Chapter Text
It isn’t the first bar Blaine has set foot in, but it’s certainly the classiest. The most deadly.
There are nerves buzzing in his fingertips as the coat-check girl peels the coat from his shoulders and winks at him with a Marilyn Monroe twinkle in her eye. Blaine’s gaze follows her sashay all the way back to the cloakroom. He can’t help but look; he's never seen a woman quite like that before.
The lights here are amber, caught in the sharp-cut glass of dim chandeliers. The music is slow and boozy and the carpets are thick. The servers slink between the tables, trailing that unattainable air of Manhattan sophistication.
A boy is watching Blaine from behind the bar. He is leaning his chin on one hand, holding a cigarette between two fingers. When their eyes meet, Blaine feels a rush he can’t explain.
“It’s something, right?” Sebastian says, looking at Blaine. He slides his hands into his pockets.
“Yes,” Blaine breathes, already drunk on the atmosphere.
They take a booth on the far side of the room, past the stage where a brunette is singing in a smoky voice.
“Damn,” says Sam, in dazzled amazement. He unbuttons his jacket before sitting down beside Blaine. They are the new guys here. It pays for them to stick together.
“I’ve been coming here two years and I still get that reaction,” Noah says. He reaches forwards for a handful of the bar nuts that are laid out in a little glass bowl on their table. “This place doesn’t get old. These girls don’t get old.”
“Neither do the boys,” Sebastian says, with an emphasis that makes Blaine blush.
“Not in my face, friend," Noah warns, "You save that for the back room."
Once their hostess has left, they are soon joined by a waiter with slender hips and a beautiful pale throat, visible through the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. He wears no tie; he's decorated only by a coy smile and an expensive wristwatch.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he says, in an unusually pretty voice. “Some drinks for you?”
Sebastian leans forwards. “Evening. I believe it’s martinis all round.”
“Desperately original of you,” the waiter says. He slips his notepad away without writing anything down. Blaine is taken back by the mildly rude service, but Sebastian looks pleased.
“I don’t see you doing anything different night after night, Kurt.”
Kurt smiles, too bright to be genuine. “Well, that's just because there's nowhere I'd rather be."
“Double it for me. I’m no lightweight.” Noah holds up two fingers, then leans towards Blaine and adds, “We don’t want things to be too uneven. No offence, but you look like a stiff breeze could blow you down.”
Blaine shifts in his seat, embarrassed. After his first drink-laden dinner meeting on Tuesday, he'd had to go right home and lie down in a darkened room until his head stopped spinning. He'd heard that city jobs were supposed to make a man of you by the drinking alone, but he hadn't realised quite how far he still had to go on that front.
Until recently, the most he'd ever had to drink was a couple of glasses of wine with a meal or a beer or two while standing around someone's back yard. And even then, he had usually been under parental supervision. At their wedding, Rachel had been able to positively drink him under the table.
Now, Blaine looks back at the waiter somewhat apologetically and finds that he is being regarded with interest.
“New boys,” the waiter - Kurt - says. His eyes are blue, or maybe green – the amber lights make it hard to tell. He is the same boy who Blaine noticed when they first walked in.
“New to you.” Sebastian gestures grandly across the table, to where Blaine and Sam sit like sacrificial virgins. “May I present our latest additions, Mr Sam Evans of Nowheresville, Deep South, and Mr Blaine Anderson of Dead End, New England. Gentlemen, this is Kurt Hummel - our regular. No one really knows where he came from, but he's got New York in his blood. And, by now, enough dirt on us all to make anyone’s wife drop dead of the scandal.”
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you," Sam says, smiling his big southern smile and offering Kurt a handshake.
Kurt looks at Sam’s hand with amusement before taking it, as though shaking hands is a ritual that has become so outdated and obsolete that he can’t quite believe he is being asked to participate in it. Blaine doesn’t want to be guilty of such a similar faux pas, so he lifts his hand in a tiny wave and smiles in what he hopes is a sophisticated manner.
“Sam and I both just started at Hartleigh-Smythe. We’re- Well, I guess you know already what we do.”
Kurt smiles at him, but it's a little patronising, if Blaine is not mistaken. “Sure. You’re an ad man. I know all about what you guys do.”
Sebastian chuckles, staring up at Kurt with a smirk on his face. "You know every intimate detail, I’ll bet.”
