**** November 1895 ****

Chapter 20

Kurt opened the window and inhaled deeply. The air smelled of fresh-baked bread, and it made the cool fall breeze seem warmer somehow. New York had never smelled so homey and pure; the air there was a stagnant cloud of coal dust and oppression. He rolled his sleeves up and relished the gooseflesh that rose on his skin as he set to work on a new gown.

His French was improving, and Jean-Philippe had finally let him work with a customer on a design. It seemed as if everything was finally falling into place for him at last, freeing him from his caged existence, and even though he wished he could share it with Blaine, he didn't regret leaving New York for a second.

Kurt smiled and smoothed out the silk before him. It was a pure white, practically iridescent in the morning light, and it felt like a fresh start. In Paris he was a mysterious American with none of the baggage that had plagued him at home, and now that he was working for the House of Worth, he was more in-demand than he had ever been in New York.

"That silk is gorgeous," Jean-Philippe said, looking over Kurt's shoulder. "Wedding gown?"

"Just a gown," Kurt said.

Jean Philippe tutted at him. "There is no such thing," he said. "All garments are art."

Kurt laughed, always amused by the designer's ability to make the simplest of afternoon dresses into a masterpiece. Jean-Philippe's father had made the name Worth synonymous with lavish fabrics and trimmings, while incorporating historic elements and perfect tailoring into every piece. Most of Worth's garments were one-of-a-kind, and they had designed for royalty and many of the wealthiest women in Europe.

After Charles Worth's death earlier that year, Jean-Philippe and his brother, Gaston, went looking for tailors and dressmakers to help them complete their creations on schedule, and Kurt had lucked into his position. Felix, of course, had put in a good word, but it was Kurt's attention to detail that had secured him the job.

When he had shown Jean-Philippe the sketches of Quinn's wedding gown, he had gushed for hours. Kurt had been working at the designer's side ever since.

"The silk is already art," Kurt explained, stroking a careful hand down the cool slip of fabric, relishing the feel of it under his fingers. "I will do what it tells me and make it a masterpiece."

Patting Kurt on the back, Jean-Philippe said, "You have learned from me already, Monsieur Hummel."

"How are the fittings with the models going?" Kurt asked. Jean-Philippe had been preparing for one of their shows that would secure them new orders for the spring.

"Sometimes I regret ever working with live models," he said. "It would be so much easier to fit a dress form that can't complain about the stays being too tight or tripping over the hem."

"Yes, but think of all the money you will make," Kurt said, knowing Jean-Philippe loved both the attention and the profit that came from their shows. "Women in New York have begun talking about your work. Soon your designs will span the globe."

"You flatter me," Jean-Philippe said with a grin. "And I love it."

Kurt laughed brightly, his face stretched into a broad smile that made his face ache for a moment. Smiling had come slowly, but Jean-Philippe made it easy to find joy in life, and after all, Kurt was doing what he loved.

"You flatter yourself, Monsieur Worth," Kurt said, knowing his accent still needed work. But he used French words as often as he could to practice.

"Do you know the actress Sarah Bernhardt?" Jean-Philippe asked.

Kurt's eyes went wide. "Not personally, but she's quite famous. She was in Wilde's Salomé, wasn't she?"

Jean-Philippe nodded with a knowing smile. "She has asked me to design something new for her. Would you like to do a few sketches as well?"

Kurt's heart leapt into his throat. "Of course," he said, crossing to his drawing table for a stick of charcoal. "Did she give you any direction?"

"Only that she didn't want pale pink — said it washes her out on stage. But she trusts me implicitly. So if I approve your designs, she will want them made. You know, she once sent me a petit bleu telling me her roles lose their magic when I do not design for her."

"She knows your work well, then," Kurt said, suddenly feeling the weight of the task pressing down upon him.

"She trusts me," Jean-Philippe reassured, "and I trust you."

Kurt smiled wanly as he watched Jean-Philippe leave, the ivory silk forgotten as he began sketching fervently.

