He frowns at first, still not sure what Klaus is getting at. A way or two, okay, but what does that mean, specifically? Context clues are pointing him in an obvious direction—unfamiliar as he is with casual flirting, he's not stupid, but he's also not sure. He likes to be sure. It bothers him that he is not sure.

But then Klaus clears up any lingering uncertainty, and Harlan's eyebrows tick up in surprise.

"What? Why?" It comes out automatically, and yes, he realizes it's a stupid thing to say, but his mind is too hazy to worry about a filter. He shakes his head. Don't answer that.

His eyes drop to their hands, to Klaus' grin, and then back up again to the crowd around them. Everyone else in the club is too high or exhausted to pay them much mind; they may as well be alone, even if this version of alone is louder and more frenetic than he's used to. He glances over to the secluded corner where he'd been with Fenris earlier, where his blood still stains the floor if you know where to look. That was good, wasn't it? A net positive.

He takes a final hit of the joint, and then leans to stub it out on the table in front of them. He can feel the vague sting of the cuts from Fenris' gauntlets under his sleeves as he moves.

"I'm not freaked out," he says, and it's almost true. His pulse is already hammering in his ears, but he recognizes it this time. It's excitement, not fear. "Try me."

And in case that wasn't permission enough, his free hand drops back to his lap, his fingers gently playing with a lock of Klaus' hair.