glee fic: only love sprung from my only hate (kurt/blaine)
Title: only love sprung from my only hate
Author:
preach_electric
Word Count: 27,347
Rating: R, for language and sexual situations.
Genre: AU/angst/humor/fluff.
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, Quinn/Puck. Vague hints of Finn/Rachel, Rachel/Jesse, Blaine/Jesse, Puck/Rachel, and Sam/Kurt.
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers or major warnings. Don’t read if you have an aversion to an overabundance of Shakespeare references, Jew jokes, alcohol, and italics, I guess?
Summary: Kurt Hummel has dreams to make it big in New York City. Instead, he gets a dysfunctional family in a NYC nightclub.
Author’s Notes: This fic has been in the making since the holidays last year, fml. It wouldn’t have gotten finished without cheerleading and advice from my two favorite people in the entire world,episkeyit and candid_dreams88. This is the longest fic I’ve ever written. Ever. So I’m proud of this crazy little monster. It was inspired by this song because I initially wanted to write a gritty nightclub AU. Instead, you get this piece of work. So enjoy! and comment if you enjoyed it or have any concrit because this is my first epic fic that I’m happy with and I want to know what others think and I’m nervous :D <3
It’s by pure luck that Kurt Hummel gets a shot at a job singing and drink slinging at the newest and trendiest nightclub in New York. Kurt doesn’t get his hopes up that he’ll actually get hired; lesser clubs in the city have already rejected him, so he expects this interview to be a complete crapshoot.
He has nothing to lose when he walks into the club at half-past five on a Tuesday evening, dressed in his favorite interview outfit – a dark pair of jeans and a white button-up with a silver-trimmed ruffle accent on both sides of the buttons. It’s simple, trendy, and it’s memorable. Sadly, not memorable enough for all of the other night club owners. But whatever.
The shirt is the first thing one of the bartenders notices when Kurt approaches.
“You lost, Shakespeare?” The man asks and leans across the bar. Kurt’s not sure if he’s more entranced by the Plexiglas counter -- it’s completely see-through, with strobe lights inside that flash and pulse through all the colors – or the man’s unfortunate Mohawk. Kurt’s eyes flicker to the strip of hair for a moment before he shakes his head once.
“No, I have an interview?”
The man snorts and starts wiping a fluffy white towel across the countertop, the strobe lights reflecting in his eyes – Kurt can already see the amusement and condescension there and it makes his blood boil a bit. He’s tired of that look. “I think you might be in the wrong place for dramatic readings, bro,” the man says finally, breathing out a snicker.
“I’m sorry, do you even know what a dramatic reading is? I don’t think the confessionals on Jersey Shore really qualify as the same thing,” Kurt snaps, his patience wearing thin. The man looks up, clearly baffled and stunned by Kurt’s outburst. It’s then that a small, slender blonde appears at his side, giggling.
“I like this kid,” she says, reaching out and fiddling at Kurt’s sleeve. “I’m pretty sure he could go toe-to-toe with you any day, Puck.”
The man - Puck - shoots the girl a glare, but he seems to be a bit sobered by Kurt’s words. “Boss’ll be out in a while. Just hang out or whatever. And for the record, I don’t watch Jersey Shore. It’s not really kosher with my religion, man.” Kurt doesn’t think Jersey Shore is quite kosher with any religion, but he keeps his comments to himself. Then Puck turns his glare on the girl again. “You gonna get over here and help me, traitor?”
She rolls her eyes and simply hops up onto the counter. She starts to whirl around, but pauses and extends a hand to Kurt. “I’m Quinn, by the way. And don’t mind Puck. He just likes to hassle everyone. Thinks it helps his daily man quota or something.” Something about Quinn’s politeness surprises Kurt. She doesn’t quite seem the type to be working in a nightclub like this - she’s soft-spoken and almost delicate-looking, and Kurt’s half-terrified he might break her, but he accepts her hand anyway.
“Kurt. Nice to meet you, Quinn.”
“It’s a pleasure, Kurt.” She gives Kurt’s hand a squeeze and releases him. She swivels around and hops off on the other side of the bar, joining Puck to help him stock bottles of hard liquor.
The pair becomes preoccupied with their work, but Kurt isn’t left to loiter for long – moments later, a high-pitched squeal sounds from across the club. For the first time, Kurt notices the large, burgundy, velvet curtain and the modest stage, and then he realizes that the screech actually came from a tiny, blonde woman.
“Who is this character sitting at my bar while I am trying to rehearse?” the woman squeals again, and Kurt decides then and there that she doesn’t look or sound a day over thirteen.
Regardless of her age, the woman looks completely enraged, one finger pointed right at Kurt with as much anger as he’s ever seen a finger manage to convey. “Speak when I’m talkin’ to you, you porcelain man-baby! Why are you here?”
“Oh, me?” Kurt shouts, flailing at hand at himself. “Kurt Hummel, ma’am!” From her attitude, Kurt suspects that this must be the owner. Not the greatest foot to get off on, it seems. Much to his amazement, Puck and Quinn haven’t flinched away from their work in the slightest. Apparently this woman tends to have squealing bursts of anger on a regular basis.
Then, another voice sounds from behind Kurt. It’s gentle, but commanding – it sends a shock right up Kurt’s spine and causes him to jump in surprise.
“April, get off the stage. Now.” Kurt turns to look at the man. His mouth promptly drops open and his brain not-so-promptly works to clamp his mouth shut again. The man’s shorter than Kurt, with dark, slicked down hair. He’s dressed to the nines, really, in dark slacks, pristine and polished dress shoes, a crisp, stark white dress shirt, and a black vest. The only splash of color in his attire is the dark navy and maroon striped tie he’s wearing, neatly tucked into his vest. It doesn’t look like there’s a single crease out of place in the entire get up, and Kurt has to force himself to swivel the barstool so he looks at April, who still happens to be on the stage, looking momentarily shell-shocked by the newcomer’s request.
“And why would I get off of my stage?” she snaps back, firmly placing her balled fists on her hips. The man simply walks past Kurt, toward the stage, without a single glance in Kurt’s direction. Kurt promptly tilts to the side and ducks his gaze in what is most definitely not an attempt to check out this guy’s ass. No way.
“Shall I list all the reasons, April?” he says, a lilt in his voice that can only be explained as some weird combination of playful and malicious. “For one, every time you walk in this building, you’re drunk off your ass. Two, you shout like a banshee at anyone for simply looking at you the wrong way. Three, it’s not your stage. Get off.”
April scoffs at his remarks and doesn’t budge an inch. “I’m your star, this is my stage. You can’t tell me to get off of it. I need the stage and it needs me. You need me.”
“False.” He shakes his head in one short, quick motion. “Rachel’s my star and she has been for a long time now. You’re washed up and you’re frankly not good enough for my stage anymore. You’re fired, April. Now get off the stage before I call Hudson in to personally remove you.”
April seems to crumple at the mention of Rachel – it’s clearly a sore spot for the woman. She reluctantly uncurls her fists and Kurt can see her eyes shining from his seat at the bar. She flutters her eyelids almost cartoonishly, trying to keep the tears at bay as she slowly steps off the stage.
“You’ll regret this, Boss,” she snaps, then tilts her chin up, heading toward the exit with what little dignity she has left. Kurt feels terrible for April, but he can’t help the excited jump his stomach makes when he realizes that hey, a job just opened up.
Just as that thought crosses his mind, the man turns and points a finger at Kurt.
“New kid. Can you sing?”
Kurt’s eyes are wide like saucers as he splutters out, “Arguably, yes.” He sees a flicker of doubt on the man’s face, but it’s quickly replaced with a cool, almost predatory smile. The expression seems robotic and practiced, but Kurt can’t help but find it impossibly attractive.
“Alright. I can work with arguably. Get back here at eight-thirty with two numbers you can do a cappella. One slower, one more upbeat, preferably. I want to see your range and your stage presence,” he spouts off, strictly business-like with his tone. Then suddenly, that calm, suave, flat persona slips off, for just a moment, and he seriously studies Kurt’s face. “Then I’ll decide just how well you’ll fit in here,” he adds softly.
Kurt simply gives a hurried nod and slides off the stool. He practically stumbles and even gives a freaking half-curtsy of all things once he’s upright. The man gives a hearty, amused laugh at that, his lips turning up in an intrigued smirk. He outstretches his hand. “I’m Blaine, by the way. But everyone calls me Boss.”
Kurt gladly takes his hand and gives an eager, firm shake.
“Fantastic. Nice to meet you, Blaine. Boss. I mean Boss. I’ll see you at eight-thirty, then! Thank you for your time!” The words all come out in a breathy, hurried sigh and Kurt really, really, really hates himself right now for how quickly he manages to turn into a twelve-year-old girl around his totally attractive potential new boss. Blaine just smiles and nods Kurt off – Kurt gladly takes the opening and steers himself toward the door.
Blaine watches him leave, clearly enraptured by the short encounter.
“Well, he’s cute,” Quinn calls out and leans on the counter, propping her chin in her palms. Blaine shoots her a look over his shoulder, his expression indifferent.
“Yeah, and?”
Quinn just shrugs, giving him an unreadable smile. Blaine sidles up and leans against the bar, his back still to her and she reaches out, as if she’s contemplating touching his shoulder. She doesn’t. “Is he what you’re looking for, Blaine?” she asks, her tone biting. Blaine doesn’t answer.
“I found what I’m looking for,” Puck cuts in, pouring himself a shot. “Hola, Jose,” he sing-songs, clearly ignoring Quinn and Blaine’s little moment. Blaine rolls his eyes and pushes off the bar.
“Do me a favor, Puckerman, don’t bankrupt my club with your Cuervo cravings. I’m going to go tell Rachel that she’s got to carry the show till we get a new singer,” Blaine says and tilts his head warningly as Puck downs the shot anyway. With that, Blaine turns and heads toward the dressing room.
“You could try to act like you care if he fires you, you know,” Quinn says quietly, giving Puck a bit of a look. Puck shrugs and puts the tequila back on the shelf behind the bar.
“I gotta do something to get through the nights, working with these people,” he says, waving a hand at the stage. “It helps when Boss goes hiring people like that holier-than-thou Hannah Montana cast-off that copped an attitude with me, okay? El Puckerino doesn’t take kindly to being compared to guidos. I’m a respectable douche, alright? I own that shit.”
Quinn rolls her eyes before shooting him a glare. “I officially quit if you ever call yourself The Pucktuation. Just so we’re clear.”
--
Meeting Rachel Berry is definitely not the best experience of Kurt’s life. He’s already getting flashbacks to April screaming at him from the stage – Rachel just happens to be slightly taller and brunette, with a bit more crazy in her eyes.
“This is the way things will go. You will stay three steps behind me and two steps to my left – you’ll be visible, but you won’t be distracting to the loving audience. No one wants the leading lady to be suffocated by her supporting act, you know. You are to never try and overpower me on a song – not that you could, really – and you are to never try and out dance me – again, good luck with that. When we’re not on stage, do not speak to me for any reason unless it’s about rehearsing. The more I talk, the more strained my vocal cords become and I’ve discovered that unnecessary talking is a luxury for people destined to warble hoarsely in smoke-filled karaoke bars and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not quite the karaoke bar type.”
She says all of this while perfectly applying false eyelashes to her left eye and staring quite determinedly at Kurt in her mirror. It’s an impressive and exhausting display and Kurt can’t help but snicker.
“… Is there a particular reason you’re talking so much, then?” Kurt asks gingerly. Rachel whirls around suddenly and manages to whip Kurt in the face with her hair. He grimaces and coughs on the cloud of hairspray that wafts up his nostrils.
“You’re crowding my chair, new kid,” she hisses and narrows her eyes. Kurt would find the sight more terrifying if she didn’t have one false eyelash hanging crooked on her right eye, but he backs off and heads to his own chair anyway.
A few moments later, Kurt notices what can only be described as a behemoth of a man enter the room. He’s dressed in just dark jeans and a tight black polo, with an earpiece in and a clipboard under his arm – Kurt presumes this is the bouncer Blaine was referring to the night before. Regardless, Kurt takes a moment to appreciate just how taut the polo is stretched across his broad chest.
“Hey, uh, Rachel? I got you that weird bubble tea thing you wanted. I think I got it right,” the man says, in a voice none too threatening for someone who’s supposed to be guarding the entrance to a nightclub. It’s kind of bewildering, really. Kurt hears Rachel hiss something at the guy and he actually cowers away from her, his eyes wide and his face pinched in fear. It reminds Kurt of a gigantic puppy, desperate for his master to still love him after he puked on his bed for the sixth night in a row. Kurt wants to hug the poor guy.
The hushed exchange ends when Rachel dumps the bubble tea into the trashcan and turns back to her mirror, huffing loudly. The bouncer just stares at her, his hands in the air while he processes what the hell just happened. Kurt understands the feeling – Rachel confuses him too. Then, the guy looks at Kurt and blushes. He slips his clipboard out from under his arm and takes a few cautious steps toward Kurt.
“You must be the new kid,” he says slowly, drawing out the ‘you’ kind of unnecessarily. “Sorry you had to see that whole… thing. I’m Finn.”
Kurt groans quietly. He does have a name, you know. “I’m Kurt,” he says loudly, hoping Rachel takes the hint as well. He hears a snort from somewhere behind Finn. “I take it you’re the bouncer, Finn?”
