Blaine felt both extremely embarrassed and totteringly ancient as he joined the queue of ultra-buffed and shiny boys--honestly, should they be out on a school night?--behind the purple velvet, roped-off entrance to Pythons.  It was not the worst name for a gay club ever.  There was Manhole, and the Cockpit, No Holes Barred, and Woodys.  To pass the time, Blaine thought of more:  Throb, Toolbox, Bottoms Up, Peterland, The Backdoor Tavern, Swinging Richards, Headhunters.  He started to giggle, and the pretty boys in front of him in line--seriously, were these guys even old enough to drink?--gave him a look.  Blaine schooled his face back into a somber expression. 

Inside, Blaine could hear the music pumping.  He didnt remember the last time he went into a gay club.  A gay bar was one thing, but the gay clubs were something else.  They were packed with sweaty men, half of them shirtless, each of them trying to outdo the other on the dance floor like strutting peacocks.  There was groping--way too much groping--and God forbid you actually went into the mens room to use the mens room.  Blaine had a guy grab his cock once mid-pee.  He was so startled he jumped back and wet all over his favorite pair of pants. 

Blaines taste ran toward something a lot classier.  He loved to dance, but he preferred places more intimate, less showy. 

Still, he knew he had to be here. 

The morning after he called for Elizabeth Hummel hed awoken with his head on the table, brain fuzzy from all the wine that he drunk before he finally passed out, partially from the alcohol, partially from plain old tiredness, partially from the colossal depression that had descended upon him like a blanket.  Mrs. Hummel hadnt shown herself at all.  But when Blaine lifted his head from a puddle of drool, he saw that her wine glass was empty, and tucked under the now empty bottle of Bourdeaux was a business card for a Manhattan gay bar.  Pythons. 

He didnt know what hed find here beyond...Hey!  The guy behind Blaine in the line had casually reached out a hand and fondled Blaines ass.   Blaine whirled around to face his assailant, and the guy put both hands in the air. 

"Sorry, Grandpa.  Thought you were someone else."

Oh, grand.  "Im not even thirty," Blaine protested. 

The guy gave Blaine a bitch face that could rival Kurts, "Youre not twenty." 

Blaine turned back around, shaking his head.  Children!  He better find something in this place he could use; otherwise, he was hiring a priest to perform a massive exorcism at Charlies Tavern.  He was about done with ghosts. 

When the bouncer finally let Blaine inside--not until he had let in about two dozen much younger, hipper men behind him in the queue, and not until Blaine had slipped him a hundred dollar bill--Blaine waited near the entrance while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. 

He didnt know what he was supposed to see.  The club was massive.  The dance floor dominated the middle of the room, rising up three stories and ringed with balconies.  The place was packed with bouncing, gyrating men, hundreds of them all lit with flashing, colored lights.  You could lose an elephant here; if Kurt was here, Blaine would never find him.  Maybe he was supposed to see something else? 

Blaine pushed and shoved his way to the bar and lifted a finger to signal a bartender.  "Beer," he said, handing the man a twenty.  Some eon later the bartender handed Blaine a tepid beer in a plastic cup and no change. 

Holding his beer over his head, Blaine wended his way around the outskirts of the crowd, trying to find a vantage point from which he could see more of the dance floor. 

A giant bruiser of a man came up to Blaine and said into his ear, "Hows it going, man?"

"Fine," Blaine replied politely. 

"Buy you a drink?"

"Got one," Blaine held up his drink for emphasis. 

"Buy you breakfast?"  The guy quirked an eyebrow.  He wasnt bad looking, but he was built like a mountain, and gym addicts were never Blaines type.  His taste ran toward tall, thin, and well dressed.  Well, obviously. 

"Thanks," Blaine shouted into Mount Rushmores ear, "but Im looking for someone."

"Arent we all, honey," the mountain said in a surprisingly swishy tone. 

"No," Blaine corrected, "Im looking for my friend."  Blaine made a vague gesture toward the dance floor. 

"Oh," the rock grinned, "Ill help you."  And without warning, he picked Blaine up with both hands and set him on his shoulders.  Blaine let out an involuntary squawk and clutched the guys head with his hand to steady his balance, his beer sloshing over his other hand. 

This is literally the weirdest thing thats ever happened to me.

Mike and Sam were going to die of laughter when he told them this story. 

Blaine looked for a way to get down-the man was seriously huge--but then he realized he really could see a lot from up here.  He began craning his neck.  What was he supposed to see?  What? 

Just as Blaine was about to give up, a spotlight swung across the crowd and settled on a point near the ceiling where a cage was descending above the crowd.