“Okay, I know I said that you got to pick where we went on our “date” (Kurt includes air quotes to indicate that this isn’t actually a date, a fact that Blaine has been reminded of about three times in the past hour … and which he’s rolled his eyes about with each reiteration), but what about me screams bowler to you?” Kurt asks as he peruses the various multicolored bowling balls, cringing visibly at the idea of sticking his fingers into any of them.

“It’ll be fun! I promise.” Blaine chuckles as his disgusted ex walks along beside him, searching for a ball to use. “Take a walk on the wild side.”

“Ugh! Don’t say walk. It’s bad enough that I’m wearing a pair of shoes used by at least several hundred other people.” Kurt turns a ball around on the rack to check the weight. “As it is, I’m going to have to throw the socks I’m wearing in the trash after tonight.”

“Which pair? You’ve got three on!”

“I’m not taking any chances! Have you ever seen a case of athlete’s foot? Because I have.” Kurt shudders. “Quitting the football team was the smartest decision of my life.”

“Come on, Kurt,” Blaine groans, though it’s mostly a laugh. “You’re a New Yorker, right? You have to be used to dirt and grit by now.”

“And I am. Sort of. But that’s because it’s New York dirt and grit. It’s sophisticated and artistic, full of culture and diversity. Not like out here where everything smells vaguely of cow. But I’m still not buying that bowling was our only option.”

“Well, Lima isn’t exactly the cultural hub of Ohio, as you well know. It was either this, the All About Eve retrospective that we’ve already seen about a hundred times …

“Because it never gets old,” Kurt defends, glancing over at his coat as if he’s ready to grab it and make a break for the theater, skunky rental shoes be damned.

“Yeah, well we missed it,” Blaine adds, interpreting the mad dash of Kurt’s eyes. “It started half an hour ago.”

“Oh …”

“Or we hit up the middle school for a rousing evening of Brigadoon.”

Blaine chokes down a laugh the second Kurt scowls. He can’t help that he finds Kurt’s complaining endearing … and amusing.

“Bowling it is.” Kurt grabs a ten-pound ball off the rack between the palms of his hands with fingers splayed, not willing to come into too much contact with it, and carries it with a fake bounce in his step toward their lane. “I mean, you’ve already gotten me into the fungus-laden shoes,” he gripes, dropping his ball into the carousel. “I guess there’s no turning back now.”

Blaine finds the ball he’s going to use - fourteen-pounds, midnight blue with silver glitter swirls, and finger holes close enough to his size - and puts it down beside Kurt’s in the carousel. Then he types their names into the scoring computer. He presses enter, and the score card flashes up on the screen above their heads.

“There.” Blaine gestures to it with his hand. “Like the gentleman I am, I put you first.”

Halfway to his seat, Kurt abruptly changes gears and returns to the carousel. “Great. Thanks.” He chases his canary yellow ball around the metal surface, pouncing on it when it comes close. He picks it up – again between both hands without sticking his fingers in the holes. He approaches the foul line, side-stepping cautiously in the slick-bottomed shoes.

“Do you want some help with your approach?” Blaine calls after him. Kurt stops, mumbles “No thanks” over his shoulder without bothering to turn around, then shuffles the rest of the way to the foul line. He stands in a plie position, feet sliding out to either side until he’s doing a nearly impossible split, and then he bends over. He dangles the ball between his legs and swings it back and forth the same way little kids do when they first learn how to bowl. But when Kurt does it, it causes his ass to wiggle in the tightest pair of jeans Blaine has yet to see him wear – something he bought in New York with his Vogue discount, most likely, since Blaine has never seen them before.

Blaine stands an inch from his seat to get a better view. He doesn’t want Kurt to catch him ogling. He’s not exactly standing on firm ground with Kurt at the moment. Even after an entire afternoon of downright filthy (but still romantic) sex, Kurt still doesn’t seem ready to go back to boyfriend status, so this friends-with-benefits-and-complicated-feelings relationship they have going is uncharted territory. He doesn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize any potential future they may have … but dammit! Kurt’s butt is incredible! It would be a shame not to appreciate it properly.

One swing, two swings, three swings and Kurt flings the ball down the lane. It flies halfway, then lands on the wood with a hollow thwap, veering to the right and heading straight for the gutter. It teeters on the edge before sliding into the trench, then wobbles slowly the rest of the way.