Finn gives a small, sheepish smile and angles himself sideways so Kurt can see the back of his shirt, where SECURITY is across his back in bold, white letters. “I prefer ‘head of club security’ actually. I don’t do a whole lot of bouncing while I’m on the job so it just sounds kinda weird.”
“Ah, so you’re a very literal person, I see,” Kurt says slowly. Finn just stares at Kurt.
“I’m not really into books, man. That’s why I work here,” he says, quirking an eyebrow up thoughtfully.
“Well, it seems you fit your job description quite perfectly,” Kurt replies with a polite laugh, both amused and disappointed by Finn’s confusion.
Finn smiles broadly at this and claps a large hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Thanks, dude! I’m glad you think so. Oh, and good luck singing and stuff. You seem like a cool dude, so I hope Boss likes you.”
Oh, right, he still has to actually audition. Fabulous.
--
“Well, I ain’t ever heard of him keeping the newbies around right after their audition,” Kurt jumps at the voice, already feeling like a wound up ball of nerves from his performance. He recognizes the girl – she was standing at Blaine’s side near the bar, furiously taking notes while Kurt sang. “There must be something special about you, Sugar.”
Kurt blushes faintly at her insinuation and shakes his head. “I’m just a kid who needs a job in New York City. Nothing special.” He shrugs, hoping she’ll continue on and get to the point. She seems to take the hint.
“Usually, Boss waits a few days, makes the newbies squirm while he watches other auditions. But he wants you. And he wants you now,” she explains. Kurt’s pretty sure he turns about twenty more shades of red.
“Oh,” he says dumbly, figuring he should feel a bit more excited that he just got a job. “Well, thanks for letting me know, Miss…?”
“Mercedes. Call me Mercedes,” she finishes and grins excitedly.
Kurt can only nod. Then, Mercedes looks at him more seriously, pausing before she starts to rifle through the papers on her clipboard.
“By the way, you ever make drinks, hon?” she asks, finding the paper she was looking for and plucking it out to sit on top of the stack.
“I, uh, no? I’m not really much of a drinker. But I can blend one hell of a protein enriched smoothie!” Kurt gives a half-hearted swing of his arm, a little worried about what exactly she’s looking for from him here. Mercedes gives him a once over, as if she’s contemplating how important his smoothie-blending skills are to her.
“Right now, we ain’t too hot on the bartending side of things. Quinn can make a mean drink, but Puck’s kind of a mess. He’s too busy drinking the alcohol and staring at Quinn to get a lot done and get a lot done right. But people dig him, so Boss keeps him around,” she explains this all in a hushed tone, as if she’s spilling the nightclub gossip. It’s all very endearing to Kurt, endearing enough for him to not really care that she’s implying he learn how to mix drinks.
“I suppose I could give it a shot,” he says slowly, his nerves and apprehension disappearing when Mercedes lets out an excited squeal, grinning ear to ear.
“Oh, honey, you’re gonna fit in great here. And if you need anything – I mean anything, Kurt – you give me a ring.” She pauses and stuffs a scrap of paper in one of his shirt pockets. “I’m Boss’ personal assistant, but I’m also here to make sure everyone’s getting on okay. So don’t you dare be a stranger.”
Kurt just kind of stares in awe as Mercedes pats his cheeks and hurries off, finding himself more than pleased with the way things are suddenly turning around for him now.
--
It’s approximately 7:24am when Kurt hears someone pounding on his door. Kurt’s usually a morning person, but even seven-thirty is a little much for him on some days. Today is one of those days.
He quite literally shuffles through his tiny apartment to the door and peers through the peephole. All he can make out at first is bright blonde hair, pink lips, and wide green eyes. It takes him a moment to process who it is, but then it dawns on him and he fumbles to unlock and open the door.
“Quinn?” The question comes out bleary and thick – he’s not annoyed, just confused. Quinn simply bounces a little on her heels and nods, a large duffle bag slung over her shoulder. Kurt doesn’t know what the hell she wants from him at this hour, and she clearly isn’t spilling unless prompted, so he adds, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company at this fine hour?”
“Oh! I have business to take care of every morning before I head to class, but my class ended up being cancelled today. So I came to see you!” she explains, as if it was obvious. Kurt can tell she’s not telling him something, but he doesn’t press it. Too much.
“Right,” he says, thoughtfully, drawing out the word. “Forgive me if this is rude, but one, how do you know where I live? Two, why did you think it was a good idea to visit me? And three, are you clinically insane in any way?”
Quinn breathes out a quiet laugh and shakes her head. “I don’t think you could be rude unless you buzzed yourself a Mohawk,” she muses. Kurt quirks an eyebrow, but remains silent. “Can I come in, Kurt?”
He hesitates for a moment before he nods and steps aside. No one should ever be turned away without a cup of coffee this early in the morning, even if they’re kind of insane. Quinn walks in and immediately starts to wander around, scrutinizing the pictures and decorations. Kurt closes the door and leans against it, watching her thoughtfully. “You gonna tell me why you’re here, Quinn?”
“You gonna make me one of your smoothies so I can find out just what I’m working with here?”
Kurt closes his eyes and laughs, realizing that he’s about to get an 8am bartending lesson. He supposes stranger things have happened in his life.
“Kitchen’s this way, ma Cherie.”
--
Six strawberries, four kiwis, two guavas, and one apple later, Quinn is perched on Kurt’s kitchen counter, slurping at a thick fruit smoothie, her eyes wide with delight.
“Mm, you can make a smoothie. Mercedes was right,” she mutters between sips, kicking her feet while she teeters on the edge of the counter. Kurt watches her curiously and gives a small smile of gratitude before replying.
“You never answered my questions, Quinn,” he points out. Quinn hums thoughtfully.
“And what questions are you referring to?”
“Um, the ones where I’m wondering why the hell you’re sitting in my kitchen, drinking a smoothie that you oh-so-sweetly forced me to make for you?”
Quinn’s mouth shifts into a perfect, silent “O” before she finishes the smoothie and hops off the counter. “Do you have plans for today?”
“I… what? No? I mean, not really. I don’t have class today.”
“Mm,” Quinn replies and curls a finger at Kurt before she hurries off into the living room, Kurt on her heels. Just when her flighty, dismissive, dodgy responses start to irritate him, she unzips the duffle bag she brought in and reveals a downright disgusting amount of alcohol. “No plans, no plans are good.” She pulls out a pint of vodka and hands it to Kurt. “Considering your first night of bartending is tonight.”
Quinn looks delighted as she loads his arms down with alcohol. Kurt simply gapes at her, trying not to drop all the booze.
--
Three panic attacks, six shots, and four Mariah Carey CDs later, Kurt’s a blushing, giggling mess, but he’s competent at making the basics, at least. It took Quinn four tries to get Kurt to calm down after a couple of shots when she started to explain a simple screwdriver to him. (”Heh, screw. Screwdriver. These drink names are so risqué, don’t you think?”) Sex on the Beach was a lost cause for Kurt, after five shots. He nearly fell off one of the barstools, causing Quinn to make a mental note to never let Kurt drink while bartending.
“I can’t believe I’m drunk at two in the afternoon, holy shit,” Kurt breathes, moving slowly and carefully as he helps Quinn load her bottles of alcohol back in her bag.
“It’s not my fault you found it necessary to try everything you were using, Kurt,” she points out, heaving the duffle onto her shoulder once everything’s loaded back up. She gives Kurt a soft smile and reaches out, curling her free arm around Kurt’s neck to pull him into a wobbly hug. “Just sober up before tonight, kay? We’re gonna be busy tonight and I’m sure Boss won’t want a sloshed newbie stumbling around the club.”
Kurt bursts into another short fit of giggles, nervous laughter this time, at the mention of Blaine. He isn’t sure what he thinks of his new boss, not yet. The guy was harsh and merciless when firing April, yet everyone (well, Mercedes at least) seemed to think he had some sort of soft spot for Kurt. He didn’t get it and he certainly didn’t see it. There was no way he was telling Quinn all of that, though, so he simply gave her a gentle squeeze and led her out.
“I’ll be more sober than before I took the shots, scout’s honor,” Kurt assures her, even going as far as to give a half-hearted salute. Quinn simply giggles and leaves after planting a kiss on his cheek.
--
Somehow, Kurt manages to stave off a hangover, or so he thinks. He’s not even sure how a hangover works if you drink in the middle of the day, but he tries not to think about it, or the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure if he’d rather chalk it up to the booze or the nerves.
Regardless, he puts on a brave face and heads inside the club, so focused on getting to the bar without throwing up that he suddenly slams into what appears to be a Yeti in a striped shirt. After a few seconds, he quickly realizes that it’s not quite a Yeti. It is a very Yeti-like Finn Hudson, though.
“Oh, Finn! I’m sorry!” Kurt says hurriedly, but Finn just gives an amused snort.
“Dude, it’s cool, it’s cool. What’s up, man?” Finn holds a fist out to Kurt, looking expectant. Kurt stares at Finn’s fist, unsure of what he wants from him. He settles for awkwardly bumping his own fist against the top of Finn’s.
“Just, you know… gearing up for my first night,” Kurt says, his voice trailing off as he watches Finn study his fist for a moment, clearly confused, before finally lowering his arm.
“Right, sweet, sounds awesome. We don’t have shows on Thursdays, though,” Finn says slowly, still staring at Kurt with the same focused and determined confusion he was staring at his fist with. At least he’s dedicated to not knowing what the hell’s going on, Kurt thinks.
“I’m bartending tonight, Finn,” Kurt replies with an airy laugh and reaches up (up - how is this dude so tall?) and gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “And I’m going to be late. Nice chat?”
Finn smiles with delight and nods. “Dude, bitchin’. Just don’t let Puck shove ice down your pants. If he does, spike his drink with Jager and he’ll be blowing chunks for the rest of the night.” He starts to head toward the front doors, but pauses and frowns. “Just… aim him at the toilet first? I really don’t want to clean it up.”
“Sure thing,” Kurt says, grimacing at both the idea of spiking anyone’s drink and the image of Puck vomiting all over the bathroom.
A few moments after Finn leaves, an arm slings around Kurt’s shoulder and he jumps in surprise.
“Dude, chill out, Shakespeare.” Of course it’s Puck, his arm tight around Kurt’s shoulders as he steers him towards the bar. “As your new superior – and a badass one at that – I find it necessary to take you under my wing. Well, I mean, I would if I had wings, but fuck that, muscles are more awesome than wings, right?”
Puck keeps flexing his free arm as they walk and Kurt’s pretty certain he hasn’t stopped grimacing since the Jager and puke conversation. “Does anyone here other than Quinn know that I actually have a name?”
“Yeah, your name’s Bill, right? As in William? As in Shakespeare?” Puck unwinds his arm from Kurt and stares at him, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. The guy has one hell of a poker face, Kurt’ll give him that.
“You… have got to be kidding me,” Kurt says flatly.
“Kurt!”
Puck jerks his head up at Quinn’s voice, still looking confused.
“Who the fuck is Kurt?”
“Language, Puckerman,” Quinn hisses as she throws a hand around Kurt’s neck and pulls him into a hug. “You don’t even smell like alcohol, Kurt!”
Kurt gives a quiet laugh, a little more unnerved by Quinn’s touchy-feely attitude than he was when he was drunk. “It’s amazing what a nap, a workout, and a shower can do, I suppose.”
“Dude, Hamlet, were you boozing it up this afternoon?” Puck asks, incredulous. Before he even gets confirmation, he holds up a hand for a high-five. Kurt stares at him.
“I was teaching him how to mix drinks for tonight, since someone wouldn’t get out of bed to come help,” Quinn mutters and reaches for his outstretched hand, coaxing him to put his arm down. Puck rolls his eyes.
“How do you expect me to get up at ass o’clock to help you teach Frills ‘n’ Things over here how to mix a drink when I don’t even mix drinks? Everyone knows all you need in life are shots and beers.” He leans on the counter and shrugs as if it was obvious. “If my drink takes long enough to drink that I need a pink umbrella in it, then the Puck Tank isn’t getting drunk fast enough, plain and simple.”
“Do you try to sound like a complete Neanderthal, or does that come naturally?” Kurt asks, folding one arm under the other, tapping a fingertip against his chin. Quinn snorts so hard that Kurt almost thinks it’s a sneeze, until she starts vibrating with giggles. Puck glares at her, looking somewhat betrayed.
“Ooh, just you wait Ruffles. Just you wait,” Puck says, shaking his head. “I’m gonna go grab some ice. You two can have fun with your cups of juice while I have a fiesta for uno with the tequila.”
“So help me God, if you so much as come near my ass with any ice I will douse your tequila with Jagermeister!”
--
The first half of the night manages to go off without a hitch. Sure, they aren’t that busy yet, but it isn’t even past 11pm. Kurt fumbles up three drinks, but thankfully the patrons are nice enough to not get mad about it when they find out he’s new. One even gave him a double tip for giving him a free replacement drink for the first one he completely fucked up. Also, Puck hasn’t tried to shove ice down his pants yet, so he counts the first half of the night as a victory.
That is, until his next customer.
“Vodka martini, dry, please,” says the customer. Kurt blinks up to look at the man and nearly drops the bottle of vodka he’s holding. Well, fuck.
