"And for my last illusion," the performer announces, "I will swallow not one, but three knives." The small crowd remains unenthusiastically silent, not even an "oo."

Kurt takes another swig of his drink, he's forgotten what it is. A glass of whiskey or rum or vodka, something with an olive in it. He puckers his lips at the burning in his throat. He doesn't really know why he's drinking, but it seems the acceptable thing to do at a mediocre magic act. A petite, brunette woman with an obvious boob job steps on stage with three long knives in her hands. The performer, a large man with beads of sweat running down his neck to his collar, takes the knives out of her hands as a drumroll begins. He lines the blades up evenly and licks his lips. He leans his head back and opens his mouth, bringing the blades to his tongue. The drumroll ceases. The blades grow shorter and shorter as they slide down his throat until only the handles are visible. He takes his hands off of the blades and throws his hands out. A drum is hit as the crowd claps lightly. He pulls the knives out of his throat and bows curtly.

"Thank you, thank you, you're a good crowd." He calls as he walks off stage.

To someone that doesn't work at a theater and see at least two magic shows each night, it might be an impressive feat. Kurt Hummel is not one of those people, he's seen this trick a hundred times. All you need is to know your way around an esophagus and lack a gag reflex. When he first started his job as a New York dinner theater waiter three months ago, Kurt was thrilled. As long as he was working or on break, he could watch as many performances as he liked. He soon learned that not all the acts were so remarkable. There has been at least six ambulance calls in the time he's worked there, and that's only when he's on shift.

It's ten o' clock on a Friday night and Kurt has nothing better to do than sit and watch magic shows after his shift. He likes things that enthrall him, and magic is not one of those things. When he was eleven, a drunk magician at his friend's birthday party told him how every trick he knew worked. It kind of ruined magic for him. There's also the fact that he's already seen every magician that comes on stage and knows all their tricks. He knows most of them by name, too.

The voice of Bill, the announcer, sounds from the old speakers above the scattered crowd. "Give a warm welcome to our next act, Anderson the Astounding!"

Kurt perks up. He's never heard of this guy before, which is definitely odd. The only performers that work here are washed out old guys that can't find work anywhere else. The magician steps on stage, slowly. He doesn't look like any of the magicians he's seen, either. The magician, Anderson it seems, is wearing a black polo shirt with a red polka-dotted bow tie. Dark loafers shine beneath his alarmingly bright red, calf-hugging pants. If he's going for the "wow" effect, he's certainly getting it. It's a nice change from the sequined black capes and top hats that most of the acts wear.

Anderson turns on his heel to face the crowd, if you could call twenty drunks a crowd. His cold expression turns into a wicked smile. Kurt leans forward in his seat, intrigued by this guy. Anderson lifts his arms dramatically. He puts them down to his sides and lowers his head as the spotlight on him disappears.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a smooth voice says from the speaker, a voice that is not Bill's, "this is not a magic show. This is an experience of a lifetime. Now, I'll need an assistant."

The spotlight appears back on stage, but Anderson isn't there. A few people look around the room. Kurt feels a tapping on his shoulder and twists around. Anderson is crouching next to his chair with a softer smile, his hand held out towards Kurt.

"Care to join me?" He breathes.

Kurt's mouth gapes open as he gets a close up look at the performer. His dark brown hair is slicked back in waves, concealing his curls. His lips are full and pink and look so soft that Kurt just wants to lean over and pounce on him right there. It's not helping that the polo that Anderson is wearing shows off his deliciously toned arms and, fuck, those eyes. Surprisingly, he's not wearing any gaudy eyeliner like some Criss Angel wannabe. His eyes are an unreal shade of brown, or maybe hazel, the light keeps hitting them differently. The light. Kurt realizes that there's a spotlight on both of them.

Anderson raises his eyebrows and Kurt nods, barely remembering what the question was. Anderson takes his hand and pulls him out of his seat, leading him on stage. Shit. I just agreed to be his assistant, didn't I? Kurt thinks to himself. Then again, he's never been shy to a stage.

"Now that I have my assistant..." Anderson pauses and looks intently at Kurt.

"Oh, uh, Kurt," he says quickly.

"Now that I have my assistant, Kurt, let's start the experience." Anderson takes a deck of cards out of his pocket. "Pick a card."

Kurt raises an eyebrow. "No, I'm kidding." Anderson says as he pulls a sheet from behind the curtain.

