Blaines eyes widened in horror as the red liquid spread across Kurts beautiful sweater and pants. 

"Charlie!" Blaine yelled at his uncles ghost.

"Finn!" Kurt yelled at the same time. 

"What?" they both asked each other. 

There was no time to discuss it; Blaine was galvanized into action.  He whipped the bar towel from where he had tossed it carelessly over his shoulder and began blotting the stain.  In his haste to minimize the damage from the wine, it took Blaine more than a few seconds to realize that Kurts hand was trying to swat his away, primarily because Blaine was pressing the towel into Kurts crotch.  Blaine jumped back as though scalded. 

"Sorry.  Sorry," Blaine apologized hastily, twisting the towel with nervous hands.  He took a deep breath to collect himself.  "Look, go into the bathroom.  Ill get something you can change into, and Ill bring you some club soda for the stains."

Kurt shook his head and waived it away, "Its really not necessary.  Its fine."

"Its cashmere, Kurt.  And knowing you, its designer."

Kurt pondered Blaines words for a moment.  Then his lips twisted up into a tight rictus as he gave a single head nod.  "Youre right.  Wheres the mens room?" 

Blaine pointed, and then he hurried to the bar to grab an unopened bottle of club soda. 

Near the front door of Charlies Tavern was a circular staircase that was chained off to patrons.  Blaine vaulted the chain, dashed up the stairs and ran to his office door.  Quickly unlocking it, he grabbed a pair of jeans that Mike kept stashed there for emergencies and a hooded sweatshirt of his own that hed thrown across the back of his chair some days earlier.  Then he tripped back down the stairs, pausing only for second to lock the office door behind him. 

Items clutched to his chest, Blaine threaded his way through the crowd and darted through the open bathroom doorway, parting his lips to call out to Kurt. 

The sight that greeted him stole his breath, and all sound died in his throat.  His back to Blaine, Kurt was bent over a sink dressed in nothing but boxer briefs, socks, and shoes, his muscles flexing under the flawless skin on his back.  Flawless except...was that a tattoo? 

Blaine sucked in a breath. 

Kurt must have heard Blaines gasp, because he turned and gave him a quizzical look, "Blaine?"

"I, I, I just-I didnt-I mean-er, uh," Blaine coughed to clear his throat, "I, uh, didnt expect you to be undressed."

"Removing the stain is a little more efficient this way," Kurt said matter of factly. 

"I-I know.  Its just...  Youve always been so modest."

Something indecipherable passed over Kurts face, clouding it for an instant.  He tilted his head and gave a Blaine small frown, "People change, Blaine."

Of course.  Of course they do.  It had been years since Blaine had known Kurt, even if seeing him again immediately regressed Blaine back to an awkward school boy. 

"Are those for me?" Kurt asked, eyeing the clothes and bottle pointedly. 

 "Yes.  Yes, of course.  Sorry."  Blaine thrust the entire bundle at Kurt, "Here."

Kurt took them from Blaine, and then he looked around for a place to put the clothes while he dabbed the club soda on the stains.  The only available surfaces were the urinals and more sinks, none terribly clean after an evening of use.  He gave Blaine a slightly helpless look, and Blaine shook his head ruefully, "Sorry," he said again, "I wasnt thinking," and took the clean clothes back from Kurt. 

Kurt gave him a small, grateful smile and turned back to his ruined clothes, pouring the club soda through the fabric and working it in.  Blaine took that opportunity to surreptitiously study Kurts body.  When they were together, Blaine had no complaints about Kurt; he was beautiful.  Yet, somehow over the last ten years or so, Kurt had managed to ratchet it up a notch or two.  He was more defined, skin taut over lean muscles.  His shoulders had become broader, and his legs more sturdy.  His chest and arms were sinewy and strong. His ass...

Bent over the sink, practically naked, it would be such an easy thing to crowd in close.  Remove that last scrap of fabric.  Hear Kurts breath hitch as Blaine pressed his body against that glorious ass while he slid his hands up that smooth back. 

Let the germs be damned. 

Kurt caught Blaines expression in the mirror over the sink.  "What is it?" he asked, curiously. 

Color suffused Blaines cheeks.  Busted. 

"You look...good...Kurt," he answered honestly. 

Kurt cocked an eyebrow, "Are you ogling me in my moment of distress, Blaine Anderson?"

Blaine barked out a short laugh, "Can you blame me?  Have you seen you?"

Color rose in Kurts cheeks, but he looked pleased.  "Ill never fit into your pants," he said, his attempt at changing the subject obvious to both of them. 

"Theyre Mikes," Blaine responded, grateful for the redirection.  There was an awkward pause while Kurt continued to blot his clothes and Blaine desperately searched for something to say besides, "When youre done there, Id really like to blow you, if thats okay." 

"You got a tattoo," he said instead.

Kurt looked over his shoulder as if surprised to see it there.  "Uh, yeah.  Drunken night with Rachel.  It was a long time ago." 

"Whats it say?"

"See for yourself."

Blaine stepped closer and a trailed his thumb across Kurts skin under the tattoo, raising goose bumps on Kurts back.  Blaine read aloud, "Its got Bette Midler."  Blaine left his thumb on the ridge of Kurts shoulder blade, fingers resting lightly on Kurts warm back as he gave him a quizzical look, "What does that mean?"

Kurt shrugged and gave a small sigh, "Its a long story." 

Having now repaired as much damage as he could, Kurt held his hand out for the borrowed garments.  Blaine reluctantly took his hand off of Kurt and handed him the pants, fighting the impulse to hold them over his head and out of Kurts reach in order to keep Kurt mostly nude.  He didnt, because it was childish, and it wouldnt have worked anyway, because Kurt was a lot taller than he was. 

Blaine held the shirt until Kurt had his legs once again encased in trousers.  They fit perfectly, if a little loose, in the baggier style that Mike favored.  Blaine then handed over the sweatshirt, turning toward the door as Kurt pulled it over his head. 

There was a clatter and a bang, as the mens room door--which had been propped open--suddenly slammed shut.