“So I told him, ‘look, buddy, this isn’t my first ride is a Royce,’” Laughter erupted around the circle of people assembled, but Kurt just rolled his eyes, leaning back against the bar. If there’s anything that he’d learned in his first week living in New York, it’s that most of Santana’s stories were vastly exaggerated.

Kurt glanced down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid in it before taking another sip. It was strong and it burned his throat, but it tasted rather good, and he enjoyed the light feeling it gave him. Besides, it was his first trip to a speakeasy - his companions certainly weren’t going to allow him to leave the place sober.

“Well hello,” Kurt heard one of the girls say. “Nice of you to join us.”

Kurt looked up and saw that they had indeed been joined by someone else. Blaine was there, wearing a dark suit that fit him impeccably, a black fedora resting jauntily on his slicked-back hair. He dipped his head, smiling slightly. “Evening,” he addressed the group, and then met eyes with Kurt across the circle. Kurt could feel a blush rising, fueled by the alcohol, and he smiled shyly back at Blaine.

The girl next to Blaine - Sugar, Kurt thought her name was - offered Blaine a cigarette and he took it, allowing her to light it before starting her own. Kurt looked down at his drink again, listening to the chatter and music around them.

Kurt eventually excused himself, setting his empty glass on the bar and slipping away, wandering slowly towards the dance floor. He stood there and watched the people dance to the music produced by the band on the opposite wall. Girls in slinky dresses, fringe and beads flying this way and that, only to be jerked back in the opposite direction when a man twirled her the other way.

“May I have this dance?”

Kurt turned, confused, to see Blaine standing behind him, his hand outstretched, offering. Blaine really did look stunning tonight - in the low lights of the hidden-away room, his skin seemed to glow healthily.

“Blaine,” Kurt said softly, his voice barely audible over the music. “What are you doing?”

Kurt and Blaine had been best friends for years, and something stranger, undefined, but decidedly more than friends for only a few months. Blaine had never been so brazen - or, more aptly, foolish - to suggest something like this before.

Blaine grinned. “Kurt, what do you think they’re going to do? Call the cops?”

Kurt looked around the speakeasy, and then laughed slightly. No one seemed to be looking their direction.

“Besides,” Blaine said, leaning closer. “We’re in New York now. Things are different.”

Kurt bit his lip, hesitating. He could see the logic in Blaine’s statements, but still…he was so used to hiding, pretending.

Yet he wanted nothing more than to dance in Blaine’s arms.

He stepped forward, a coy smile forming on his lips, and took Blaine’s hand. Blaine reached up and removed his hat, tossing it in the general direction of the tables to their left. Then he pulled Kurt closer, and began to move his feet, winding them around in a circle. They weren’t dancing nearly fast enough to match the beat of the song, but somehow it was perfect.

Kurt leaned in close to Blaine, taking in the smell of cologne and cigarette smoke. “Blaine?” he whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Blaine exhaled, his breath hot against Kurt’s neck. “Anything for you,” he said.

Kurt thought that maybe this whole speakeasy deal wasn’t such a bad idea after all.