“B-Boss! Of course!” Kurt blurts out, fumbling with a martini glass. It’s obviously the best way to make a good impression on his new boss, shaking and flailing and trying to put together a decent martini. Thankfully, Blaine doesn’t say anything as he watches. Instead, he actually quirks an eyebrow as the edge of his mouth curls up in a smirk. Kurt finally scoots the martini toward Blaine and pauses, watching curiously as he takes a sip.
“Mm,” he hums, “not bad. I see Quinn’s taught you well so far.” Blaine’s smiling for real this time, seeming quite pleased about his choice to hire Kurt, at least for now.
“Oh, yes. She’s lovely. She’s a lovely teacher. Very lovely,” Kurt replies quickly, wanting to slam his head against the countertop for being so damn flustered.
“Ah, you must really like her if she’s that lovely. If she’s triple lovely,” Blaine takes another sip of his martini and gives Kurt an almost unreadable look over the rim of the glass, a look that almost makes Kurt confused about the implications of Blaine’s words, but then it hits him like a brick wall.
“What? No, n-no, I don’t. I’m not. She’s fantastic but, uh, not my type.” He waves his hands about, backtracking quickly. Of course he would manage to talk himself into some big, shiny, straight corner during his first actual conversation with his impossibly attractive boss.
Blaine laughs and Kurt thinks he sees Blaine’s eyes flicker down his body, but there’s no way that just happened. He chalks it up to still being hungover and tired, until Blaine speaks up again. “If a pretty girl like that isn’t your type, then I don’t know what is.”
Kurt stares at Blaine, trying not to gape as he thinks through whether or not that was a come-on. After a few moments, he settles on not. “I, uh, I tend to find myself attracted to brunettes, actually.” He pointedly avoids looking at Blaine as he says this, instead focusing his attention to wiping a tumbler dry.
“Brunettes, eh,” Blaine says thoughtfully, barely audible over the thumping music. Kurt can feel Blaine watching him; he finds it both unsettling and exhilarating, knowing that he actually has another guy interested in him, even if it is his new boss, of all people. Kurt looks up and smiles, as evenly as possible, hoping he’s not blushing.
“And what might your type be, Boss?” he asks boldly, folding his arms. This time, Kurt definitely doesn’t miss Blaine’s gaze, and that’s more than enough to drive a blush high onto his cheeks. So much for staying cool. Blaine smiles and scoots his empty glass toward Kurt as he stands up.
“I like brunettes too.”
--
“Don’t you dare, Kurt Hummel.”
Kurt looks up from where he’s sitting on a stool in the walk-in freezer, reading an article in Cosmo on his break. “Uh, excuse me?”
“I saw the look you had out there, when Boss was talking to you,” Quinn says, her voice dropping to a whisper. Kurt flushes immediately, but thankfully the walk-in is fairly dark.
“I still don’t quite know what you’re talking about, Quinn.”
“Yes you do,” she says quietly, then kneels in front of him. “You were looking at him like you had an instantaneous schoolgirl crush-“ Kurt opens his mouth to protest, but Quinn smooshes a finger against his lips and continues, “- and believe me, I’ve seen many a guy – and even a few girls, but that’s beside the point – start at this club and get this exact same treatment from him and it always ends up the same way.”
Kurt stares at Quinn, confused. “I don’t—“
“Boss isn’t a good guy, Kurt. He thinks you’re a cute little piece of ass and he’ll push things just to see what he can get,” she explains, her voice even more hushed and urgent. Kurt’s positive that his heart dropped into his stomach already when Quinn walked into the freezer, with that determined look in her eyes, but whatever. He feels even shittier now, having his fears confirmed. “You’re one of the few newbies that I’ve liked in a long time… and I don’t want to see you get hurt and leave because Boss screws you over.”
“So… you’re saying he just wants to get a quick fuck out of me,” Kurt says flatly around Quinn’s finger. She gives a half-nod.
“Kurt, just promise me you won’t do something stupid? I mean, I can’t tell you what and what not to do, but… just think about it. Please?”
Kurt grasps Quinn’s hand and pulls her finger away from his mouth and nods, without much of a second thought. He’s already grown wildly attached to the girl and hell, even Puck, and the last thing he wants to do is lose a budding friendship because of a silly crush on his boss.
“You have my word.”
--
It’s twenty minutes shy of 3am and Kurt’s ready to fall asleep standing as they clean up the bar. He’s definitely not used to being up this late, at least not yet. He knows he’ll have to man up if he wants to actually keep his job.
“Hey, Macbeth, you did alright tonight,” Puck calls from the other side of the club as he pushes the broom back and forth. “If you want, you can peace out, man. You’re starting to look like a zombie and it’s kinda wigging me out.”
Kurt kind of wants to take offense to the zombie comment, but he’s really too tired to care that much. “You sure? Boss won’t get mad?”
“Nah, Puck and I have it under control. We’ve cleaned up much worse messes. Go get some sleep, Kurt.”
Kurt nods and finishes up his section of the bar, at least, then gathers his things, waving goodnight to both Puck and Quinn. But before he can get out of the club, he hears that familiar voice again.
“Kurt! C’mere for a second.”
He turns and glances inside what must be Blaine’s office, all dark wood and low lighting with leather chairs. Kurt wouldn’t expect anything less of a nightclub owner, really, especially one like Blaine.
“Headed out for the night?” Blaine asks, getting up and walking around his desk to sit on the edge, closer to Kurt.
“Yeah, Quinn and Puck told me to go home. I’m not quite used to the late hours yet. I’m kind of a homebody, I suppose,” he admits, giving a quiet laugh. Then Blaine has that look again, the same one he had when he was sitting at the bar where he looked like he wanted to devour Kurt on the spot. Kurt shifts uncomfortably. “What did you need?”
The question seems to be enough to distract Blaine for the time being, his expression shifting back to that tight, guarded half-smile he seems to be so fond of sporting. “I was actually going to ask you that. Your first performance is tomorrow night, you know.” Kurt nods, none of this new information to him. “Do you need help rehearsing, perhaps? I mean, I know my way around a stage if you’re having trouble.” Blaine’s voice shifts when he asks the question, the tones in his voice softer and darker.
Kurt realizes exactly what he’s trying to do. He desperately replays his conversation with Quinn in his mind before he finally speaks up. It takes all of his willpower to turn down Blaine’s offer.
“No, thanks. I’ve been rehearsing since you gave me the sheet music, pretty much. And I know my way around a stage as well,” Kurt says shortly, hoping it’s enough to throw Blaine off his tail. For a moment, Blaine almost appears hurt that Kurt turned down his offer, but he simply twists his lips into that half-smile and nods understandingly. “If that’s all, I’d really like to get home and get to bed.”
Blaine nods again. “That’s all. Just thought I’d make sure things were coming along alright.”
“Alright then. Thanks for the offer, though. See you tomorrow, Boss.”
And with that, Kurt leaves, feeling oddly convinced that he just did the wrong thing.
--
The next night seems to have a completely different atmosphere. Kurt actually gets to be on stage for a real performance, for the first time since he’d actually arrived in New York. He goes into work with a terrified, anxious, giddy energy bubbling in his veins, practically bouncing into the club at seven o’clock.
It takes all of two minutes for Mercedes to corner him in the dressing room, clipboard tucked under her arm and a dress covered in rhinestones and feathers slung over other. Kurt raises an eyebrow, somewhat hopelessly wishing his costume is decorated a bit more fabulously than that.
“Kurt! I’ve been working so hard ever since you got hired to figure out some matching costumes for you and Barbra over there, but there’s only so much I can do with the budget Boss gives me. I hope you like birds and glitter,” Mercedes huffs, draping the atrocious dress over the back of Rachel’s chair.
Kurt silently starts to panic when he realizes that matching costumes means that he gets to wear something covered in just as many multicolored feathers.
“Mercedes… did you glue these feathers on with a glue gun?” Kurt asks cautiously, picking at a neon orange feather. Mercedes shrugs, then winces.
“Didn’t really have time for much else,” she explains, tapping her watch before she starts to dig through another rack of clothes, pulling out a feathered blazer.
This isn’t going to cut it.
“No. No, no, no, no, no!” Kurt shouts, flailing his arms desperately. “Kurt Hummel is not going to be caught dead wearing that in his first performance in the Big Apple.” Mercedes’ face starts to fall and Kurt quickly waves a hand. “You and I are going to find some fabulous matching and complementary outfits in this mess that will do for tonight and from now on, you and I will take care of this in advance, got it?”
Mercedes stares at Kurt and suddenly, he thinks that maybe he overstepped his boundaries. For a moment, he thinks that maybe he just completely fucked himself over and got himself fired for critiquing a stupid outfit. But then Mercedes smiles and snags his arm, tugging him toward the racks. “Ooh, have I got a good feeling about this,” she says, already starting to dig through the selections.
“About what?”
Kurt and Mercedes jump at the voice and whirl around to see Rachel. She’s already holding her feather-covered dress, her eyes wide and curious as she stares at the pair. Kurt has a sudden urge to hide all the sharp objects in the room when Rachel’s eyes just get wider as she waits for an answer. It’s Mercedes who finally pipes up.
“Kurt here is gonna help me pick out some better costumes for tonight. Those feathers ain’t quite cutting it. So you should do makeup first while we pull something nice together,” she explains, her voice trailing off halfway through when Rachel’s lips start to purse so tightly they turn white.
“Do makeup first. Do makeup first? Mercedes, are you insane? My weekly ritual is clearly costume, then hair, then makeup. You want me to change my order just so you and the new kid can play dress-up before my performance?” Rachel breathes out in one long, high-pitched huff of air, her tiny fist clenched around the feathery dress. A hot pink feather flutters to the ground, dislodged from her shaking grip. Mercedes stays quiet this time, but Kurt’s had enough of Rachel’s holier-than-thou attitude already.
“Alright, Princess, first things first, I do have a name. It’s Kurt. Feel free to use it whenever you find it necessary to refer to me; it’s less demeaning and offensive than “New Kid.” Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve also been hired to sing and dance up there with you and I will not flutter around behind you like a multi-colored harmonizing Big Bird, so you can take your Mariah attitude and shove it in the trash with your smelly bubble tea and you will wait while we find something to make you look like you exist in the twenty-first century. Are we clear, Streisand?” Kurt keeps one arm wrapped tightly across his chest while his other arm flails about, one finger pointed at Rachel as he goes through the tirade.
Rachel’s mouth is agape, her cheeks flushed as if Kurt had just wound up and backhanded her a few times, while Mercedes has her clipboard covering half of her face, snickering quietly behind it. Rachel sucks in a heavy breath and flings the dress to the ground.
“Okay, Kurt. You have a lot of nerve, coming in here and waving your pretentious little finger at me like some entitled little Broadway star when you haven’t even sang once on this stage. You don’t have my talent, my drive, or my looks – you can try, but you’re not going to get anywhere while you keep trying out for Project Runway with an assistant instead of actually preparing yourself to become someone important. Enjoy your costumes and your future job at McDonalds!” Rachel spins on her heel and storms out of the dressing room, brushing past Finn, who stopped in the hallway about halfway through her tirade, his eyes wide and unblinking.
Kurt rushes forward and picks up the dress, then follows Rachel out into the hall.
“I hope you enjoy your dress, then – it looks like a kindergarten art class vomited all over it! Oh, and for the love of God, go to the bank and cash your goddamned reality check already, you delusional little-“ Kurt promptly cuts himself off when Blaine’s head pokes out of his office, with what Kurt thinks is a hint of an amused smirk on his lips. Kurt flushes immediately.
“Don’t mind me!” he calls out and sharply turns himself back into the dressing room, where Finn and Mercedes are still speechless, their eyes focused on Kurt.
“Dude,” Finn breathes, ever the articulate one.
“Maybe you should go make sure she’s still gonna actually perform, hm?” Kurt offers and holds out the dress to Finn. Finn nods once, but doesn’t move. Kurt stares at him and shakes the dress.
“Right,” Finn says. “I’ll… do that.” He rubs his palms on his jeans a few times before he grabs the dress, then heads out to look after Rachel.
“Well, how about those costumes!” Kurt mutters and starts rifling through the racks again.
--
Unsurprisingly, Rachel still does perform. Kurt’s grateful that she does, considering she is carrying the show. Kurt serves as a backup singer and dancer for the majority of the performance, while they sing a couple of songs as a duet. Rachel steadfastly avoids even looking at Kurt, which he figures is pretty understandable. He did tear the poor girl down. Despite their hiccup, everything goes fairly well for Kurt’s first time on the stage – some girls even throw some cash on the stage and scream for him to ”take it off!!!!”, to which he blushes furiously at because hello, not that kind of show.
After the show, Kurt makes a beeline for the bar and settles onto a stool, beckoning Quinn. She hurries over to him, giggling madly.
“Look at you, hot shot! You’re a performer now!” she practically climbs up on the bar to lean over and wrap him in a hug, and Kurt’s pretty sure he catches a whiff of alcohol on her breath. He figures it’s been one of those nights, where either customers or Puck have really grated on her nerves to the point that she caves and throws back a few shots.
“Something like that,” he murmurs and shoos her back to her side of the counter. Quinn gladly shimmies off the counter and reaches for a bottle of tequila. She pours a double shot and slides it across the table at Kurt.