Kurt bends closer to Sebastian, leaning one arm against the top of the booth, and shocks Blaine by saying in a voice that is suddenly husky: “I can divine a man’s career prospects from the taste of his spunk alone.”
“Is that right?” Sebastian is already pulling out his wallet to pay for the first round of drinks, but Noah gets there first, tossing bills onto the table and then craning his neck to look over towards the stage.
“Jesus Christ, Sebastian. Kurt, send Santana over here when she’s off the stage, will you? For the love of God.”
Kurt stops leaning on the booth and smartens up. “Of course. I’ll go fetch your martinis.”
Sebastian is still looking at him, holding a bill between two fingers.
“Hey, why don't you add one to the tab for yourself. Come drink with us.”
“I’ll take the drink, but I can’t sit right now," Kurt says, accepting the cash anyway. "I have two other tables. Maybe later.”
Sebastian sighs and offers another bill. He's more subtle this time, his fingers hiding exactly how much he's holding. “How about you make sure there’s a later?"
“How about I do my job while you sit back and enjoy the music?”
When it becomes obvious that Kurt is not going to take that second offering, Sebastian tucks the money back into his wallet. Blaine can't tell for sure, but it looks like it might have been a lot.
“So icy tonight,” Sebastian says.
“Maybe the last time put me off." Kurt smiles at the rest of them. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll get those drinks sent right over.”
Sebastian watches their waiter walk away, without even trying to hide it. When he finally turns back around, he catches Blaine's eye and winks in a way that makes Blaine look quickly down at the drinks menu on the table in front of him.
"Why do you have to do that?" Noah says.
“What?" Sebastian laughs. "What am I doing?"
"Nobody’s drunk enough to watch you flirt."
There comes the click of a lighter, and then Noah is exhaling smoke across the table and offering Blaine a cigarette from a metal case. Blaine's still not much of smoker, but he takes one anyway, accepting a light from Noah with mumbled thanks.
On the other side of the room, Kurt is standing by the bar. He is taller than Blaine by a whisper, a little leaner too. As Blaine peers through the smoke, which is curling across his vision, he sees Kurt turn back towards their table. He's not looking at them, though; he's just staring away, his gaze aimed through the walls and out into the night.
His expression is sort of sad. Perhaps he is homesick, or pining for a sweetheart. He puts Blaine in mind of the figures in Hopper paintings. Stark. Alone. Pulling focus.
Kurt stays that way, leaning on the bar, his expression not changing until a new group of customers enters and he turns to greet them with a welcoming smile.
A missing sweetheart would make sense, Blaine thinks.
*
The singer comes to their table after her set is over and insinuates herself into their midst. She has a silky smile and dark eyes which Blaine is afraid to look directly into. She and Noah are clearly well-acquainted. It is not long before she is sitting in his lap, kissing him in a manner that Blaine’s mother would absolutely not consider proper in polite company.
Blaine isn't sure he finds it proper himself, particularly not when Noah has his face pressed against the side of her neck and she looks up and crooks a come hither finger in Blaine's direction as though inviting him to join them.
Something like that would definitely not be proper in any kind of company, polite or not.
Sam is utterly drunk, with his tie askew and his hair ruffled by the hands of a beautiful blonde woman who has come to sit beside him. She is the hostess who took their coats at the start, if Blaine remembers correctly. She certainly works here. Blaine has seen she and Kurt passing trays of drinks between them, co-working the tables in one section.
It isn't hard to keep an eye on where Kurt is in the room. Blaine finds his attention returning to him again and again, like a compass needle swinging North. Blaine doesn't kid himself that he is being subtle, but if Kurt has noticed the attention, then he is certainly doing a good job of ignoring it.
Sebastian is talking to another boy, this one tall and blonde, not as handsome as Kurt. Sebastian only talks to the boys, which is something Blaine understands, even if he can only really admit it to himself when he's had this much to drink.
It doesn't matter what you feel deep inside. What matters is that you always do right on the outside, and never give anyone a reason to call you out. Only keeping male company is something that simply isn’t done.
Unless you are Sebastian Smythe, it seems, and have a father whose agency controls half the advertising budget of Manhattan. Or unless you are in this bar, where nobody appears to care; where the waiters move like liquid and have sly smiles for anyone who looks too long.
It's terrifying. And wonderful. And Blaine keeps on drinking, because he doesn't know what else to do.