"Okay, just stand here and stay still." Anderson mutters as he brushes past Kurt. He immediately stiffens. Anderson laughs lightly as he unfolds the sheet. He leans close enough to Kurt for him to smell the mint in his breath. "I mean, naturally still. And close your eyes."

Kurt smirks uncomfortably and releases some of the tension in his back as Anderson tosses the sheet over him.

"Do you know how this act usually works?" Kurt hears Anderson say to the audience. "I'll tell you. First, I'll distract you. I'll ask multiple people to come up and make sure that there is an actual person under this sheet. Then I'll move the sheet around a few times and do some unnecessary prodding. I'll lift the sheet up, giving my assistant enough time to stop, drop, and roll off somewhere backstage. Tah-dah! But I'm not that type of magician." Kurt hears a finger snap and feels himself fall down and drop into a seat. A few people in the crowd gasp. He opens his eyes and sees Anderson on stage, the sheet lying on the floor where he was just standing. Kurt looks around and finds himself in the same seat he was sitting in before he went on stage. He stands up and sees Anderson staring at him. Or more, through him. Kurt furrows his eyebrows with an expression saying "what the fuck just happened?" Blaine smirks and throws his arm out towards Kurt in the audience, directing a spotlight on him. The crowd claps, louder than Kurt had heard in weeks. There's scattered whispers of "oh my god" and "how...?" Kurt is thinking the same thing.

Anderson's act continues for another twenty minutes, doing smaller tricks like releasing a dove from his hand before it falls to ashes, and throwing a deck of cards up and freezing them in midair. Kurt can't believe it, he's actually starting to believe in magic. By the last trick, everyone is on the edge of their seats.

"I hope I've been suitably entertaining tonight, but I've only got one trick left." Anderson announces. He goes backstage for a moment and comes back with a sword, not unlike the one that the other magician put down his throat. "And please, don't scream."

He runs the blade over his fingers, back and forth. He taps it on the ground a couple times, then brings the tip of the blade to his chest, right between his ribs. Kurt, like some of the other audience members, covers his mouth with his hands. He can't be serious. Anderson grips the handle of the knife, closing his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths, then thrusts the blade in.

Kurt's hands cover his scream. Anderson groans, then falls to his knees. Kurt is about to stand, when Anderson puts his hand up. He takes the handle of the sword again and pulls it out slowly. Kurt's eyes are fixed on the blade, even when the performer has pulled it out completely. Anderson places the sword on the ground next to him, the light catching the stains of red on the silver. He grips his chest tight, winces, then relaxes his hands. His eyes widen and he stands up on two feet. He untucks his shirt out of his pants and pulls it up to the wound, or, where the wound would have been. There is only a splotch of red, which he wipes off with his hand. Not to mention his toned stomach that Kurt was definitely not staring at. The crowd claps, even louder than for the first trick, and Kurt is the loudest.

"Adieu," Anderson says as he bows out. He steps off stage and walks right past Kurt.

"Wait!" Kurt says, grabbing his coat. "Wait, Anderson,"

Anderson keeps walking until he's out the door. Kurt nearly runs into him as Anderson makes an abrupt stop and turns towards Kurt. "Blaine."

"What?" Kurt puzzles.

"Call me Blaine, Anderson the Astounding is my stage name."

Kurt raises an eyebrow. "Blaine? Like David Blaine?"

Blaine rolls his eyes. "No, like Blaine Christopher Anderson, but you can see why I go by Anderson."

"Oh." Kurt says shortly. Blaine begins to walk away again, but Kurt catches his arm. "Wait! How...how did you do that?"

"What?" Blaine crosses his arms.

"All of it!"

"A good magician never tells." Blaine smirks.

Kurt catches his arm again. "No, really. You're the best magician I've ever seen, and that was amazing."

"Astounding, even?"

Kurt smiles facetiously. "Yes, astounding, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine tips an imaginary hat. "Why, thank you, Mr. Hummel."

He begins to walk away again, so Kurt walks next to him. "How do you know my name?"

"What?" Blaine repeats.

"Stop that."

Blaine shrugs. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The whole mysterious magician facade." Kurt retorts.

Blaine stops. "Facade?"

"Yeah, I can see right through it." Kurt objects.

Blaine strokes his chin peculiarly. "What do you see?"

Kurt doesn't have a clue, so he takes a shot in the dark. "Just...I don't know, your parents didn't love you enough as a child."

Blaine scoffs and continues walking, Kurt right alongside him.

"You have to tell me."

"I'm magic." Blaine says simply.