“Don’t you dare be modest with me, Kurt Hummel. You take your shot like a man and tonight you celebrate like a man. You’ve earned it, okay?” she snaps, sounding a terrifying amount like a scolding mother. He’s not sure how that comparison works out when she’s forcing alcohol on him, but Kurt accepts the shot with a quick nod and downs it.
“Yo, what up, Portia?” Puck shouts from the other side of the bar, gripping three empty beer bottles in one hand as he heads over to join Quinn and Kurt. “Dude, I heard you ripped our tiny Jewish overlord a new asshole earlier. Mad props, man. Mad props.”
“You can’t insult someone by calling them Jewish if you are Jewish, Puck,” Quinn mutters.
Puck flings a hand up in defense. “Jews can call each other whatever they want. Legit. Jew code.”
“Wow, sounds pretty ‘legit,’” Kurt says, waving air quotes as he speaks. “Is there a book on that, Shylock?”
“Yeah, ever heard of the Torah?” Puck snaps, looking vaguely offended. Kurt purses his lips, confused.
“Well, that doesn’t sound kosher at all,” he replies. Puck musters up what has to be the most pitiful glare Kurt’s ever seen. Quinn rolls her eyes at the both of them and crosses herself once before heading off to help customers.
It’s then that Blaine seats himself next to Kurt and Puck breathes out a huff. “Heaven help us all,” he mutters, moving to fix Blaine’s usual drink.
“What’s that?” Blaine asks, giving Puck a curious look. Puck doesn’t reply, instead focused on pouring Blaine’s drink and scooting it across the counter.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce myself out of this conversation,” he finally replies, his eyes darting between Kurt and Blaine before he quickly rejoins Quinn at the other side of the bar. Blaine shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything, instead taking a sip of his drink. Kurt has the urge to get up and leave, but he refuses to be rude to his boss, even if he’s afraid of where a conversation might lead. Instead, he folds his hands awkwardly in front of him and repeats a mantra of you have my word, you have my word, you have my word in his mind as he watches Quinn mix drinks.
“Not drinking?” Blaine asks finally, nodding his head toward Kurt’s empty hands.
Kurt shakes his head. “I mean, I had a shot that Quinn kinda forced on me but I have plans early tomorrow, so I don’t want to be hung over or anything,” he rambles, flailing his hands a bit as he explains. Blaine laughs and reaches out, wrapping a hand around Kurt’s in an attempt to still him. Kurt stares at him for a moment before his gaze flickers further down the bar, where Quinn is watching, warning in her eyes.
“A shot and one drink won’t leave you hung over,” Blaine assures him, with no sign that he’s planning on letting go of Kurt’s hand. Finally, Kurt tugs his hand free and folds his arms around himself. He tries not to notice the flicker of disappointment on Blaine’s face.
“No thanks, really. I’m fine with the shot,” Kurt insists, his eyes moving to follow Quinn again, using her as a reminder that he can’t enjoy the warmth left on his hand from Blaine.
“Well, is there any way I can congratulate you on a job well done tonight?” Blaine asks. Kurt stares at him, certain that he’s not imagining his boss pouting in front of him right now.
“I think ‘Congratulations, Kurt’ is quite sufficient,” he replies flatly.
Blaine releases a quiet sigh and tips back the rest of his drink. He tilts his head at Kurt, studying him curiously for a moment before he rises and straightens out his blazer. Then, he leans in close, only a couple of inches from Kurt’s ear. “Congratulations, Kurt,” he replies quietly and gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Have a good evening.”
With that, Blaine turns and heads back toward his office. Kurt watches him and sinks a little lower on his stool, unable to shake that nagging feeling of guilt.
--
From there, things seem to get much better. Kurt’s gradually settling into a routine: juggling classes, work, and practicing for his performances. It also helps that he’s quickly becoming closer with Quinn and Mercedes, spending quite a bit of his free time with one or both of them.
He learns that both of them are in New York for school, just like Kurt. Quinn’s attending med school, while Mercedes is studying international affairs. Their lives almost make Kurt want to laugh, considering how much the entire thing sounds like a clichéd movie script, but he doesn’t really have room to judge. After all, they’re here studying for prestigious, needed careers. Kurt just wants to be a star. No one needs a star – talent was expendable these days. Both Kurt and Rachel are very expendable and Kurt constantly reminds himself of that fact, remembering the way Blaine fired April without even blinking an eyelash. It was nothing to him that he might have crushed April’s dreams, just like he could easily do the same to Kurt.
Oddly enough, there doesn’t seem to be any signs that Blaine intends to fire Kurt any time soon. In fact, there aren’t any signs that Blaine intends to do anything with Kurt. He’s surprisingly distant, a vast difference from how quickly he came on to Kurt when he first started working at the club. Blaine is still cordial, always saying hello and asking about his day and his schooling. It’s formal and restrained, as if Blaine was forcing himself to not bother Kurt. Which bothers Kurt in and of itself.
He tries once or twice to ask Quinn about it, but she always kind of blows off his questions about Blaine. She always gives excuses for him, saying things like, oh, he probably thinks he’ll get your attention by playing hard to get, or oh, don’t worry about him, he’s not worried about you, or oh, he’s probably too busy to bother anymore.
None of the answers ever placate Kurt, not when this sudden change in Blaine’s demeanor seems to be directly related to him. But, he gave Quinn his word. He isn’t going to worry about Blaine – besides, he’s fitting in well with his coworkers for the most part, and he’s starting to make connections with some of the club’s frequent patrons.
From now on, things are strictly going to be about Kurt.
--
That is, until things are very much about Blaine. Again.
It’s five days before Christmas and the club is bedazzled with decorations and lights and mistletoe – thanks to Kurt and Mercedes, of course.
Once the decorations are up, Kurt heads over to the bar to help Quinn and Puck get ready for the evening.
“I didn’t think you were such a huge advocate of Christmas, Kurt,” Quinn says, working on drying off a row of shot glasses.
“I’m not,” he replies, picking up a washcloth and helping her out. “But, I do know that tourists come to New York City to experience the holiday spirit more than anything… what kind of disservice would we be doing if the club wasn’t feeling a little holly jolly for a few days?”
“It’d be a disservice to all the Jews hanging out, trying to get their drink on without Santa Claus breathing down their necks,” Puck mutters, filling a shot glass for himself.
“I knew you’d get offended,” Kurt sighs and reaches under the bar, pulling out a shopping bag. “Here, before you throw a temper tantrum.” He thrusts the bag at Puck, who stares at it for a moment before he downs his shot, then snatches the bag from Kurt’s hand. He quickly opens it up, a wide grin spreading across his lips.
“Dude, you didn’t,” he says, pulling out a menorah with as much flourish as he can muster. “It’s going right here. Right. Here.” Puck places it right in the middle of the counter and puts his hands on his hips. “Boss can suck it if he’s got a problem with me spreading around a little bit of the Jewish wealth.”
Kurt rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Just don’t get the Jewish wealth on me, please.”
“Excuse me?” Puck says, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll get the Jewish wealth on whoever I want.” With that, Puck practically dives at Kurt and wraps him up in a bear hug. Kurt yelps in shock and flails about; Puck simply takes that as a cue to lift Kurt into the air and twirl him around a few times.
“I swear to every God ever, I will smother you with tinsel if you don’t set me down right now, Puckerman!” Kurt shouts, horrified.
Finally, Puck drops him and dusts his shoulders off before giving one shoulder a pat. “Thanks for the gift, bro.”
Kurt manages a queasy smile and Quinn just giggles uncontrollably as she wraps a strand of tinsel around the base of the menorah.
“Traitor,” Kurt hisses.
--
It doesn’t take long for the club to become packed, filled shoulder to shoulder with drunk patrons from all around the world, dancing as best they can on the snow-slick floor. Kurt notes that the mistletoe is quite the success – one guy’s been standing below one sprig the entire night and Kurt thinks he’s counted him getting twelve kisses from twelve different girls. It makes Kurt’s heart pang a little that he doesn’t have anyone to kiss under the mistletoe and probably won’t get anyone anytime soon.
It takes Kurt a few seconds to realize that someone’s calling his name, trying to get his attention. He quickly jerks his head around, his eyes settling on Blaine.
“You okay, Kurt?” he asks, looking at him warily. Blaine’s leaning against the counter, looking a little flushed, his vest unbuttoned. The image causes Kurt to hesitate another moment, shocked at seeing Blaine oh-so-slightly out of place, and his mind instantly flashes to reasons why he could possibly be so ruffled.
“Kurt?”
“I’m fine,” he snaps quickly, shaking his head. “Usual?”
“Yeah… and a Jack and Coke too, please,” Blaine replies, looking somewhat skeptical. Kurt pauses, taking a moment to meet Blaine’s eyes.
“Expanding your horizons for once?” he asks. Blaine shakes his head.
“No, an old friend of mine is visiting for Christmas. He’s never seen the club before, so… might as well have a bit of fun, I suppose,” Blaine waves a hand and Kurt swallows, giving a small nod.
“Oh,” he says simply, turning back to making Blaine his drinks without another word.
He can still feel Blaine’s eyes watching him, reminding him very suddenly of the fact that Blaine hasn’t spoken to him this much since his first couple of nights at the club. And go figure, it’s about some stupid guy he’s getting drinks for. Lovely.
“You sure you’re okay?” Blaine asks again, his voice a little softer. Kurt slides both drinks across the counter, avoiding Blaine’s gaze.
“Yep. Cheers. Enjoy your evening,” he says curtly and promptly heads down the bar to serve other patrons. He can still feel Blaine’s eyes on him, but only for a few more moments. When he finally looks back, Blaine’s gone.
--
Things start to slow down for the evening, enough for Kurt to take a quick break, away from the thumping music and the trashed patrons. He quickly makes his way across the club and ducks down the hallway toward the dressing room, deciding to relax in silence and read a magazine for a few minutes.
What he doesn’t plan on doing is stumbling across Blaine, shoved against a wall by a tall redhead, with their hands down each other’s pants.
Kurt stops in his tracks and finds his cheeks are already flushed, both from embarrassment of having walked in on this mess and from… jealousy? He quickly dismisses the second emotion and finally musters the guts to clear his throat.
Blaine and the redhead jump apart like they’ve been struck by lightning, both of them panting and staring at Kurt.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, as if he’s about to explain away what was happening. Like Kurt cares.
“Maybe you should take your… whatever somewhere more private,” is all Kurt says, quickly brushing past the pair of them to head into the dressing room. He doesn’t bother turning back to see if they take his advice or not. Besides, he doesn’t want Blaine to see the fact that he’s literally seething with a mess of emotions: anger, jealousy, betrayal – all for no fucking reason. He has no claim on Blaine, just as Blaine has no claim on Kurt. There’s nothing between them – there’s no reason for any of these feelings, yet Kurt’s reeling, his hands trembling as he paces back and forth between the racks of costumes.
It’s not until he hears a quiet cough that Kurt realizes he’s not alone in the dressing room. He looks up and sees the last person he wants to see ever.
“What are you doing here, Rachel?” he asks flatly, folding his arms across his chest. She’s sitting in her chair, a fingertip rubbing absently at the chair arm.
“I like to come here when I’m stressed or upset. It calms me to look in the mirror and see myself here, as if I’m about to go on stage,” she explains. Kurt’s pretty sure it’s the least hostile thing she’s ever said to him.
“O… kay…,” Kurt mutters, still not quite getting the point.
Rachel looks at him in the mirror, a small smile pulling at her lips. “We don’t just perform on stage, Kurt. We perform in life, too. Before I go on stage, I look in this mirror and tell myself that I’m going to give this performance my all, I’m going to throw myself into it completely. And then I do it. Because I can’t let myself down, right? So, it only makes sense to come here when I’m not doing well with any other aspect of my life. If I’m not performing well outside of the stage, what’s the point of performing? Then I’m just going through the motions, living for the moments I really get to feel alive, when I could be feeling alive all the time. When I come here, I know I won’t let myself down.”
Kurt stares at Rachel, rendered a little speechless by her confession. Rachel barely gives him the time of day when they’re not on stage, so he doesn’t quite understand why she’s waxing poetic about life to him all of a sudden. “So… why are you telling me all of this?”
“Well, you’ve been pacing and talking to yourself about Boss for about five minutes straight, looking like you wanted to throw yourself under a bus,” she says quietly, turning around in her chair this time. Kurt gapes at her and blushes. “It just sounded like something you needed to hear.”
“I… was talking about Blaine,” he states, still blushing furiously. Rachel nods once.
“I know I’m not your biggest fan, but no one deserves to be that upset. I don’t know what he did, but don’t let it just… ruin you. Don’t dwell on it. It’s not worth it… and he’s probably not worth it either,” Rachel adds as she hops out of her chair. “And believe me, he’s definitely not worth it.” Kurt thinks he imagines the flash of anger on her face before she takes a few cautious steps toward Kurt, her face quickly rearranging into a soft smile. It’d be kind of terrifying if it didn’t look so damn sweet.
Then, she reaches up and gently pats his shoulder, just once. “Have a merry Christmas, Kurt.”
“I… thanks,” Kurt says, awestruck as he watches Rachel leave.
He sits in the chair for a few moments, thoughtfully staring into the mirror, trying to see what Rachel sees. To Kurt, it still looks like a jealous little child, confused about his feelings, and that alone makes him want to fling something at the mirror and shatter it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gets up and leaves, deciding he’s finished with work for the evening.
