Kurt let's the man with emerald eyes and bleach blonde hair take his waist, lets him whisk him toward the dance floor shrouded in melancholy melodies and the stench of cheap cologne. He's twirled majestically and he instantly loses sight of him, the golden eyed man with the crimson mask he's been watching all evening. His head whips around, trying to catch his eye again through his dizziness but he can't find him. The stranger who so courteously asked him to dance is growing frustrated.

Kurt is usually an elegant dancer, poised and graceful as he glides across the floor but not tonight. He treads on toes, his hold slips and he stumbles into his partner, muttering apologies, brow etched with worry and sweat beading at his hairline. Thankfully the stranger seems to think it rude to dance for more than one song and he slips back into the crowd no doubt to find a much more capable partner.

In all honesty Kurt's glad he's no longer dancing. It's hot under the layers of black satin and the ominous rococo chandeliers. The ballroom is stifling, coated in pomp and glamour much like its inhabitants. The women with their hair curled high atop their heads and their powdered noses, the men with their straight backs and contained smiles. There's applause as the host makes his toast but Kurt isn't listening, the cheers and laughter is drowned out as he finally spots him again.

He's slumped against the opposite wall, shoulders hunched and amber eyes on the floor. He's surrounded by a group of young men, all practically identical and talking animatedly. A tall, smarmy looking man shakes a glass in front of his face, the clink of ice startling him and spurring him to look up.

"Come on Blainers. Dance with me." The man says curtly, manners and courtesy falling to the wayside and it's unsurprising that the man declines. "I don't feel like dancing." He mutters and then he's gone brushing through the throngs of twirling bourgeoisie types toward the open balcony.

The crimson of his mask flashes in the low light and his eyes glow with it, hazel honey eyes glistening as his pace quickens along side the beat of Kurt's heart. It's now or never, and gracelessly, with blundering and clumsiness Kurt stumbles after him. They're mere meters away when Kurt reaches out, trips and grabs onto the stranger's sleeve, breathing out a horrified gasp.

The man doesn't turn, just pulls his sleeve loose from Kurt's grip and says quietly, timidly, "I don't feel like dancing."

"But I-I" Kurt stutters, his heart stilling in his chest as the man turns to him, expression both shocked and relieved. They're standing in between the doors to the balcony and his eyes glisten in the hazy moonlight, guarded yet soft, a heart wrenching juxtaposition for such a beautiful man.

"I'm sorry, I'm sure you'd rather enjoy the masquerade." He says stepping out into the silvery night and trying not to think about how the midnight blue of the heavens goes so wonderfully with the blue of this man's eyes. "I'd rather just speak with you." Kurt says frankly, boldly following after him.

"No one ever ‘just speaks' with an Anderson." He says bitterly and Kurt fights the urge to gape.

Blaine, Kurt has chosen to pursue Blaine Anderson, enigmatic estranged son of Oliver Anderson, owner of half the estates in the West Country. "Blaine?"

"Kurt"

"How did you-"

"Reputations precede the wealthy Mr Hummel, and your eyes are unmistakeable."

"So you know of me?" Kurt wonders.

"Of course," Blaine replies with a small smile, leaning against the balcony rail and sliding a fraction closer "but I'd much rather know you Kurt Hummel so, I'm willing to make an exception." Blaine takes Kurt's hand in his, placing his other carefully at Kurt's waist, pulling him in until they're toe to toe, chest to chest.

Kurt stares down at him, a small mischievous smile gracing lush pink lips as he refuses to budge, his arms linking around Blaine's neck. "I don't feel like dancing" he whispers, lips brushing Blaine's before they fall into an evening spent with soft kisses and masks that hide nothing.