*
The bar is smooth beneath his palms, damp with rings left by cold glasses. He doesn't remember walking over here, but Sebastian pushes down on his shoulders and then he is sitting on a stool, and Kurt is turning to look at him, beautiful face lit by one of the jagged chandeliers hanging overhead.
“Blaine here needs babysitting," Sebastian says, putting his hand on Kurt's back and speaking close to his ear. "Talk to him. Your tables can wait.”
There is the clink of glasses against the bar, the dry sound of money changing hands and then Sebastian is gone and something is wrong here.
Blaine shakes his head and tries to stand. "I should really go home," he says, but the stool falls away too quickly and he finds himself being supported by strong hands.
“Oh dear.” Kurt pushes the stool right with his foot and guides Blaine back into it. “Sit down. I won’t bite. We aren’t monsters, you know.”
“I would never think that,” Blaine mumbles, feeling like a fool. He is drunk. Kurt is looking at him in concern. His eyes are wide and clear and beautiful - an advertiser's dream. They are too perfect to be real.
Blaine holds onto the bar and tries to sit up straight, tries to will himself to be less drunk. He looks for something to fix his gaze on and settles for a couple of crisp twenties lying on the bar.
"That's an awful lot of drinks money," Blaine says.
Kurt picks the bills up and slips them into his pocket, his movements a little rushed, as though it was not something Blaine was supposed to comment on.
"I can hold my liquor. Don't worry. We'll burn through that no problem."
Blaine rubs a hand over his face. "I shouldn't be burning anything. I think I've already burnt a lot."
"No, I'll take this, shall I? Let's have some water." Kurt moves the cocktail in front of Blaine away and gestures to the man behind the bar, who quickly presents them with two glasses of water. Blaine drinks half of his in one go.
“It’s not been long, has it?" Kurt says. "That you’ve been in this city?”
Blaine wipes his cold lips with the backs of his fingers. “No," he says. "A few weeks.”
“It can be a scary place.”
“Terrifying.”
Now that the singing has ended, there is a piano playing instead. It is a piece Blaine knows, though it's slowed right down, made languid where it should be played upbeat. They listen together for a moment. When Kurt speaks next, his tone is pleasantly conversational.
“Do you like the movies, Blaine?”
“Yes. I’d say so.”
“What is the last movie you saw?”
"I believe it was Some Like It Hot. A revival at our local theatre."
Kurt smiles. He pushes his own glass of water forwards when he sees that Blaine's is all gone. “I think that Marilyn’s something really special, don’t you?”
Blaine takes the water gratefully. “She is.”
“Her voice gives me goosebumps. It’s not her singing; it's the way she sings things. Do you know what I mean? There’s a quality to her. Like light come alive.”
“Light come alive. That’s beautiful.” Blaine pauses to think, then says, “I like Fred Astaire.”
“I like him too," Kurt says. "Who wouldn’t want to move like that? Come on."
Kurt is kind, Blaine realises, really kind, in a way he wouldn’t have expected a boy like him to be. He’s always imagined – well. He hasn't ever imagined anything, he supposes, because he has never really thought about boys like Kurt. They are the kind of boys you don't speak about.
The water is helping. After a while the room starts coming into focus again, and the pounding in Blaine's head settles to a muted buzz.
Kurt scoots his stool closer, seems to listen intently as Blaine talks to him, describing childhood vacations to the coast, the creamy-leathered interior of the Cadillac he wants to buy (Kurt’s father is a mechanic – he says he knows how to make any engine purr like a dream) and the dizzying challenge of finding a way to make the American public see laundry detergent as something sensual.
"Bed sheets," Kurt says.
Blaine pauses. "I'm sorry?"
"Climbing into bed with someone for the first time and wrapping them up in freshly laundered sheets. That's how you make detergent sexy. Fresh sheets are the perfect canvas for starting something new."
Blaine must be staring comically, because Kurt laughs. "I'm just thinking out loud here."
"A fresh canvas. That's perfect."
Blaine finds himself patting down his pockets for a pen so he can jot the idea down. He pulls a bar napkin towards him, but comes up short on his pocket search.
There is a click and then Kurt is holding out a sleek silver ballpoint. Blaine thanks him and scribbles himself a sloppy note, his fingers a little numb from drinking so much:
Fresh sheets - blank canvas - wrapping new love up in possibility
Kurt watches Blaine fold the napkin as carefully as he can and then tuck it into the creases of his wallet.
