Blaine is pretty sure this is the most ridiculous party he has ever attended and not even attended willingly, brute force landed him here. Stupid Santana what even gave her the idea for a party like this anyway?

"Aww come on Blainers, you shoot straight you might just end up riding something by the end of the night or shall I say someone" she smirks with that signature smarmy grin that has the capacity to either render him blushing or fuming or just speechless. It's safe to say Blaine had banned any and all mentions of The Village People in relation to the night and his own attire.

Honestly it's like she expected him to become some stripping gay cliché which reminds him he really doesn't want to get plastered just in case Santana's dream comes true and that cliché became his reality. It's bad enough that the place is a legitimate saloon; he pushes the doors open, shuffling through and avoiding the more dramatic entrance he can see some of the more enthusiastic guests attempting. Westerns were never really his thing.

He takes a seat at the bar and there are people tipping their cowboy hats and yelling ‘howdy' at him left right and centre, and not to be a real stick in the mud he tips his hat back (with as much class as he can muster feeling like a complete idiot). He doesn't care how much fun Brittany said it would be it's just freaking him out.

Never one to dress down for an occasion he's dressed to the nines in faded blue skinny jeans tucked into brown leather boots that stop half way up the shin, heavy with thick laces and buckles that weigh them down. His shirt is just plain white, buttoned to his throat where a black ribbon bow tie dangles quite daintily for cowboy attire. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and his light brown waistcoat hangs open, his hat tipped down so he looks just to the left of respectable citizen and more wanted outlaw. It's when he finds himself leaning back against the bar, mentally critiquing everyone's idea of Wild Wild West chic that he realises that damn it he's already been sucked into the spirit of the shambolic affair.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees someone inching their way towards him a long the bar. He's short with dirty blonde hair and thick rimmed glasses and Jesus Christ are those leather pants? The man smiles and opens his mouth to speak I swear to god if I hear someone say howdy one more time... and Blaine's hands itch towards his cousin's water pistol stored safely in the holder strapped to his thigh.

"Howdy partner!" Fuck.

"Hi" Blaine mumbles, taking a swig from his vodka and coke.

"I'm chandler".

"Nice to meet you Chandler, I'm Blaine".

"Likewise Blaine, I couldn't help but notice you all the way over here on your lonesome, are you not enjoying the show?"

"Recent break up" he mumbles and really he's kinda over it, he's just left with the residual bitterness "and if by ‘the show' you mean Calamity Jane riding the rodeo bull over there then sure colour me suitably dazzled".

Suddenly the lights begin to dim and Chandler lets out a squeak of excitement, jumping a little and clapping like and overly enthusiastic eight year old. A spotlight hits the doors to the Saloon bar and everyone turns, silent with anticipation. "Oh my mistake," Chandler breathes, eyes fixed on a figure just beyond the doors, mostly hidden in the shadows "the show's only just beginning".

***

Sure enough a group appears just behind the swinging bar doors, fronted by the most beautiful man Blaine has ever laid eyes on. A line of can-can girls are peering coyly over the top of the doors as the man stands in the centre, brilliant blue eyes flashing in the silvery hue the spotlight creates. The girls are all in matching black and midnight blue satin dresses with a train at the back and a short frilled skirt at the front. Blaine can see that their outfits are practically flawless, fitting every girl perfectly, the ribbing and lace on the corsets look impeccable, well to Blaine it does anyway.

Blaine can appreciate how gorgeous the girls are without drooling like the man to his left but when he allows himself to really look at the beautiful man up front, poised powerfully, leaning between the girls and arching over the doors, he not-so-subtly brings the back of his hand to his mouth, you know, just in case.

He is just stunning. His own version of the girls' ensemble fits him like a glove; tight, blue, high waisted shorts fasten around his middle with black lace ties atop a crisp white shirt, the top buttons open to expose the pale, delicious looking skin of his throat and clavicle. The midnight blue tailcoat with lace embellishments and a black velvet lining shimmers with every shift of his shoulders. It's elegant and lacy and sensually masculine and it's making Blaine seriously hot under his cowboy hat.

Blaine hasn't even noticed the music or the movement, it doesn't even register that the entire place is hollering and cheering, that this is the ‘show' and he is definitely enjoying it. He doesn't notice until the man is waltzing past him, flashing him a wide grin his cheeks flushed and his hair an organised mess, a few stray strands flopping down over his forehead. He is gorgeous and Blaine feels grandiosely outshone, feels like just another man, just another part of a rowdy, highly intoxicated crowd where even the straight guys are gaping at this prince.

Eyes a plethora of blues and greens and grey shift and blur in the interchanging lighting as he gracefully takes to the stage and Blaine is enraptured, lured in by a voice like silk and eyes kohl rimmed and burning with icy flames. The spell breaks and the magic fizzles out just as soon as it had started, the music trickles away and the group exits the stage. Blaine is pushing, slipping past strangers with breathless excuses and apologises but he doesn't catch him and curses himself for letting him go.

Making his way back to the bar he hears that guy, Charles? Was that his name? Jabbering incessantly about the performance, only catching bits and pieces, Blaine struggles to hear over the loud sounds of a party back in full swing. "Spectacular!" He hears Charlie exclaim. Kurt Hummel... yeah friend of Santana's...Vegas...on tour...quite the showman...gorgeous."

He spins away from the bar so quickly he nearly loses his balance and topples into a gaggling group of girls. It's times like this, in a crowd looking for Santana because for the love of God he should've been introduced to this Kurt Hummel a week ago, he wishes he were just a few inches taller. He peers over heads and weaves between huddles of bodies until he makes it to the tables. That's where he spots them, talking like the old friends they are and Kurt throws his head back, laughing and Blaine is frozen halfway between the dance floor and their table.

"Oh well if it isn't the stable boy." Santana calls and Blaine inwardly cringes, takes a deep breath and tries to seat himself next to Kurt as smoothly as possible. "Wait stable boy?" Kurt asks with a quizzical tilt of his head.

"Mmm ‘cause Blaine knows his stallions."

"Oh my Go- Santana!" He can feel his face heat as he struggles to resist the urge to dive face first into the table top. He's thoroughly mortified but oh no Auntie Tana isn't done yet. "What Blainers? You gotta let him know you know how to ride ‘em."

Kurt's eyes are dancing with mirth, and he's barely suppressing his laughter, as his cheeks flush pink at Blaine's wide eyed stare. "Did you enjoy the show?" He asks ignoring Santana's sniggering when Blaine continues to stammer "or are you interested in an encore?" Blaine's eyes darken immediately and it's a reaction he wasn't sure he'd be able to conjure in Blaine. "Yes" Blaine breathes out in reply.

There's no denying the look of longing in his eyes, it's been there since Kurt flashed him a smile. Santana had assured him that Blaine was a wonderfully adorable and gentlemanly, little twerp but that didn't seem right at all, apart from the blushing and incoherent mumbling Blaine was a pure ruggedly handsome outlaw. Except the pink water pistol in the fire holster certainly put a spanner in the works.

"Well what do you say to a go on the rodeo bull and then we get out of here and ride off into the sunset?"

"That all depends" Blaine whispers, breath warm against Kurt's ear.

"Depends on what?"

"Who's riding who."

"Wanky."