Not a single pin is in any danger of being hit by Kurt’s throw.

“Shoot!” He stomps his foot as the cage comes down and the pins are lifted and reset. “I didn’t hit one pin.”

“You know, it might help if you put your fingers in the holes,” Blaine suggests.

“Not a chance,” Kurt says, waiting for his ball to return. “I’m not going to risk catching some type of flesh-eating bacteria. Besides …” He holds his hands up, inspecting his nails “… I just oiled my cuticles.” The ball swoops up into the carousel, and he trudges over to retrieve it, playing the same game of chase as before till he manages to clamp his hands around it.

“Do you want me to get some bumpers for the gutters?” Blaine offers.

“No,” Kurt snaps.

“Why not? What do you have against bumpers?”

“Do you need a bumper to bowl?”

“Not particularly. I just think they’re fun.”

“Yeah, fun for you because they’ll help you win easier. No, thank you.”

“As you wish,” Blaine surrenders with arms raised.

Kurt readjusts his approach on his second attempt, trying the far right instead of the middle for this throw, but he still performs his little bend-over-and-wiggle boogey that Blaine finds so appealing. This time when Kurt lofts the ball, it stays on the lane, rolling over the finger holes the whole way down, making a loud thunkthunkthunkthunk noise. Kurt returns to the chairs and sits, watching his ball limp its way to the pins. It skids past one. The pin wobbles, then tilts, and finally falls over, but it doesn’t take any of its friends along with it.

“And … that’s one!” Blaine announces. “One! One pin! Ah-ah-ah!”

“The Count, Blaine?” Kurt asks with disdain. “From Sesame Street? If you’re going to make fun of me, can you at least find a more mature reference?”

“I think that making fun of someone in a mature way is a contradiction in terms,” Blaine says, getting out of his seat to start his turn. Kurt watches Blaine carelessly stick his fingers in the holes of his borrowed ball with no regard for personal safety and grimaces.

“You’re just begging for a microbial disease.”

“I choose to laugh in the face of danger,” Blaine retorts with a playful growl.

“Laugh all you want, but you’re going to be wearing rubber gloves the next time those fingers come anywhere near my body,” Kurt mutters.

And Blaine’s heart skips, knowing that Kurt is planning on a next time.

Blaine stands far back from the foul line, bringing the ball to eye level. He looks over it at the pins, taking aim. He starts to move, walking forward with extreme concentration, dead-set on his target. He slides up to the foul line and releases the ball smoothly onto the lane. It rolls in a straight line, then curves, hitting just to the right of the head pin and taking out the whole lot – all ten pins – with the one blow.

Blaine smiles to himself before he turns around, imagining Kurt’s face – a frown turning down the corners of his perfect, pink lips; his cheeks flushed; his eyes shimmering with restrained anger.

Kurt is many wonderful things, but he is also an awfully sore loser.

And he continues to be a sore loser, sulking steadily into his funky shoes, for the next nine frames.

Their first game isn’t spectacular, but Blaine does win - a not entirely impressive 143 to Kurt’s pathetic 26. Blaine can usually average a 210 on a good day, but Kurt’s ass in those jeans is too distracting for words.

That’s okay, because Blaine still won.

“Well, this was fun and all,” Kurt grumbles, “but I think I’d rather chew glass than do that again.” And with that, he props his foot up on his knee and starts to untie his laces.

“Wait!” Blaine grabs Kurt’s hands, stopping the removal of his shoes. “We can’t leave yet! We still have the lane for another hour. Don’t you want to try to even the score?”

Kurt sighs, looking into Blaine’s pleading face. Kurt has to hand it to him. He’s adorable when he begs, which makes it almost impossible for Kurt to say no to him.

“No,” Kurt says, returning to the laces on his shoes.

“Come on! I’ll give you a handicap. A hundred points, right out of the gate.”

“I still wouldn’t have won, you realize. Even with your pity points.”

“Okay, then how about a little motivation? Hmm?”

Kurt stops untying. He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean motivation?”

“A friendly wager. I’ll give you your hundred point handicap, and whoever loses has to …” Blaine’s eyes shift right and left as he tries to think of an appropriate reward, “buy the winner dinner.”

“Dinner?” Kurt asks, unimpressed seeing as Blaine had already offered to buy him dinner.