"I wasn’t kidding before when I said that I knew about this stuff. I used to work in the creative team at Coleman and Pierce. I was good too. You remember the Northwood Tobacco black and white campaign?"
"I love those posters," Blaine says, in amazement. "I have one on my office wall."
"They were mine."
"What happened?"
"That old codger Pierce gave me the boot."
There is a hard edge to Kurt's voice, and for the first time he isn't meeting Blaine's eyes. He's looking down at the bar instead and fiddling with the strap of his beautiful watch. Blaine wants to think of something appropriately consoling to say, but then Kurt looks up with sudden determination. "Listen. Why don't you come to the other room with me? I can tell you about it there."
Blaine doesn't even think to question it. He stands up and offers Kurt his hand, before he can quite rationalise what he is doing. It seems ridiculous right away, holding his hand out to help another man to his feet in a drunken parody of old chivalry. But Kurt doesn't mock him. Instead he smiles and puts his hand into Blaine's before sliding gracefully off his stool.
"Come on, Cary Grant," Kurt says, tightening his fingers around Blaine's and using the grip to lead him towards a curtained doorway. "Let's see what's cooking behind the scenes."
The back room is cool and peaceful, with walls that are papered in pale jade. There is a couch that has seen better days, and a side table with a decanter of liquor. The light fittings are stunning art deco affairs - delicate glass straws which hang down around muted bulbs. In between the lamps there are huge swathes of shadow. It reminds Blaine of the cavern he used to visit on vacation when he was a child - the kind of place where people stop talking and just sink into themselves.
Blaine sits on the couch, running his fingers over the old velvet which covers it. By the table, Kurt pours himself a drink, drains it standing up, then immediately bends to pour another.
The lines of his body are hypnotic. Blaine can't look away. He is still staring when Kurt turns around and starts to walk towards him, glass in hand.
"I had an affair with the elevator boy," Kurt says, as he takes a seat on the couch.
Blaine can't help feeling a little shocked at the way he says it. His voice is so matter of fact, even though there is no part of that sentence which does not fly hissing and spitting in the face of convention.
Kurt knocks back a little more of his scotch. "That wasn't the problem. The problem was that I was foolish enough to let someone catch me at it. I was on thin ice there from the start, you see. They only agreed to hire me in the first place because I was friends with the boss's daughter and she managed to convince him that I wasn't queer. You know, that my voice, and my face - and pretty much everything else about me - was just unfortunate. She did her best. I was the one who screwed it up."
"I think your voice is lovely," Blaine says, quietly.
Kurt looks up, from where he has been staring down into the bottom of his glass and his face looks different somehow. He isn't smiling. There is some other emotion there behind his eyes, but it is something Blaine can't quite read.
Very slowly, like he suspects Blaine might be afraid of sudden movements, Kurt leans forwards and sets his tumbler down on the floor. Then, he eases himself closer, shifting along the couch until his knee is touching Blaine's thigh, where the contact sends a buzz of sensation tripping over his skin.
"Sebastian talked to me about you." Kurt's voice is just above a whisper. "He said you might need some help coming to terms with things. I’m good at helping with that."
Blaine tries to swallow, but finds that the motion sticks in his throat.
"Coming to terms with what?" he manages to say. This is quite miraculous considering that Kurt has reached out and is now smoothing the lapel of Blaine's jacket with his fingers.
"Look at you. You've got camouflage. You're dictionary definition straight." Kurt smiles as his fingers trail higher, to brush against the bow at Blaine's collar, before working to undo the tie. "Well, almost. Are you married?"
Blaine's heart is racing as the edges of his collar come apart under Kurt's touch.
"Newly-wed."
"Hmm. Lucky girl," Kurt murmurs. He nuzzles his parted lips against Blaine's throat.
It is then that Blaine falls for him. Completely and irrevocably.
"I've never-" Blaine gasps, as one of Kurt's hands slides up along the inside of his thigh.
"Oh, sweetheart," Kurt soothes, cupping Blaine's face in his hand and petting his cheekbone with one thumb. "Don't worry about that. I'll take care of everything."
He is holding Blaine’s gaze, just starting to smile as he eases his body down and away, sinking to his knees on the carpet. Blaine wants to smile back, but he needs his mouth open to get enough air. His lungs aren’t doing a good enough job on their own right now.
