oh, yeah, sure.” Blaine shook himself, like he was waking up for the first time, raking his fingers backwards through his curls. “Yeah, c’mon, this way.” His hand moved, instinctively, resting on Kurt’s lower back to guide him through to crowd to the table of brimming glasses. And because of course he didn’t want to get lost, Kurt let him.

The second glass went down easier than the first, and Kurt was feeling pleasantly warm by now, swaying a little, up on his toes as he followed Blaine back through the mob. “Where’re we going?” he hollered, after a moment of trying to puzzle it out.

“Gotta check on Pav. He’ll have bet his two front teeth on an arm wrestling game or something.” Blaine rolled his eyes with obvious affection, coming to a halt in front of a table where the wayward Pavarotti was seated, his pale, skinny hand gripped firmly in some swarthy large man’s. Kurt frowned a little in concern, because Pav was positively birdlike, skinny and pale and sweating. But then, Pav was also showing off for his lady friend, so he didn’t back down, not even when the signal was given and the two men started to try and wrestle the other’s arm to the table.

Predictably, it didn’t last long. The larger man slammed Pavarotti’s hand down so hard that two or three glasses of beer toppled off the table, absolutely soaking Kurt’s shoes and socks. Blaine looked affronted, stepping forward like he was going to tell the wrestling men off, but, laughing, Kurt tugged him back. “Oh, it’s fine,” he said, a little too loud, sipping slower at his third glass of beer. “It’ll wash out. Besides, let’s not distract them from their manly pursuits.”

“Yeah, like you’d know anything about that.” It was possibly intended as a joke from the arm-wrestling winner, but it made Kurt stop, stock still, then turn and fix the man with an icy-eyed glare. Despite being twice the first-class boy’s size, the man swallowed hard, shrinking down in his seat under the cold hard look.

Finally, just as Blaine was looking like he wanted to step in, Kurt abruptly thrust the half-full glass of beer at him. “Hold my drink, Blaine,” he said coolly, before turning and grabbing two of the sharp, long knives that were being used to cut bread and cheese for refreshments.

At the sight of the knives, several of the arm-wrestlers exchanged nervous glances, fairly certain that they could take this slender, pale, high-voiced little interloper, but worried about the repercussions of fighting a first-classer. But Kurt simply held up a hand, then gripped the knives firmly.

“So,” he began, as the crowd cleared to give him and his potentially deadly objects a wide berth. “You’re big tough men, just because you snap each other’s wrists for fun?” Kurt laughed, indulgently, one eyebrow quirked above his half-lidded eyes. He looked almost bored, actually, as he added -- “Then let’s see you do this” -- and raised his hands up. Then, fingers and wrists moving in perfect unison about the handles of the knives, he started to -- to twirl them, like some sort of circus act. The dim light below the decks glinted off the sharp metal as Kurt ever-so-casually spun and twisted the two knives, very conscious of everyone’s wide eyes on him -- namely Blaine’s.

Then, just as he was spinning the blades so quickly they were about to slip right off his fingers, he stopped, then stepped forward, driving both knives, point-down, into the table the men had been arm wrestling on. With a triumphant grin, Kurt nodded politely, turned on his heel, plucked his beer from Blaine’s hand and strode off through the crowd.

Blaine stared after him for a moment, hardly aware of the exclaims of surprise -- in several languages -- from the men. Then he laughed, somewhere between stunned and delighted, and hurried to catch up with Kurt. “That was amazing!” he said -- shouted, really, leaning in close to the other boy’s ear so he could be heard. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Street performer, in London,” was Kurt’s matter-of-fact answer, given between long gulps of his beer. Then, noting Blaine’s somewhat surprised arched eyebrows, he grinned and set the nearly-empty glass down on a table. “What? You think a first-class boy can’t drink?”

“I’ve never seen one drink like you. I’ve never seen one like you, period.” Blaine had that odd, captivated look on his face again. Which was silly and absurd, since Kurt’s clothes were unbuttoned and untucked and stained with beer and cigarette smoke, his hair was an ungodly mess and he’d just made a fool of himself by showing off in front of a bunch of immigrants. Honestly, sometimes this third-class boy made absolutely no sense.

And yet, somehow, during the course of that blissfully loud and wild evening, somewhere between sitting with Rory on one side and Pavarotti on the other, watching Blaine dancing on a table and hopping up to join him, somehow between the beer and the music and the ever-present hands on his waist and back and shoulders, Kurt had entirely forgotten what it was like to feel trapped, to be lonely or afraid or unhappy. He forgot about David and Sue and all the others, upstairs in their quiet, peaceful rooms. He forgot about making sure that he didn’t make a scene, or about looking to see if he was being watched -- and, consequently, didn’t see a silent, grim-faced Azimio descending the stairs and watching him spinning around with Blaine -- he forgot who and what he was.

Kurt forgot about everything except Blaine Anderson and his wonderful, brilliant, beautiful world below the decks.