“And a movie?” Blaine adds.

“You mean the movie we should have gone to instead of coming here?”

“Whatever movie you want.”

Kurt’s eyes dart above Blaine’s head, considering his offer.

“Dinner … a movie … and a full body massage,” Kurt ups the ante.

“Happy ending?” Blaine asks, salivating.

“Of course.”

“Done.” Blaine takes Kurt’s hand and shakes it, sealing the deal.

“Fine.” Kurt reties his bowling shoe.

“Here …” Blaine hurriedly re-enters their names in the computer. “I’ll let you go first again.”

Kurt laughs dryly, reaching for his ball. “You know, it’s not nice to take advantage of your ex.”

“Who says I’m taking advantage? I’m just … really in need of a good massage. That’s all.” Blaine makes a show of rolling his shoulder, confident that he’s about to win. Kurt shakes his head at how obvious he’s being and turns toward their lane.

Blaine sits back, preparing for the amazing show of Kurt’s wiggling ass dance, but Kurt’s whole approach has miraculously changed. He sticks his fingers in the holes and stands behind the foul line, a little farther back than Blaine started his approach from. He takes a tentative step forward, walking slowly, and then slides toward the foul line, pulling his ball back and sending it down the lane with much more precision than before. It slides down the slick wood, curving at the end and sweeping across the front row of pins, knocking them all down in a rather complicated-looking, domino-esque fashion.

Blaine stands slowly from his chair. Kurt dusts his hands and turns on his heel, returning to a Gobsmacked Blaine.

“What … what was that?” Blaine asks, his jaw-dropped.

“Uh … beginner’s luck?” Kurt responds with a shrug and a suspiciously knowing grin.

“Hey, Kurt!” A burly man in dungarees and a worn red and black flannel shirt calls to him from behind the racks of balls.

“Hey, Walter!” Kurt returns with a wave. “How are you doing?”

“Great! I didn’t know you started bowling again?”

“I haven’t really. My friend Blaine and I, we’re … just sort of messing around. We’re back in town for a wedding, but it kinda went south.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. Anyway, there’s nothing else to do, and my plane doesn’t leave till tomorrow, so ...”

Blaine steps forward, reaching out a hand to intercept the one that Walter extends his way.

“Good to meet you, Blaine.”

“Likewise,” Blaine says, curious to the point of bursting over what’s going on.

“I saw you lay those pins flat, and I’ve gotta say, you’ve still got it, kid,” Walter addresses Kurt again. “I was a little worried when I saw you bowl a 26. A twenty-frickin’-six!” Walter whistles through his teeth. “I said nah. Not Burt Hummel’s boy!”

“Still … still got what?” Blaine asks, turning to look between Walter and Kurt.

“Leavin’ tomorrow, huh?” Walter continues as if Blaine hadn’t spoken. “Too bad. You’re gonna miss the tournament tomorrow night. The pot’s five hundred dollars.”

“Wow. Five hundred?” Kurt tuts contemplatively. “I may just have to see if I can catch a later flight.”

Kurt winks.

Walter laughs.

Blaine looks like they’re speaking a completely different language.

“Wh-why would you join the tournament?” Blaine asks, feeling as if they left him behind in the conversation about five minutes ago. “You don’t even like to bowl.”

The conversation stops. Walter laughs at Blaine’s confusion.

“Are you kidding? Kurt Hummel holds the 20th Century Lanes’ record for most consecutive perfect games in a year!”

Blaine glares at Kurt. Kurt throws his head back and laughs.

“So, that was all an act?” Blaine whines. “You were hustling me?”

“Ooo …” Walter catches on quickly. “I’m gonna let you fellas get back to your game and sort this out. It’s good seeing you, Kurt.”

“Good to see you, too, Walter,” Kurt manages without breaking down completely.

“So, when were you planning on letting me in on the secret?” Blaine asks, backing Kurt up against the seats.

“Uh, now seems like a good time,” Kurt says, holding his ground. “Do you want to forfeit now, or would you rather suffer the crushing defeat?”

“It’s just the first frame,” Blaine says with a shrug, trying to maintain his confident demeanor. “It’s still anybody’s game.”

“I doubt it. You gave me a hundred points, remember?” Kurt leans in close and whispers in Blaine’s ear, brushing against his body in as suggestively PG a manner as he can. “This game was over before it began.”