There’s no sign of Blaine or the redhead in the hallway.
part 2
Author:
preach_electricWord Count: 27,347
Rating: R, for language and sexual situations.
Genre: AU/angst/humor/fluff.
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, Quinn/Puck. Vague hints of Finn/Rachel, Rachel/Jesse, Blaine/Jesse, Puck/Rachel, and Sam/Kurt.
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers or major warnings. Don’t read if you have an aversion to an overabundance of Shakespeare references, Jew jokes, alcohol, and italics, I guess?
Summary: Kurt Hummel has dreams to make it big in New York City. Instead, he gets a dysfunctional family in a NYC nightclub.
Author’s Notes: This fic has been in the making since the holidays last year, fml. It wouldn’t have gotten finished without cheerleading and advice from my two favorite people in the entire world,
episkeyit and candid_dreams88. This is the longest fic I’ve ever written. Ever. So I’m proud of this crazy little monster. It was inspired by this song because I initially wanted to write a gritty nightclub AU. Instead, you get this piece of work. So enjoy! It’s by pure luck that Kurt Hummel gets a shot at a job singing and drink slinging at the newest and trendiest nightclub in New York. Kurt doesn’t get his hopes up that he’ll actually get hired; lesser clubs in the city have already rejected him, so he expects this interview to be a complete crapshoot.
He has nothing to lose when he walks into the club at half-past five on a Tuesday evening, dressed in his favorite interview outfit – a dark pair of jeans and a white button-up with a silver-trimmed ruffle accent on both sides of the buttons. It’s simple, trendy, and it’s memorable. Sadly, not memorable enough for all of the other night club owners. But whatever.
The shirt is the first thing one of the bartenders notices when Kurt approaches.
“You lost, Shakespeare?” The man asks and leans across the bar. Kurt’s not sure if he’s more entranced by the Plexiglas counter -- it’s completely see-through, with strobe lights inside that flash and pulse through all the colors – or the man’s unfortunate Mohawk. Kurt’s eyes flicker to the strip of hair for a moment before he shakes his head once.
“No, I have an interview?”
The man snorts and starts wiping a fluffy white towel across the countertop, the strobe lights reflecting in his eyes – Kurt can already see the amusement and condescension there and it makes his blood boil a bit. He’s tired of that look. “I think you might be in the wrong place for dramatic readings, bro,” the man says finally, breathing out a snicker.
“I’m sorry, do you even know what a dramatic reading is? I don’t think the confessionals on Jersey Shore really qualify as the same thing,” Kurt snaps, his patience wearing thin. The man looks up, clearly baffled and stunned by Kurt’s outburst. It’s then that a small, slender blonde appears at his side, giggling.
“I like this kid,” she says, reaching out and fiddling at Kurt’s sleeve. “I’m pretty sure he could go toe-to-toe with you any day, Puck.”
The man - Puck - shoots the girl a glare, but he seems to be a bit sobered by Kurt’s words. “Boss’ll be out in a while. Just hang out or whatever. And for the record, I don’t watch Jersey Shore. It’s not really kosher with my religion, man.” Kurt doesn’t think Jersey Shore is quite kosher with any religion, but he keeps his comments to himself. Then Puck turns his glare on the girl again. “You gonna get over here and help me, traitor?”
She rolls her eyes and simply hops up onto the counter. She starts to whirl around, but pauses and extends a hand to Kurt. “I’m Quinn, by the way. And don’t mind Puck. He just likes to hassle everyone. Thinks it helps his daily man quota or something.” Something about Quinn’s politeness surprises Kurt. She doesn’t quite seem the type to be working in a nightclub like this - she’s soft-spoken and almost delicate-looking, and Kurt’s half-terrified he might break her, but he accepts her hand anyway.
“Kurt. Nice to meet you, Quinn.”
“It’s a pleasure, Kurt.” She gives Kurt’s hand a squeeze and releases him. She swivels around and hops off on the other side of the bar, joining Puck to help him stock bottles of hard liquor.
The pair becomes preoccupied with their work, but Kurt isn’t left to loiter for long – moments later, a high-pitched squeal sounds from across the club. For the first time, Kurt notices the large, burgundy, velvet curtain and the modest stage, and then he realizes that the screech actually came from a tiny, blonde woman.
“Who is this character sitting at my bar while I am trying to rehearse?” the woman squeals again, and Kurt decides then and there that she doesn’t look or sound a day over thirteen.
Regardless of her age, the woman looks completely enraged, one finger pointed right at Kurt with as much anger as he’s ever seen a finger manage to convey. “Speak when I’m talkin’ to you, you porcelain man-baby! Why are you here?”
“Oh, me?” Kurt shouts, flailing at hand at himself. “Kurt Hummel, ma’am!” From her attitude, Kurt suspects that this must be the owner. Not the greatest foot to get off on, it seems. Much to his amazement, Puck and Quinn haven’t flinched away from their work in the slightest. Apparently this woman tends to have squealing bursts of anger on a regular basis.
Then, another voice sounds from behind Kurt. It’s gentle, but commanding – it sends a shock right up Kurt’s spine and causes him to jump in surprise.
“April, get off the stage. Now.” Kurt turns to look at the man. His mouth promptly drops open and his brain not-so-promptly works to clamp his mouth shut again. The man’s shorter than Kurt, with dark, slicked down hair. He’s dressed to the nines, really, in dark slacks, pristine and polished dress shoes, a crisp, stark white dress shirt, and a black vest. The only splash of color in his attire is the dark navy and maroon striped tie he’s wearing, neatly tucked into his vest. It doesn’t look like there’s a single crease out of place in the entire get up, and Kurt has to force himself to swivel the barstool so he looks at April, who still happens to be on the stage, looking momentarily shell-shocked by the newcomer’s request.
“And why would I get off of my stage?” she snaps back, firmly placing her balled fists on her hips. The man simply walks past Kurt, toward the stage, without a single glance in Kurt’s direction. Kurt promptly tilts to the side and ducks his gaze in what is most definitely not an attempt to check out this guy’s ass. No way.
“Shall I list all the reasons, April?” he says, a lilt in his voice that can only be explained as some weird combination of playful and malicious. “For one, every time you walk in this building, you’re drunk off your ass. Two, you shout like a banshee at anyone for simply looking at you the wrong way. Three, it’s not your stage. Get off.”
April scoffs at his remarks and doesn’t budge an inch. “I’m your star, this is my stage. You can’t tell me to get off of it. I need the stage and it needs me. You need me.”
“False.” He shakes his head in one short, quick motion. “Rachel’s my star and she has been for a long time now. You’re washed up and you’re frankly not good enough for my stage anymore. You’re fired, April. Now get off the stage before I call Hudson in to personally remove you.”
April seems to crumple at the mention of Rachel – it’s clearly a sore spot for the woman. She reluctantly uncurls her fists and Kurt can see her eyes shining from his seat at the bar. She flutters her eyelids almost cartoonishly, trying to keep the tears at bay as she slowly steps off the stage.
“You’ll regret this, Boss,” she snaps, then tilts her chin up, heading toward the exit with what little dignity she has left. Kurt feels terrible for April, but he can’t help the excited jump his stomach makes when he realizes that hey, a job just opened up.
Just as that thought crosses his mind, the man turns and points a finger at Kurt.
“New kid. Can you sing?”
Kurt’s eyes are wide like saucers as he splutters out, “Arguably, yes.” He sees a flicker of doubt on the man’s face, but it’s quickly replaced with a cool, almost predatory smile. The expression seems robotic and practiced, but Kurt can’t help but find it impossibly attractive.
“Alright. I can work with arguably. Get back here at eight-thirty with two numbers you can do a cappella. One slower, one more upbeat, preferably. I want to see your range and your stage presence,” he spouts off, strictly business-like with his tone. Then suddenly, that calm, suave, flat persona slips off, for just a moment, and he seriously studies Kurt’s face. “Then I’ll decide just how well you’ll fit in here,” he adds softly.
Kurt simply gives a hurried nod and slides off the stool. He practically stumbles and even gives a freaking half-curtsy of all things once he’s upright. The man gives a hearty, amused laugh at that, his lips turning up in an intrigued smirk. He outstretches his hand. “I’m Blaine, by the way. But everyone calls me Boss.”
Kurt gladly takes his hand and gives an eager, firm shake.
“Fantastic. Nice to meet you, Blaine. Boss. I mean Boss. I’ll see you at eight-thirty, then! Thank you for your time!” The words all come out in a breathy, hurried sigh and Kurt really, really, really hates himself right now for how quickly he manages to turn into a twelve-year-old girl around his totally attractive potential new boss. Blaine just smiles and nods Kurt off – Kurt gladly takes the opening and steers himself toward the door.
Blaine watches him leave, clearly enraptured by the short encounter.
“Well, he’s cute,” Quinn calls out and leans on the counter, propping her chin in her palms. Blaine shoots her a look over his shoulder, his expression indifferent.
“Yeah, and?”
Quinn just shrugs, giving him an unreadable smile. Blaine sidles up and leans against the bar, his back still to her and she reaches out, as if she’s contemplating touching his shoulder. She doesn’t. “Is he what you’re looking for, Blaine?” she asks, her tone biting. Blaine doesn’t answer.
“I found what I’m looking for,” Puck cuts in, pouring himself a shot. “Hola, Jose,” he sing-songs, clearly ignoring Quinn and Blaine’s little moment. Blaine rolls his eyes and pushes off the bar.
“Do me a favor, Puckerman, don’t bankrupt my club with your Cuervo cravings. I’m going to go tell Rachel that she’s got to carry the show till we get a new singer,” Blaine says and tilts his head warningly as Puck downs the shot anyway. With that, Blaine turns and heads toward the dressing room.
“You could try to act like you care if he fires you, you know,” Quinn says quietly, giving Puck a bit of a look. Puck shrugs and puts the tequila back on the shelf behind the bar.
“I gotta do something to get through the nights, working with these people,” he says, waving a hand at the stage. “It helps when Boss goes hiring people like that holier-than-thou Hannah Montana cast-off that copped an attitude with me, okay? El Puckerino doesn’t take kindly to being compared to guidos. I’m a respectable douche, alright? I own that shit.”
Quinn rolls her eyes before shooting him a glare. “I officially quit if you ever call yourself The Pucktuation. Just so we’re clear.”
--
Meeting Rachel Berry is definitely not the best experience of Kurt’s life. He’s already getting flashbacks to April screaming at him from the stage – Rachel just happens to be slightly taller and brunette, with a bit more crazy in her eyes.
“This is the way things will go. You will stay three steps behind me and two steps to my left – you’ll be visible, but you won’t be distracting to the loving audience. No one wants the leading lady to be suffocated by her supporting act, you know. You are to never try and overpower me on a song – not that you could, really – and you are to never try and out dance me – again, good luck with that. When we’re not on stage, do not speak to me for any reason unless it’s about rehearsing. The more I talk, the more strained my vocal cords become and I’ve discovered that unnecessary talking is a luxury for people destined to warble hoarsely in smoke-filled karaoke bars and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not quite the karaoke bar type.”
She says all of this while perfectly applying false eyelashes to her left eye and staring quite determinedly at Kurt in her mirror. It’s an impressive and exhausting display and Kurt can’t help but snicker.
“… Is there a particular reason you’re talking so much, then?” Kurt asks gingerly. Rachel whirls around suddenly and manages to whip Kurt in the face with her hair. He grimaces and coughs on the cloud of hairspray that wafts up his nostrils.
“You’re crowding my chair, new kid,” she hisses and narrows her eyes. Kurt would find the sight more terrifying if she didn’t have one false eyelash hanging crooked on her right eye, but he backs off and heads to his own chair anyway.
A few moments later, Kurt notices what can only be described as a behemoth of a man enter the room. He’s dressed in just dark jeans and a tight black polo, with an earpiece in and a clipboard under his arm – Kurt presumes this is the bouncer Blaine was referring to the night before. Regardless, Kurt takes a moment to appreciate just how taut the polo is stretched across his broad chest.
“Hey, uh, Rachel? I got you that weird bubble tea thing you wanted. I think I got it right,” the man says, in a voice none too threatening for someone who’s supposed to be guarding the entrance to a nightclub. It’s kind of bewildering, really. Kurt hears Rachel hiss something at the guy and he actually cowers away from her, his eyes wide and his face pinched in fear. It reminds Kurt of a gigantic puppy, desperate for his master to still love him after he puked on his bed for the sixth night in a row. Kurt wants to hug the poor guy.
The hushed exchange ends when Rachel dumps the bubble tea into the trashcan and turns back to her mirror, huffing loudly. The bouncer just stares at her, his hands in the air while he processes what the hell just happened. Kurt understands the feeling – Rachel confuses him too. Then, the guy looks at Kurt and blushes. He slips his clipboard out from under his arm and takes a few cautious steps toward Kurt.
“You must be the new kid,” he says slowly, drawing out the ‘you’ kind of unnecessarily. “Sorry you had to see that whole… thing. I’m Finn.”
Kurt groans quietly. He does have a name, you know. “I’m Kurt,” he says loudly, hoping Rachel takes the hint as well. He hears a snort from somewhere behind Finn. “I take it you’re the bouncer, Finn?”
