Kurt’s POV

Kurt leaned back against that familiar brick wall of that familiar alleyway, the familiar burn of cigarette smoke settled deep in his lungs. It was the dead of winter, and the air around him was foggy and cold. He was really not dressed for this weather, since covering his body proved to be detrimental to his sales, and he really didn't want to go a whole day without eating again.

He wore a pair of sinfully tight gold pants and a black v-neck, preferring to keep his chest exposed while working. Since high school, Kurt's body had really developed, and his muscles were more toned and visible now, something Kurt took had taken great pride in. Through his experience, Kurt had learned how to play up his best assets, v-necks quickly becoming a staple piece in his wardrobe. If the amount of times he was picked up today was any indication, the customers liked them, too.

He butted out his cigarette on the wall as he did each night, adding yet another ash circle to his collection. He laughed bitterly for a moment, Burt's voice in his head telling him to always make sure he had a fallback plan. Well, at least if prostitution didn't work out, he certainly had a budding art career, he thought, and he had a feeling that Georges Seurat would really approve of his work. As he examined the wall for a minute, he felt a breeze brush against his cheeks, waking him from his thoughts. His face was pale, eyes red-rimmed from a mix of cold and exhaustion, and his body was rigid from the chill of the night.

The weather, however, was not the first thing on Kurt's mind. He had just come back from his last job and his body ached horribly as it always did after a particularly busy work day. Through the years, he had learned he was better able to cope with his situation if he made up stories in his mind for why he was so sore, like an especially strenuous dance rehearsal or a yoga class that he and his successful husband had signed up for- but on days like today, where he still felt complete strangers inside of him, Kurt couldn't hide from the fact that this was his life. That he was nothing but a cheap whore.

He stood up, a shower on his mind, as he walked toward an apartment building across the street. It wasn't his, but it was the closest thing to a home that he had.

"Hi, Chan."

Kurt met Chandler through his work shortly after Chandler had moved to the city. At the time, he was a closeted gay man adjusting to his new life and he wanted to experiment for the first time. He had been gentle with Kurt, even allowing him the release that so many others had denied him, and for that Kurt was thankful. Chandler started picking Kurt up at least once every week, and he slowly became someone Kurt could confide in. One day, when Chandler found out that Kurt was sleeping on the street, he offered Kurt a place to stay in exchange for sexual favors, and seeing as Kurt had no better option, he agreed.

"Hey, Kurt. Rough day?" Chandler asking, running his hand down Kurt's arm.

"Something like that. I was just gonna take a shower," he gesticulated toward the bathroom door.

Chandler pouted, "Okay, but I want your mouth after." He said, pressing a finger to Kurt's lips for emphasis.

Kurt just nodded, before making his way to the bathroom. He dropped his soiled clothes at the door and began to run a hot shower, relaxing to the sound of the water pouring from the faucet. He ran his hand under the stream of water, feeling it go numb for a brief moment before it warmed up. Yes, a shower was long overdue.

He stepped into the small shower space, wincing at the sting of the hot water seeping into his cuts. He worried his lip between his teeth, ignoring the pain as he scrubbed the grime from his hair and fluids from his body. A pool of grayish liquid formed at the bottom of the shower around his feet as he felt the memories of the day wash away down the drain.

He discovered four finger-shaped bruises along each of his hip bones, replacing the ones that had mostly healed from the last week of work, and long, red scratches filing down his chest and thighs. It had not been the worst of work days. The men that day were gentle for the most part, other than the greasy bastard whose fingernails had made a maze of his body, and he didn’t feel as dirty as usual. He felt just as used, but not as dirty. He had had more clients than usual, but they had paid well, which usually meant better hygiene and a preference for condoms.

He longed for the day when this would not be his life. He longed for the day where he would be held in a man’s arms instead of held down by them. He wanted to feel happy, feel loved, but he knew that day would never come. No one would ever love someone like him. He was nothing but a filthy, used, whore. It had been a long night.

** Blaine’s POV

Blaine made his way through Chelsea, Manhattan, attempting to wave down a taxi to take him home. He had spent the night out drinking, and at this point he was avoiding any and all open flames because he was certain that his breath could start a fire.

He climbed into the backseat of a cab whose driver was very familiar to him and groaned audibly.

"Nice to see you, too," the driver said, smirking as he glanced back at Blaine through the rearview mirror.

"Just t-take me’ome, Seb," he mumbled, leaning back against the window, his legs finding their way onto the middle console.

“Blaine! Don’t you look awful? How much have you had to drink?” Sebastian asked, eying the curly-haired man who was settling into the back of his cab.

“Dammit, Seb, I needa get’ome,” Blaine’s head was spinning, and if he didn’t get moving soon, he was afraid traces of the party would leave his stomach and find their way into the back of Sebastian’s taxi.

Sebastian grinned, clearly amused by the state of his passenger, but eventually started the car when Blaine slapped the back of his head.

“It seems you’ve made quite the life for yourself without me, huh?” Sebastian asked, that familiar cocky smirk still present on his face.

“Yeah, you too,” Blaine said sarcastically, giving Sebastian a once-over.

“I’m actually dating someone, Blaine. You, however, seem to have quite the love affair with alcohol. And I must say, you two make a really cute couple," he drawled.

Their relationship had not ended on good terms. Blaine had come home late one night from an off-Broadway musical rehearsal and found Sebastian having his way with a prostitute on their kitchen table. Needless to say their relationship ended quite soon after that discovery.

“Does this boyfr’nd of yours, h-happen to be a- be a whore?” Blaine asked, bitterness evident in the tone of his voice.

“Successful cellist, actually. He has an audition at Carnegie coming up. How's your career, though, Blaine? I'm dying to know if someone's made The Hobbit a musical yet, you'd be the perfect Bilbo Baggins." Sebastian said, pulling onto the street where Blaine lived.

“Mmm fuck off,” Blaine mumbled, rolling his eyes. Sure, since his breakup with Sebastian the number of bottles in his fridge went up and number of auditions on his schedule went down, but he was still very present in the theatre community.

Sebastian laughed to himself. If what he had witnessed was any indication of how Blaine’s career was doing, he would guess that Blaine was wrecked.

“We’re here, Blaine. Get out!” Sebastian said, making it a point to slam on his breaks.

Blaine felt his stomach lurch as his head flew forward, hitting the headrest of the seat in front of him and he groaned deeply, "Hate you," he mumbled, stumbling out of the taxi uneasily.

“Have a good night, Bilbo!” Sebastian called out the window as he drove away.

Blaine flipped him off before fumbling with his keys, finally managing to get the door to his apartment open. He dragged his feet along the ground, balancing himself on the wall, before having a seat on the couch. Almost as soon as his head hit the cushion, he was asleep.

It had been a long night.