The flies of Blaine’s pants are already undone. He doesn’t remember doing it himself, and figures Kurt must have made that happen earlier by some clever sleight of hand. He presents like an illusionist, after all. It’s as though he has all the world’s best-kept secrets hidden behind his pristine face. And whether it’s real, or just tricks of the light, Blaine certainly feels like he’s under a spell.
There is a moment where Kurt squeezes his knee and asks, “Is this okay?”
Blaine knows he’s being asked to give permission. He’s not exactly clear what for, but he knows that he wants whatever it is badly enough to nod his head and say “Please, please, please,” repeating the word until Kurt’s fingers are suddenly right there touching him, sliding around and along and then his mouth – God, his mouth – tongue velvet-wet and strong, and Blaine closes his eyes and feels himself melt right into the sofa.
His own hand is resting at the side of Kurt’s jaw – just resting, he’s too afraid to hold tight. He can feel the way Kurt’s mouth is moving, the hollow of his cheeks. And Blaine is shaking, literally shaking, his hips moving to a rhythm of their own.
It’s too much. It’s what he’s been warned about, what he’s not supposed to think about, what he’s not supposed to do. This is what you go to church to forget about. But it’s so good. It’s so good and he always knew it would be. Blaine is a new sinner, about to fall.
He opens his eyes and looks down to see Kurt watching him, eyes sharp and green, definitely green, his lips stretched obscenely as they slide around the width of Blaine’s dick. It’s the best thing Blaine has ever seen.
There comes a jolt like electricity. It doesn’t fade, but stays and grows and grows, until Blaine is crying out loud and digging his nails into the cushions as he completely dissolves into the pale cave-light of the room.
*
There is a clammy chill in the air when Blaine wakes. He can feel it on his skin, where one arm has slipped free from whatever is draped over him, something warm and furry and smelling like his mother's Chanel.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to blow this joint." Sebastian's face comes into focus. He's gripping Blaine's shoulder, shaking him, not being gentle. "Seriously, Anderson. Don't you think you'd better get up before your wife starts thinking too hard about where you are?"
Rachel. The thought is like a shock of cold water. Blaine sits up with a gasp, groping to check his pants are fastened beneath the untucked hem of his undershirt.
The Chanel-drenched fur coat which had been protecting him from the cold is now crumpled on the floor. Blaine bends to retrieve it but doesn't make it up again - the rush of movement has made his head spin and he's not confident he can stand up in one piece.
Sebastian drapes Blaine's shirt around his shoulders and shakes out his suit jacket. "You look like somebody's wrecked you," he says, with one of his too-knowing smirks. "What have you been up to back here?"
Blaine pauses in the middle of struggling into his shirtsleeves, as he relives that first delicious slide into Kurt's lovely mouth.
He is sitting there, frozen, when Sebastian leans a little closer and says in a voice that makes an uneasy shiver ripple through Blaine's body, "Why, Anderson. You're looking rather flushed."
Kurt is nowhere to be seen as Sebastian ushers Blaine back through the bar. The dim light is gone now, replaced by something glaring. The music has stopped. The tables are empty. A balding man who is sweeping the floor in front of the stage gives them an unpleasant glance as they pass.
There is a car already waiting for them on the street. The driver gets out to hold the door and Blaine slides inside, concentrating on trying not to give in to the waves of nausea which keep creeping up.
Sebastian climbs in next to him and slams the door on his side. He leans forwards to speak to the driver before settling back in his seat.
"We're making two stops tonight. Mr Anderson is upper east."
As the car pulls into the almost empty street, Blaine rests his forehead against the cool window glass. The sign above the bar is still illuminated, pink glow spilling over into the mouth of an alleyway at the side of the building. There, pink-silhouetted, Blaine can see two smokers standing together. The first is slim and delicately curvy, with a wrap thrown around her shoulders. It is the other figure Blaine stares at, who has his shirtsleeves rolled up over his forearms, one hip cocked against the brick wall, and his long legs crossed at the ankles.
At the last moment, Kurt exhales a breath of smoke which obscures his face so that Blaine can't tell if he's watching them go.
Later, after creeping into bed next to Rachel, Blaine rubs his face against the fresh cotton of his pillowcase, pulls the sheet tight around his body and finds that he is smiling.
When he falls asleep, he dreams of Marilyn Monroe.