Finn gives a small, sheepish smile and angles himself sideways so Kurt can see the back of his shirt, where SECURITY is across his back in bold, white letters. “I prefer ‘head of club security’ actually. I don’t do a whole lot of bouncing while I’m on the job so it just sounds kinda weird.”
“Ah, so you’re a very literal person, I see,” Kurt says slowly. Finn just stares at Kurt.
“I’m not really into books, man. That’s why I work here,” he says, quirking an eyebrow up thoughtfully.
“Well, it seems you fit your job description quite perfectly,” Kurt replies with a polite laugh, both amused and disappointed by Finn’s confusion.
Finn smiles broadly at this and claps a large hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Thanks, dude! I’m glad you think so. Oh, and good luck singing and stuff. You seem like a cool dude, so I hope Boss likes you.”
Oh, right, he still has to actually audition. Fabulous.
--
“Well, I ain’t ever heard of him keeping the newbies around right after their audition,” Kurt jumps at the voice, already feeling like a wound up ball of nerves from his performance. He recognizes the girl – she was standing at Blaine’s side near the bar, furiously taking notes while Kurt sang. “There must be something special about you, Sugar.”
Kurt blushes faintly at her insinuation and shakes his head. “I’m just a kid who needs a job in New York City. Nothing special.” He shrugs, hoping she’ll continue on and get to the point. She seems to take the hint.
“Usually, Boss waits a few days, makes the newbies squirm while he watches other auditions. But he wants you. And he wants you now,” she explains. Kurt’s pretty sure he turns about twenty more shades of red.
“Oh,” he says dumbly, figuring he should feel a bit more excited that he just got a job. “Well, thanks for letting me know, Miss…?”
“Mercedes. Call me Mercedes,” she finishes and grins excitedly.
Kurt can only nod. Then, Mercedes looks at him more seriously, pausing before she starts to rifle through the papers on her clipboard.
“By the way, you ever make drinks, hon?” she asks, finding the paper she was looking for and plucking it out to sit on top of the stack.
“I, uh, no? I’m not really much of a drinker. But I can blend one hell of a protein enriched smoothie!” Kurt gives a half-hearted swing of his arm, a little worried about what exactly she’s looking for from him here. Mercedes gives him a once over, as if she’s contemplating how important his smoothie-blending skills are to her.
“Right now, we ain’t too hot on the bartending side of things. Quinn can make a mean drink, but Puck’s kind of a mess. He’s too busy drinking the alcohol and staring at Quinn to get a lot done and get a lot done right. But people dig him, so Boss keeps him around,” she explains this all in a hushed tone, as if she’s spilling the nightclub gossip. It’s all very endearing to Kurt, endearing enough for him to not really care that she’s implying he learn how to mix drinks.
“I suppose I could give it a shot,” he says slowly, his nerves and apprehension disappearing when Mercedes lets out an excited squeal, grinning ear to ear.
“Oh, honey, you’re gonna fit in great here. And if you need anything – I mean anything, Kurt – you give me a ring.” She pauses and stuffs a scrap of paper in one of his shirt pockets. “I’m Boss’ personal assistant, but I’m also here to make sure everyone’s getting on okay. So don’t you dare be a stranger.”
Kurt just kind of stares in awe as Mercedes pats his cheeks and hurries off, finding himself more than pleased with the way things are suddenly turning around for him now.
--
It’s approximately 7:24am when Kurt hears someone pounding on his door. Kurt’s usually a morning person, but even seven-thirty is a little much for him on some days. Today is one of those days.
He quite literally shuffles through his tiny apartment to the door and peers through the peephole. All he can make out at first is bright blonde hair, pink lips, and wide green eyes. It takes him a moment to process who it is, but then it dawns on him and he fumbles to unlock and open the door.
“Quinn?” The question comes out bleary and thick – he’s not annoyed, just confused. Quinn simply bounces a little on her heels and nods, a large duffle bag slung over her shoulder. Kurt doesn’t know what the hell she wants from him at this hour, and she clearly isn’t spilling unless prompted, so he adds, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company at this fine hour?”
“Oh! I have business to take care of every morning before I head to class, but my class ended up being cancelled today. So I came to see you!” she explains, as if it was obvious. Kurt can tell she’s not telling him something, but he doesn’t press it. Too much.
“Right,” he says, thoughtfully, drawing out the word. “Forgive me if this is rude, but one, how do you know where I live? Two, why did you think it was a good idea to visit me? And three, are you clinically insane in any way?”
Quinn breathes out a quiet laugh and shakes her head. “I don’t think you could be rude unless you buzzed yourself a Mohawk,” she muses. Kurt quirks an eyebrow, but remains silent. “Can I come in, Kurt?”
He hesitates for a moment before he nods and steps aside. No one should ever be turned away without a cup of coffee this early in the morning, even if they’re kind of insane. Quinn walks in and immediately starts to wander around, scrutinizing the pictures and decorations. Kurt closes the door and leans against it, watching her thoughtfully. “You gonna tell me why you’re here, Quinn?”
“You gonna make me one of your smoothies so I can find out just what I’m working with here?”
Kurt closes his eyes and laughs, realizing that he’s about to get an 8am bartending lesson. He supposes stranger things have happened in his life.
“Kitchen’s this way, ma Cherie.”
--
Six strawberries, four kiwis, two guavas, and one apple later, Quinn is perched on Kurt’s kitchen counter, slurping at a thick fruit smoothie, her eyes wide with delight.
“Mm, you can make a smoothie. Mercedes was right,” she mutters between sips, kicking her feet while she teeters on the edge of the counter. Kurt watches her curiously and gives a small smile of gratitude before replying.
“You never answered my questions, Quinn,” he points out. Quinn hums thoughtfully.
“And what questions are you referring to?”
“Um, the ones where I’m wondering why the hell you’re sitting in my kitchen, drinking a smoothie that you oh-so-sweetly forced me to make for you?”
Quinn’s mouth shifts into a perfect, silent “O” before she finishes the smoothie and hops off the counter. “Do you have plans for today?”
“I… what? No? I mean, not really. I don’t have class today.”
“Mm,” Quinn replies and curls a finger at Kurt before she hurries off into the living room, Kurt on her heels. Just when her flighty, dismissive, dodgy responses start to irritate him, she unzips the duffle bag she brought in and reveals a downright disgusting amount of alcohol. “No plans, no plans are good.” She pulls out a pint of vodka and hands it to Kurt. “Considering your first night of bartending is tonight.”
Quinn looks delighted as she loads his arms down with alcohol. Kurt simply gapes at her, trying not to drop all the booze.
--
Three panic attacks, six shots, and four Mariah Carey CDs later, Kurt’s a blushing, giggling mess, but he’s competent at making the basics, at least. It took Quinn four tries to get Kurt to calm down after a couple of shots when she started to explain a simple screwdriver to him. (”Heh, screw. Screwdriver. These drink names are so risqué, don’t you think?”) Sex on the Beach was a lost cause for Kurt, after five shots. He nearly fell off one of the barstools, causing Quinn to make a mental note to never let Kurt drink while bartending.
“I can’t believe I’m drunk at two in the afternoon, holy shit,” Kurt breathes, moving slowly and carefully as he helps Quinn load her bottles of alcohol back in her bag.
“It’s not my fault you found it necessary to try everything you were using, Kurt,” she points out, heaving the duffle onto her shoulder once everything’s loaded back up. She gives Kurt a soft smile and reaches out, curling her free arm around Kurt’s neck to pull him into a wobbly hug. “Just sober up before tonight, kay? We’re gonna be busy tonight and I’m sure Boss won’t want a sloshed newbie stumbling around the club.”
Kurt bursts into another short fit of giggles, nervous laughter this time, at the mention of Blaine. He isn’t sure what he thinks of his new boss, not yet. The guy was harsh and merciless when firing April, yet everyone (well, Mercedes at least) seemed to think he had some sort of soft spot for Kurt. He didn’t get it and he certainly didn’t see it. There was no way he was telling Quinn all of that, though, so he simply gave her a gentle squeeze and led her out.
“I’ll be more sober than before I took the shots, scout’s honor,” Kurt assures her, even going as far as to give a half-hearted salute. Quinn simply giggles and leaves after planting a kiss on his cheek.
--
Somehow, Kurt manages to stave off a hangover, or so he thinks. He’s not even sure how a hangover works if you drink in the middle of the day, but he tries not to think about it, or the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure if he’d rather chalk it up to the booze or the nerves.
Regardless, he puts on a brave face and heads inside the club, so focused on getting to the bar without throwing up that he suddenly slams into what appears to be a Yeti in a striped shirt. After a few seconds, he quickly realizes that it’s not quite a Yeti. It is a very Yeti-like Finn Hudson, though.
“Oh, Finn! I’m sorry!” Kurt says hurriedly, but Finn just gives an amused snort.
“Dude, it’s cool, it’s cool. What’s up, man?” Finn holds a fist out to Kurt, looking expectant. Kurt stares at Finn’s fist, unsure of what he wants from him. He settles for awkwardly bumping his own fist against the top of Finn’s.
“Just, you know… gearing up for my first night,” Kurt says, his voice trailing off as he watches Finn study his fist for a moment, clearly confused, before finally lowering his arm.
“Right, sweet, sounds awesome. We don’t have shows on Thursdays, though,” Finn says slowly, still staring at Kurt with the same focused and determined confusion he was staring at his fist with. At least he’s dedicated to not knowing what the hell’s going on, Kurt thinks.
“I’m bartending tonight, Finn,” Kurt replies with an airy laugh and reaches up (up - how is this dude so tall?) and gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “And I’m going to be late. Nice chat?”
Finn smiles with delight and nods. “Dude, bitchin’. Just don’t let Puck shove ice down your pants. If he does, spike his drink with Jager and he’ll be blowing chunks for the rest of the night.” He starts to head toward the front doors, but pauses and frowns. “Just… aim him at the toilet first? I really don’t want to clean it up.”
“Sure thing,” Kurt says, grimacing at both the idea of spiking anyone’s drink and the image of Puck vomiting all over the bathroom.
A few moments after Finn leaves, an arm slings around Kurt’s shoulder and he jumps in surprise.
“Dude, chill out, Shakespeare.” Of course it’s Puck, his arm tight around Kurt’s shoulders as he steers him towards the bar. “As your new superior – and a badass one at that – I find it necessary to take you under my wing. Well, I mean, I would if I had wings, but fuck that, muscles are more awesome than wings, right?”
Puck keeps flexing his free arm as they walk and Kurt’s pretty certain he hasn’t stopped grimacing since the Jager and puke conversation. “Does anyone here other than Quinn know that I actually have a name?”
“Yeah, your name’s Bill, right? As in William? As in Shakespeare?” Puck unwinds his arm from Kurt and stares at him, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. The guy has one hell of a poker face, Kurt’ll give him that.
“You… have got to be kidding me,” Kurt says flatly.
“Kurt!”
Puck jerks his head up at Quinn’s voice, still looking confused.
“Who the fuck is Kurt?”
“Language, Puckerman,” Quinn hisses as she throws a hand around Kurt’s neck and pulls him into a hug. “You don’t even smell like alcohol, Kurt!”
Kurt gives a quiet laugh, a little more unnerved by Quinn’s touchy-feely attitude than he was when he was drunk. “It’s amazing what a nap, a workout, and a shower can do, I suppose.”
“Dude, Hamlet, were you boozing it up this afternoon?” Puck asks, incredulous. Before he even gets confirmation, he holds up a hand for a high-five. Kurt stares at him.
“I was teaching him how to mix drinks for tonight, since someone wouldn’t get out of bed to come help,” Quinn mutters and reaches for his outstretched hand, coaxing him to put his arm down. Puck rolls his eyes.
“How do you expect me to get up at ass o’clock to help you teach Frills ‘n’ Things over here how to mix a drink when I don’t even mix drinks? Everyone knows all you need in life are shots and beers.” He leans on the counter and shrugs as if it was obvious. “If my drink takes long enough to drink that I need a pink umbrella in it, then the Puck Tank isn’t getting drunk fast enough, plain and simple.”
“Do you try to sound like a complete Neanderthal, or does that come naturally?” Kurt asks, folding one arm under the other, tapping a fingertip against his chin. Quinn snorts so hard that Kurt almost thinks it’s a sneeze, until she starts vibrating with giggles. Puck glares at her, looking somewhat betrayed.
“Ooh, just you wait Ruffles. Just you wait,” Puck says, shaking his head. “I’m gonna go grab some ice. You two can have fun with your cups of juice while I have a fiesta for uno with the tequila.”
“So help me God, if you so much as come near my ass with any ice I will douse your tequila with Jagermeister!”
--
The first half of the night manages to go off without a hitch. Sure, they aren’t that busy yet, but it isn’t even past 11pm. Kurt fumbles up three drinks, but thankfully the patrons are nice enough to not get mad about it when they find out he’s new. One even gave him a double tip for giving him a free replacement drink for the first one he completely fucked up. Also, Puck hasn’t tried to shove ice down his pants yet, so he counts the first half of the night as a victory.
That is, until his next customer.
“Vodka martini, dry, please,” says the customer. Kurt blinks up to look at the man and nearly drops the bottle of vodka he’s holding. Well, fuck.
