He stirs the vodka and soda, carefully. Someone watching closely might notice the subtle swirl of the mixing of alcohol and water, but no one is watching that closely.

Whitney Houston is dancing with Dolly Parton, and Mariah Carey has his skirts hiked up so the men around him can stuff dollar bills into the shorts showing his very obvious package.

He takes a sip, keeping himself from gulping down the drink. The carbonation burns his nose and his throat.

The air is already heavy with smoke. A man down the bar extinguishes a cigarette in an ashtray and reaches for another. He squeals, that's the only way the sound the man is making can be described, and goes back to arguing with his friend about interior design. It doesn't matter that smoking in bars is illegal here, everyone does it anyway. Its not so bad. They smoked in French bars, too.

He sees Blaine and Kurt walking in. He orders another round, handing the bartender his fake when he orders the second round. Its funny how he never gets carded when he orders anything at full strength, but telling a notoriously heavy handed bartender to go easy gets people suspicious. Like he's young and he can't hold his liquor. Yes, he's young, but he knows his limits. He's in control.

He knows he looks douche on the dance floor. Years of show choir training take control. Years of flirting, of question, of aching.

He knows what he wants. It's harmless, really. Just a little fun.

Kurt breaks up the party.

He goes home alone.

He strips off the double layer of shirts with the popped collars.

He itches where sweat from dancing has mixed with adhesive.

He checks to see… he has another day.

He showers.

He climbs into bed.

He is in control.