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

Of course, life had a way of reminding Kurt about certain things. Usually in the form of a pounding headache and an unusually silent and stony-faced Karofsky over breakfast the next morning. Sue was still asleep, no doubt still under the effects of her own three or four brandies the night before, and the table set up in the private promenade was oddly quiet without her.

Not that Kurt minded. The pounding ache behind his eyes was enough to make things look blurry, and to top it all off his mind was still mostly in the previous night, still reliving every second of that wild and glorious party. In fact, he didn’t hear David clear his throat once, then again, then a third time. Finally, brows drawn together until they nearly met in the middle, Dave reached out, settling his hand over Kurt’s, after making sure the maid and butler were safely out of the room.

Unfortunately, Kurt had been reliving the feel of Blaine’s warm, rough, sun-darkened hand over his, and the perpetually clammy and cool feeling of David’s made him flinch, instinctively trying to pull away. For once Dave let him, sitting back with a decidedly irritated look on his face. His voice, when he finally spoke, was eerily soft. “I thought I’d see you last night.”

Kurt swallowed, convulsively, shifting a little in his seat and picking up his tea with only slightly shaky hands. The previous night had been the first in who-knows-how-long that he’d slept entirely alone, and he’d been too tipsy and giddy to enjoy it. “I...I was very tired, Dave,” he replied, hoping that the use of the informal name would soften a bit of the rage he could see building in his escort’s eyes.

“Mmm. From dancing, I imagine.” Kurt glanced up, sharply -- he hadn’t told anyone about his foray below deck, and he’d been certain the maid who helped him undress was to be trusted. But Karofksy was looking at him, through him, like every flutter of Kurt’s heart when Blaine touched him, and every long look exchanged was laid bare, to be perused and examined.

“...you were spying on me.” As always, in times of great distress, Kurt took refuge in an icy look and a monotone voice. “You or that...that Neanderthal manservant of yours. I should’ve known.” He turned away, gulping angrily at his tea.

David was quiet for another long moment. Then he said, in a voice that was firmer and colder than Kurt had ever heard it -- “You won’t behave like that again. You won’t see him again. It’s inappropriate and absurd and I won’t allow it.”

“Won’t allow it?” Kurt was shaky, made clumsy from fear -- both of the situation and the threat, the idea of not seeing Blaine ever again, of never feeling that joy, that freedom. He set down his teacup, hating how it rattled in it’s saucer, and looked straight at Karofsky. “Who are you to treat me like a...like a child? I may be engaged to your ward, I may have to submit to your...your wandering hands and your twisted appetites, but you have no right to--”

Karofsky suddenly moved, standing up so quickly it froze Kurt’s words in his throat. There was a wild, dangerous look in his eyes, and a jerkiness to his movements as he lurched forward, hands curling into fists. The breakfast table hindered him, bumping against his thighs, and with a sweeping motion, he overturned it, dishes and cutlery crashing and shattering on the floor.

Kurt gasped, high and strangled, but it was cut off as David lunged at him, grabbing the arms of his chair and shoving it backwards so it slammed against the wall, the force of it knocking Kurt’s breath right from his lungs. David’s hands were clutching the arms of the chair, his face was inches from Kurt’s pale, terrified one, so close that when he spoke -- snarled, growled, bellowed, more animal than man -- the scent of his breath and the sweat from his forehead were tangible things.

“Don’t push me, Hummel! You have no rights, not here, not with me! You’re my ward’s fiance, yes, but you. Belong. To. Me.” He punctuated each word with another slam of the chair against the wall, the force jerking Kurt around like a rag doll. “You’re mine. And these...these appetites as you call them are your fault. Do you think I want to feel this way? Do you think I find you desirable as more than a goddamn warm body?”

Curled in the chair, feeling so impossibly small and helpless and hating himself for being so weak, Kurt shook his head frantically, tasting blood on his lip where his teeth had crashed together and bitten through the skin. Karofsky exhaled, hot and heavy against Kurt’s face, then leaned back a little. “I’m doing you a favor, Kurt,” he said, voice just as low and dark. “If you keep hanging around this third-class trash, you’ll infect him too. And he’ll hate you for it. Just like I do.” Then, stepping back and squaring his shoulders, David smoothed down his jacket, suddenly all calm professionalism. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Kurt wanted to reach up and wipe away the blood welling on his lower lip, wanted to stand up and tell Karofsky that he was wrong, that Kurt wasn’t owned by anyone or anything, that it wasn’t his fault --

-- that Blaine wouldn’t end up hating him.

But he just nodded, shakily, hunched in on himself, muscles so tense they ached. David gave him a short nod, then turned and left, leaving the maid to come hurriedly bustling in to clean up the broken dishes. Kurt let her, not caring about the furtive glances she cast him, not even pretending not to notice how she avoided his eyes. He just focused on calming his wildly pounding thoughts and doing his best not to let another round of hateful, hurtful words take root and close their tendrils around his heart.