“B-Boss! Of course!” Kurt blurts out, fumbling with a martini glass. It’s obviously the best way to make a good impression on his new boss, shaking and flailing and trying to put together a decent martini. Thankfully, Blaine doesn’t say anything as he watches. Instead, he actually quirks an eyebrow as the edge of his mouth curls up in a smirk. Kurt finally scoots the martini toward Blaine and pauses, watching curiously as he takes a sip.
“Mm,” he hums, “not bad. I see Quinn’s taught you well so far.” Blaine’s smiling for real this time, seeming quite pleased about his choice to hire Kurt, at least for now.
“Oh, yes. She’s lovely. She’s a lovely teacher. Very lovely,” Kurt replies quickly, wanting to slam his head against the countertop for being so damn flustered.
“Ah, you must really like her if she’s that lovely. If she’s triple lovely,” Blaine takes another sip of his martini and gives Kurt an almost unreadable look over the rim of the glass, a look that almost makes Kurt confused about the implications of Blaine’s words, but then it hits him like a brick wall.
“What? No, n-no, I don’t. I’m not. She’s fantastic but, uh, not my type.” He waves his hands about, backtracking quickly. Of course he would manage to talk himself into some big, shiny, straight corner during his first actual conversation with his impossibly attractive boss.
Blaine laughs and Kurt thinks he sees Blaine’s eyes flicker down his body, but there’s no way that just happened. He chalks it up to still being hungover and tired, until Blaine speaks up again. “If a pretty girl like that isn’t your type, then I don’t know what is.”
Kurt stares at Blaine, trying not to gape as he thinks through whether or not that was a come-on. After a few moments, he settles on not. “I, uh, I tend to find myself attracted to brunettes, actually.” He pointedly avoids looking at Blaine as he says this, instead focusing his attention to wiping a tumbler dry.
“Brunettes, eh,” Blaine says thoughtfully, barely audible over the thumping music. Kurt can feel Blaine watching him; he finds it both unsettling and exhilarating, knowing that he actually has another guy interested in him, even if it is his new boss, of all people. Kurt looks up and smiles, as evenly as possible, hoping he’s not blushing.
“And what might your type be, Boss?” he asks boldly, folding his arms. This time, Kurt definitely doesn’t miss Blaine’s gaze, and that’s more than enough to drive a blush high onto his cheeks. So much for staying cool. Blaine smiles and scoots his empty glass toward Kurt as he stands up.
“I like brunettes too.”
--
“Don’t you dare, Kurt Hummel.”
Kurt looks up from where he’s sitting on a stool in the walk-in freezer, reading an article in Cosmo on his break. “Uh, excuse me?”
“I saw the look you had out there, when Boss was talking to you,” Quinn says, her voice dropping to a whisper. Kurt flushes immediately, but thankfully the walk-in is fairly dark.
“I still don’t quite know what you’re talking about, Quinn.”
“Yes you do,” she says quietly, then kneels in front of him. “You were looking at him like you had an instantaneous schoolgirl crush-“ Kurt opens his mouth to protest, but Quinn smooshes a finger against his lips and continues, “- and believe me, I’ve seen many a guy – and even a few girls, but that’s beside the point – start at this club and get this exact same treatment from him and it always ends up the same way.”
Kurt stares at Quinn, confused. “I don’t—“
“Boss isn’t a good guy, Kurt. He thinks you’re a cute little piece of ass and he’ll push things just to see what he can get,” she explains, her voice even more hushed and urgent. Kurt’s positive that his heart dropped into his stomach already when Quinn walked into the freezer, with that determined look in her eyes, but whatever. He feels even shittier now, having his fears confirmed. “You’re one of the few newbies that I’ve liked in a long time… and I don’t want to see you get hurt and leave because Boss screws you over.”
“So… you’re saying he just wants to get a quick fuck out of me,” Kurt says flatly around Quinn’s finger. She gives a half-nod.
“Kurt, just promise me you won’t do something stupid? I mean, I can’t tell you what and what not to do, but… just think about it. Please?”
Kurt grasps Quinn’s hand and pulls her finger away from his mouth and nods, without much of a second thought. He’s already grown wildly attached to the girl and hell, even Puck, and the last thing he wants to do is lose a budding friendship because of a silly crush on his boss.
“You have my word.”
--
It’s twenty minutes shy of 3am and Kurt’s ready to fall asleep standing as they clean up the bar. He’s definitely not used to being up this late, at least not yet. He knows he’ll have to man up if he wants to actually keep his job.
“Hey, Macbeth, you did alright tonight,” Puck calls from the other side of the club as he pushes the broom back and forth. “If you want, you can peace out, man. You’re starting to look like a zombie and it’s kinda wigging me out.”
Kurt kind of wants to take offense to the zombie comment, but he’s really too tired to care that much. “You sure? Boss won’t get mad?”
“Nah, Puck and I have it under control. We’ve cleaned up much worse messes. Go get some sleep, Kurt.”
Kurt nods and finishes up his section of the bar, at least, then gathers his things, waving goodnight to both Puck and Quinn. But before he can get out of the club, he hears that familiar voice again.
“Kurt! C’mere for a second.”
He turns and glances inside what must be Blaine’s office, all dark wood and low lighting with leather chairs. Kurt wouldn’t expect anything less of a nightclub owner, really, especially one like Blaine.
“Headed out for the night?” Blaine asks, getting up and walking around his desk to sit on the edge, closer to Kurt.
“Yeah, Quinn and Puck told me to go home. I’m not quite used to the late hours yet. I’m kind of a homebody, I suppose,” he admits, giving a quiet laugh. Then Blaine has that look again, the same one he had when he was sitting at the bar where he looked like he wanted to devour Kurt on the spot. Kurt shifts uncomfortably. “What did you need?”
The question seems to be enough to distract Blaine for the time being, his expression shifting back to that tight, guarded half-smile he seems to be so fond of sporting. “I was actually going to ask you that. Your first performance is tomorrow night, you know.” Kurt nods, none of this new information to him. “Do you need help rehearsing, perhaps? I mean, I know my way around a stage if you’re having trouble.” Blaine’s voice shifts when he asks the question, the tones in his voice softer and darker.
Kurt realizes exactly what he’s trying to do. He desperately replays his conversation with Quinn in his mind before he finally speaks up. It takes all of his willpower to turn down Blaine’s offer.
“No, thanks. I’ve been rehearsing since you gave me the sheet music, pretty much. And I know my way around a stage as well,” Kurt says shortly, hoping it’s enough to throw Blaine off his tail. For a moment, Blaine almost appears hurt that Kurt turned down his offer, but he simply twists his lips into that half-smile and nods understandingly. “If that’s all, I’d really like to get home and get to bed.”
Blaine nods again. “That’s all. Just thought I’d make sure things were coming along alright.”
“Alright then. Thanks for the offer, though. See you tomorrow, Boss.”
And with that, Kurt leaves, feeling oddly convinced that he just did the wrong thing.
--
The next night seems to have a completely different atmosphere. Kurt actually gets to be on stage for a real performance, for the first time since he’d actually arrived in New York. He goes into work with a terrified, anxious, giddy energy bubbling in his veins, practically bouncing into the club at seven o’clock.
It takes all of two minutes for Mercedes to corner him in the dressing room, clipboard tucked under her arm and a dress covered in rhinestones and feathers slung over other. Kurt raises an eyebrow, somewhat hopelessly wishing his costume is decorated a bit more fabulously than that.
“Kurt! I’ve been working so hard ever since you got hired to figure out some matching costumes for you and Barbra over there, but there’s only so much I can do with the budget Boss gives me. I hope you like birds and glitter,” Mercedes huffs, draping the atrocious dress over the back of Rachel’s chair.
Kurt silently starts to panic when he realizes that matching costumes means that he gets to wear something covered in just as many multicolored feathers.
“Mercedes… did you glue these feathers on with a glue gun?” Kurt asks cautiously, picking at a neon orange feather. Mercedes shrugs, then winces.
“Didn’t really have time for much else,” she explains, tapping her watch before she starts to dig through another rack of clothes, pulling out a feathered blazer.
This isn’t going to cut it.
“No. No, no, no, no, no!” Kurt shouts, flailing his arms desperately. “Kurt Hummel is not going to be caught dead wearing that in his first performance in the Big Apple.” Mercedes’ face starts to fall and Kurt quickly waves a hand. “You and I are going to find some fabulous matching and complementary outfits in this mess that will do for tonight and from now on, you and I will take care of this in advance, got it?”
Mercedes stares at Kurt and suddenly, he thinks that maybe he overstepped his boundaries. For a moment, he thinks that maybe he just completely fucked himself over and got himself fired for critiquing a stupid outfit. But then Mercedes smiles and snags his arm, tugging him toward the racks. “Ooh, have I got a good feeling about this,” she says, already starting to dig through the selections.
“About what?”
Kurt and Mercedes jump at the voice and whirl around to see Rachel. She’s already holding her feather-covered dress, her eyes wide and curious as she stares at the pair. Kurt has a sudden urge to hide all the sharp objects in the room when Rachel’s eyes just get wider as she waits for an answer. It’s Mercedes who finally pipes up.
“Kurt here is gonna help me pick out some better costumes for tonight. Those feathers ain’t quite cutting it. So you should do makeup first while we pull something nice together,” she explains, her voice trailing off halfway through when Rachel’s lips start to purse so tightly they turn white.
“Do makeup first. Do makeup first? Mercedes, are you insane? My weekly ritual is clearly costume, then hair, then makeup. You want me to change my order just so you and the new kid can play dress-up before my performance?” Rachel breathes out in one long, high-pitched huff of air, her tiny fist clenched around the feathery dress. A hot pink feather flutters to the ground, dislodged from her shaking grip. Mercedes stays quiet this time, but Kurt’s had enough of Rachel’s holier-than-thou attitude already.
“Alright, Princess, first things first, I do have a name. It’s Kurt. Feel free to use it whenever you find it necessary to refer to me; it’s less demeaning and offensive than “New Kid.” Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve also been hired to sing and dance up there with you and I will not flutter around behind you like a multi-colored harmonizing Big Bird, so you can take your Mariah attitude and shove it in the trash with your smelly bubble tea and you will wait while we find something to make you look like you exist in the twenty-first century. Are we clear, Streisand?” Kurt keeps one arm wrapped tightly across his chest while his other arm flails about, one finger pointed at Rachel as he goes through the tirade.
Rachel’s mouth is agape, her cheeks flushed as if Kurt had just wound up and backhanded her a few times, while Mercedes has her clipboard covering half of her face, snickering quietly behind it. Rachel sucks in a heavy breath and flings the dress to the ground.
“Okay, Kurt. You have a lot of nerve, coming in here and waving your pretentious little finger at me like some entitled little Broadway star when you haven’t even sang once on this stage. You don’t have my talent, my drive, or my looks – you can try, but you’re not going to get anywhere while you keep trying out for Project Runway with an assistant instead of actually preparing yourself to become someone important. Enjoy your costumes and your future job at McDonalds!” Rachel spins on her heel and storms out of the dressing room, brushing past Finn, who stopped in the hallway about halfway through her tirade, his eyes wide and unblinking.
Kurt rushes forward and picks up the dress, then follows Rachel out into the hall.
“I hope you enjoy your dress, then – it looks like a kindergarten art class vomited all over it! Oh, and for the love of God, go to the bank and cash your goddamned reality check already, you delusional little-“ Kurt promptly cuts himself off when Blaine’s head pokes out of his office, with what Kurt thinks is a hint of an amused smirk on his lips. Kurt flushes immediately.
“Don’t mind me!” he calls out and sharply turns himself back into the dressing room, where Finn and Mercedes are still speechless, their eyes focused on Kurt.
“Dude,” Finn breathes, ever the articulate one.
“Maybe you should go make sure she’s still gonna actually perform, hm?” Kurt offers and holds out the dress to Finn. Finn nods once, but doesn’t move. Kurt stares at him and shakes the dress.
“Right,” Finn says. “I’ll… do that.” He rubs his palms on his jeans a few times before he grabs the dress, then heads out to look after Rachel.
“Well, how about those costumes!” Kurt mutters and starts rifling through the racks again.
--
Unsurprisingly, Rachel still does perform. Kurt’s grateful that she does, considering she is carrying the show. Kurt serves as a backup singer and dancer for the majority of the performance, while they sing a couple of songs as a duet. Rachel steadfastly avoids even looking at Kurt, which he figures is pretty understandable. He did tear the poor girl down. Despite their hiccup, everything goes fairly well for Kurt’s first time on the stage – some girls even throw some cash on the stage and scream for him to ”take it off!!!!”, to which he blushes furiously at because hello, not that kind of show.
After the show, Kurt makes a beeline for the bar and settles onto a stool, beckoning Quinn. She hurries over to him, giggling madly.
“Look at you, hot shot! You’re a performer now!” she practically climbs up on the bar to lean over and wrap him in a hug, and Kurt’s pretty sure he catches a whiff of alcohol on her breath. He figures it’s been one of those nights, where either customers or Puck have really grated on her nerves to the point that she caves and throws back a few shots.
“Something like that,” he murmurs and shoos her back to her side of the counter. Quinn gladly shimmies off the counter and reaches for a bottle of tequila. She pours a double shot and slides it across the table at Kurt.
“Don’t you dare be modest with me, Kurt Hummel. You take your shot like a man and tonight you celebrate like a man. You’ve earned it, okay?” she snaps, sounding a terrifying amount like a scolding mother. He’s not sure how that comparison works out when she’s forcing alcohol on him, but Kurt accepts the shot with a quick nod and downs it.