"Really?" Kurt asks sarcastically.

"Yep, I went to Hogwarts and everything." Blaine stops in front of a gate and fishes a bundle of keys out of his pocket. He unlocks the gate and starts to walk up a flight of stairs. Kurt has met a stalemate. Blaine looks down at Kurt. "You coming up? You've followed me three blocks, might as well."

Kurt nods and follows him up the stairs silently. They reach a door marked with a simple 3a and Blaine goes inside. "Come on," Blaine says before Kurt has to ask.

Kurt takes a look around the apartment. The walls are white, the two doors are white, the carpet is beige, the couch is beige. It's pretty standard. There's a bookshelf filled with books to Kurt's right and a kitchenette around the corner.

"You run out of questions?" Blaine asks as he takes off his bow tie.

"Well, you're not going to tell me the truth." Kurt crosses his arms.

Blaine shrugs. "I suppose."

He tugs at the bottom of his shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing his strengthened chest. He begins to take off his belt and unbutton his pants when Kurt clears his throat.

"What?" Blaine shrugs, continuing to pull off his pants.

Kurt rolls his eyes and turns the corner into the small kitchen. It's just a cheap fridge and a few counters piled with take-out boxes and a microwave. He opens the fridge, and it's pretty barren except for a few condiments and some sodas. Kurt's surprised it's not filled with bottles of beer. Actually, he finds it curious that he doesn't see any booze anywhere.

"Having fun?" Blaine says.

Kurt turns to see him leaning against the wall by the fridge, now in baggy shorts. "Shit, you keep doing that."

"What?"

Kurt narrows his eyes. "Is that the only word in your vocabulary?"

"What?" Blaine smiles credulously.

"Funny." Kurt says dryly.

Blaine pins Kurt to the fridge, taking him by surprise. Kurt gives him a bewildered look, before Blaine leans forward and kisses him hard.

"What was that for?" Kurt says airily.

"I'm bored, we're attractive," Blaine growls into Kurt's ear, "You can't fake that much sexual tension." He dives back into Kurt's mouth, freeing his arms. Kurt's hands graze up Blaine's sides and wrap themselves around his neck. He lets out a small whimper as Blaine's hips roll into his own. God, it's been too long since he's felt that.

"Aagh," Kurt hisses as something protrudes into his back. Blaine's lips trail down to his neck, running his teeth over the fresh skin.

"No - fridge - door handle," Kurt manages to blurt out.

"Oh," Blaine steps out of the kitchen. "Bed." He gestures for Kurt to follow him.

Kurt doesn't get a chance to look at the bedroom when he's picked up by his waist and pinned back down on the bed. Blaine pulls off Kurt's cardigan and throws it to the side of the room, then slides off his turtleneck, and finally his undershirt.

"God, you wear a lot of layers," Blaine grumbles.

"Fashion," Kurt nags, shimmying off his jeans.

Blaine pushes his shorts on the ground with Kurt's jeans and leans down to meet Kurt's lips. Kurt puts a finger on Blaine's lips, then, with all his power, flips over so he's sitting on top of Blaine.

Blaine raises an eybrow. "So that's how it's gonna be,"

He puts a hand on the back of Kurt's neck and pulls Kurt's lips towards his own.

Kurt's mind goes blank. The last thing he remembers when he wakes up is having the most incredible orgasm of his life and the most spectacular eyes watching him as he does.

Kurt's hand gropes towards the pillow next to him. There's nothing there. He sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. It becomes painfully aware to him that there is nothing anywhere. No clothes on the ground, except his own, no suitcase, no Blaine. He finds his briefs on the ground and pulls them on. He ambles into the living room. The bookshelf is vacant. When he looks in the fridge, there's not even a bottle of ketchup. What the fuck happened last night? Kurt wonders. Well, he knows something happened. A particular throbbing in his lower regions makes him certain. This gives a whole new definition to hump and dump. Kurt goes back in the bedroom and gets dressed, figuring, what else can he do? He finds his coat hanging off the closet door. He pulls it on and hears an odd crinkling sound. He searches through the pockets. In one, he finds a playing card. The king of hearts. There's something written on it.

Is this your card?

He feels something in his other pocket. He pulls out a polka-dotted bow tie.

Whatever happened last night, Kurt thinks, was astounding.

Kurt worked at that dinner theater for four more months, every night waiting to see if "Anderson the Astounding" would show up, just once, but he never did.

Or really, Kurt never saw him.