“Yo, what up, Portia?” Puck shouts from the other side of the bar, gripping three empty beer bottles in one hand as he heads over to join Quinn and Kurt. “Dude, I heard you ripped our tiny Jewish overlord a new asshole earlier. Mad props, man. Mad props.”
“You can’t insult someone by calling them Jewish if you are Jewish, Puck,” Quinn mutters.
Puck flings a hand up in defense. “Jews can call each other whatever they want. Legit. Jew code.”
“Wow, sounds pretty ‘legit,’” Kurt says, waving air quotes as he speaks. “Is there a book on that, Shylock?”
“Yeah, ever heard of the Torah?” Puck snaps, looking vaguely offended. Kurt purses his lips, confused.
“Well, that doesn’t sound kosher at all,” he replies. Puck musters up what has to be the most pitiful glare Kurt’s ever seen. Quinn rolls her eyes at the both of them and crosses herself once before heading off to help customers.
It’s then that Blaine seats himself next to Kurt and Puck breathes out a huff. “Heaven help us all,” he mutters, moving to fix Blaine’s usual drink.
“What’s that?” Blaine asks, giving Puck a curious look. Puck doesn’t reply, instead focused on pouring Blaine’s drink and scooting it across the counter.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce myself out of this conversation,” he finally replies, his eyes darting between Kurt and Blaine before he quickly rejoins Quinn at the other side of the bar. Blaine shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything, instead taking a sip of his drink. Kurt has the urge to get up and leave, but he refuses to be rude to his boss, even if he’s afraid of where a conversation might lead. Instead, he folds his hands awkwardly in front of him and repeats a mantra of you have my word, you have my word, you have my word in his mind as he watches Quinn mix drinks.
“Not drinking?” Blaine asks finally, nodding his head toward Kurt’s empty hands.
Kurt shakes his head. “I mean, I had a shot that Quinn kinda forced on me but I have plans early tomorrow, so I don’t want to be hung over or anything,” he rambles, flailing his hands a bit as he explains. Blaine laughs and reaches out, wrapping a hand around Kurt’s in an attempt to still him. Kurt stares at him for a moment before his gaze flickers further down the bar, where Quinn is watching, warning in her eyes.
“A shot and one drink won’t leave you hung over,” Blaine assures him, with no sign that he’s planning on letting go of Kurt’s hand. Finally, Kurt tugs his hand free and folds his arms around himself. He tries not to notice the flicker of disappointment on Blaine’s face.
“No thanks, really. I’m fine with the shot,” Kurt insists, his eyes moving to follow Quinn again, using her as a reminder that he can’t enjoy the warmth left on his hand from Blaine.
“Well, is there any way I can congratulate you on a job well done tonight?” Blaine asks. Kurt stares at him, certain that he’s not imagining his boss pouting in front of him right now.
“I think ‘Congratulations, Kurt’ is quite sufficient,” he replies flatly.
Blaine releases a quiet sigh and tips back the rest of his drink. He tilts his head at Kurt, studying him curiously for a moment before he rises and straightens out his blazer. Then, he leans in close, only a couple of inches from Kurt’s ear. “Congratulations, Kurt,” he replies quietly and gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Have a good evening.”
With that, Blaine turns and heads back toward his office. Kurt watches him and sinks a little lower on his stool, unable to shake that nagging feeling of guilt.
--
From there, things seem to get much better. Kurt’s gradually settling into a routine: juggling classes, work, and practicing for his performances. It also helps that he’s quickly becoming closer with Quinn and Mercedes, spending quite a bit of his free time with one or both of them.
He learns that both of them are in New York for school, just like Kurt. Quinn’s attending med school, while Mercedes is studying international affairs. Their lives almost make Kurt want to laugh, considering how much the entire thing sounds like a clichéd movie script, but he doesn’t really have room to judge. After all, they’re here studying for prestigious, needed careers. Kurt just wants to be a star. No one needs a star – talent was expendable these days. Both Kurt and Rachel are very expendable and Kurt constantly reminds himself of that fact, remembering the way Blaine fired April without even blinking an eyelash. It was nothing to him that he might have crushed April’s dreams, just like he could easily do the same to Kurt.
Oddly enough, there doesn’t seem to be any signs that Blaine intends to fire Kurt any time soon. In fact, there aren’t any signs that Blaine intends to do anything with Kurt. He’s surprisingly distant, a vast difference from how quickly he came on to Kurt when he first started working at the club. Blaine is still cordial, always saying hello and asking about his day and his schooling. It’s formal and restrained, as if Blaine was forcing himself to not bother Kurt. Which bothers Kurt in and of itself.
He tries once or twice to ask Quinn about it, but she always kind of blows off his questions about Blaine. She always gives excuses for him, saying things like, oh, he probably thinks he’ll get your attention by playing hard to get, or oh, don’t worry about him, he’s not worried about you, or oh, he’s probably too busy to bother anymore.
None of the answers ever placate Kurt, not when this sudden change in Blaine’s demeanor seems to be directly related to him. But, he gave Quinn his word. He isn’t going to worry about Blaine – besides, he’s fitting in well with his coworkers for the most part, and he’s starting to make connections with some of the club’s frequent patrons.
From now on, things are strictly going to be about Kurt.
--
That is, until things are very much about Blaine. Again.
It’s five days before Christmas and the club is bedazzled with decorations and lights and mistletoe – thanks to Kurt and Mercedes, of course.
Once the decorations are up, Kurt heads over to the bar to help Quinn and Puck get ready for the evening.
“I didn’t think you were such a huge advocate of Christmas, Kurt,” Quinn says, working on drying off a row of shot glasses.
“I’m not,” he replies, picking up a washcloth and helping her out. “But, I do know that tourists come to New York City to experience the holiday spirit more than anything… what kind of disservice would we be doing if the club wasn’t feeling a little holly jolly for a few days?”
“It’d be a disservice to all the Jews hanging out, trying to get their drink on without Santa Claus breathing down their necks,” Puck mutters, filling a shot glass for himself.
“I knew you’d get offended,” Kurt sighs and reaches under the bar, pulling out a shopping bag. “Here, before you throw a temper tantrum.” He thrusts the bag at Puck, who stares at it for a moment before he downs his shot, then snatches the bag from Kurt’s hand. He quickly opens it up, a wide grin spreading across his lips.
“Dude, you didn’t,” he says, pulling out a menorah with as much flourish as he can muster. “It’s going right here. Right. Here.” Puck places it right in the middle of the counter and puts his hands on his hips. “Boss can suck it if he’s got a problem with me spreading around a little bit of the Jewish wealth.”
Kurt rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Just don’t get the Jewish wealth on me, please.”
“Excuse me?” Puck says, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll get the Jewish wealth on whoever I want.” With that, Puck practically dives at Kurt and wraps him up in a bear hug. Kurt yelps in shock and flails about; Puck simply takes that as a cue to lift Kurt into the air and twirl him around a few times.
“I swear to every God ever, I will smother you with tinsel if you don’t set me down right now, Puckerman!” Kurt shouts, horrified.
Finally, Puck drops him and dusts his shoulders off before giving one shoulder a pat. “Thanks for the gift, bro.”
Kurt manages a queasy smile and Quinn just giggles uncontrollably as she wraps a strand of tinsel around the base of the menorah.
“Traitor,” Kurt hisses.
--
It doesn’t take long for the club to become packed, filled shoulder to shoulder with drunk patrons from all around the world, dancing as best they can on the snow-slick floor. Kurt notes that the mistletoe is quite the success – one guy’s been standing below one sprig the entire night and Kurt thinks he’s counted him getting twelve kisses from twelve different girls. It makes Kurt’s heart pang a little that he doesn’t have anyone to kiss under the mistletoe and probably won’t get anyone anytime soon.
It takes Kurt a few seconds to realize that someone’s calling his name, trying to get his attention. He quickly jerks his head around, his eyes settling on Blaine.
“You okay, Kurt?” he asks, looking at him warily. Blaine’s leaning against the counter, looking a little flushed, his vest unbuttoned. The image causes Kurt to hesitate another moment, shocked at seeing Blaine oh-so-slightly out of place, and his mind instantly flashes to reasons why he could possibly be so ruffled.
“Kurt?”
“I’m fine,” he snaps quickly, shaking his head. “Usual?”
“Yeah… and a Jack and Coke too, please,” Blaine replies, looking somewhat skeptical. Kurt pauses, taking a moment to meet Blaine’s eyes.
“Expanding your horizons for once?” he asks. Blaine shakes his head.
“No, an old friend of mine is visiting for Christmas. He’s never seen the club before, so… might as well have a bit of fun, I suppose,” Blaine waves a hand and Kurt swallows, giving a small nod.
“Oh,” he says simply, turning back to making Blaine his drinks without another word.
He can still feel Blaine’s eyes watching him, reminding him very suddenly of the fact that Blaine hasn’t spoken to him this much since his first couple of nights at the club. And go figure, it’s about some stupid guy he’s getting drinks for. Lovely.
“You sure you’re okay?” Blaine asks again, his voice a little softer. Kurt slides both drinks across the counter, avoiding Blaine’s gaze.
“Yep. Cheers. Enjoy your evening,” he says curtly and promptly heads down the bar to serve other patrons. He can still feel Blaine’s eyes on him, but only for a few more moments. When he finally looks back, Blaine’s gone.
--
Things start to slow down for the evening, enough for Kurt to take a quick break, away from the thumping music and the trashed patrons. He quickly makes his way across the club and ducks down the hallway toward the dressing room, deciding to relax in silence and read a magazine for a few minutes.
What he doesn’t plan on doing is stumbling across Blaine, shoved against a wall by a tall redhead, with their hands down each other’s pants.
Kurt stops in his tracks and finds his cheeks are already flushed, both from embarrassment of having walked in on this mess and from… jealousy? He quickly dismisses the second emotion and finally musters the guts to clear his throat.
Blaine and the redhead jump apart like they’ve been struck by lightning, both of them panting and staring at Kurt.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, as if he’s about to explain away what was happening. Like Kurt cares.
“Maybe you should take your… whatever somewhere more private,” is all Kurt says, quickly brushing past the pair of them to head into the dressing room. He doesn’t bother turning back to see if they take his advice or not. Besides, he doesn’t want Blaine to see the fact that he’s literally seething with a mess of emotions: anger, jealousy, betrayal – all for no fucking reason. He has no claim on Blaine, just as Blaine has no claim on Kurt. There’s nothing between them – there’s no reason for any of these feelings, yet Kurt’s reeling, his hands trembling as he paces back and forth between the racks of costumes.
It’s not until he hears a quiet cough that Kurt realizes he’s not alone in the dressing room. He looks up and sees the last person he wants to see ever.
“What are you doing here, Rachel?” he asks flatly, folding his arms across his chest. She’s sitting in her chair, a fingertip rubbing absently at the chair arm.
“I like to come here when I’m stressed or upset. It calms me to look in the mirror and see myself here, as if I’m about to go on stage,” she explains. Kurt’s pretty sure it’s the least hostile thing she’s ever said to him.
“O… kay…,” Kurt mutters, still not quite getting the point.
Rachel looks at him in the mirror, a small smile pulling at her lips. “We don’t just perform on stage, Kurt. We perform in life, too. Before I go on stage, I look in this mirror and tell myself that I’m going to give this performance my all, I’m going to throw myself into it completely. And then I do it. Because I can’t let myself down, right? So, it only makes sense to come here when I’m not doing well with any other aspect of my life. If I’m not performing well outside of the stage, what’s the point of performing? Then I’m just going through the motions, living for the moments I really get to feel alive, when I could be feeling alive all the time. When I come here, I know I won’t let myself down.”
Kurt stares at Rachel, rendered a little speechless by her confession. Rachel barely gives him the time of day when they’re not on stage, so he doesn’t quite understand why she’s waxing poetic about life to him all of a sudden. “So… why are you telling me all of this?”
“Well, you’ve been pacing and talking to yourself about Boss for about five minutes straight, looking like you wanted to throw yourself under a bus,” she says quietly, turning around in her chair this time. Kurt gapes at her and blushes. “It just sounded like something you needed to hear.”
“I… was talking about Blaine,” he states, still blushing furiously. Rachel nods once.
“I know I’m not your biggest fan, but no one deserves to be that upset. I don’t know what he did, but don’t let it just… ruin you. Don’t dwell on it. It’s not worth it… and he’s probably not worth it either,” Rachel adds as she hops out of her chair. “And believe me, he’s definitely not worth it.” Kurt thinks he imagines the flash of anger on her face before she takes a few cautious steps toward Kurt, her face quickly rearranging into a soft smile. It’d be kind of terrifying if it didn’t look so damn sweet.
Then, she reaches up and gently pats his shoulder, just once. “Have a merry Christmas, Kurt.”
“I… thanks,” Kurt says, awestruck as he watches Rachel leave.
He sits in the chair for a few moments, thoughtfully staring into the mirror, trying to see what Rachel sees. To Kurt, it still looks like a jealous little child, confused about his feelings, and that alone makes him want to fling something at the mirror and shatter it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gets up and leaves, deciding he’s finished with work for the evening.
There’s no sign of Blaine or the redhead in the hallway.