Sometimes at night, when he was feeling particularly homesick, Kurt would take out his copy of Dorian Gray and let his thumb stroke the edge of Blaine's photograph while he read the letter. Each time, it felt more and more like a goodbye, and Kurt resigned himself to the fact that he'd only ever have those few scant words to remember Blaine by.

In some ways, Kurt was content with Blaine's choice. He knew that Blaine would make an excellent father and that Quinn would never treat him poorly, but it didn't replace the ache in his chest from the hole left behind when he'd first read Blaine's letter.

When he worked late, Kurt would find himself absentmindedly reciting the letter to himself, particularly the last line: We were destined to know each other, my love, and I will cherish that thought always.

It reassured him that he hadn't loved Blaine for nothing. He would carry that knowledge close to his heart until the day he died.

Kurt started letters to him on more than one occasion, burning the evidence in the fireplace of his small apartment, watching the flames lick the wounds of his words as it engulfed them, hiding his broken heart from sight.

He'd had several offers from men and boys in Paris. The love seemed freer than it had been in New York — a delightful change — but even so, he abstained. It wasn't because he was harboring notions that Blaine would suddenly come for him, but rather a way of reminding himself that he had goals and dreams to achieve. He would not let love divert his attention again, if it were even possible to love someone as he had loved Blaine — as he still loved Blaine.

That did not mean that he was never tempted, though.

Kurt was seated at a café, sipping rich French coffee and reading the most popular Parisian newspaper, Le Petit Journal, when a lanky man with a leering smile approached him.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," the man said.

"Bonjour," Kurt replied, his accent still not quite perfect.

"Oh, you are American," the man said, not a trace of accent in his voice.

Kurt raised his chin. "I am," he said. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," the man said, taking the chair next to him without being asked. "My name is Sebastian Smythe."

"Kurt Hummel."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hummel," he said with a nod. "So, what brings you to gay Paree?"

"I'm a dressmaker," he said. "I work at House of Worth."

Sebastian whistled. "Fancy," he said. "Just like you." His resulting wink irked Kurt to the point of exasperation.

Kurt sighed. "Mr. Smythe, I'm sure you are a very nice gentleman, and ordinarily I'd just ignore your presumption and brashness, but I'd really like to enjoy my newspaper and coffee before I have to get to work, if you don't mind."

"Actually, I do mind," he said before leaning in close and whispering in Kurt's ear, "I'm not the sort to take no for an answer."

In spite of himself, Kurt shivered and closed his eyes. It had been nearly two months since he'd been touched by a man, and he was only human. And a young man of 19 at that.

"Mr. Smythe, I'm really not interested."

"Not yet," Sebastian replied.

Kurt looked up to bite back with his own retort, but Sebastian was already standing up and walking away. Dumbfounded, Kurt returned his attention to his paper, though he found himself unable to focus on the words.

When he returned to the Worth shop, the place was a flurry of activity the likes of which Kurt had never seen.

"What's all the commotion?" Kurt asked one of the seamstresses.

She looked at him peculiarly until Kurt remembered she didn't speak English.

"Ah, Kurt, you're back," Jean-Philippe called out. "Do you have your sketches ready? Madame Bernhardt will be here at any moment.

Kurt's heart began to race. "Yes, of course," he said. "Will I be presenting them myself?"

"No, my boy," Jean-Philippe said with a laugh. "She must think they are my genius, and mine alone, but never fear, once she falls in love with your garments, I will let the cat out of the bag. You will see."

Kurt reached into his folio and pulled out the three sketches he had prepared. "Do I have time to add some color to this one?" he said, pointing at his favorite of the three. "I only had time to finish the embroidery, and–"

"No time," Jean-Philippe said, yanking the papers from Kurt's hand. "Now make yourself scarce. Don't you have a gown to finish for Mademoiselle Haubois?"

He was in the back room cutting satin for the gown's lining when he remembered his signature was on the bottom of all three of his sketches. Just as he was about to warn Jean-Philippe, he heard the shop's bell jingle, and a great commotion followed. Madame Bernhardt had arrived. He only hoped his name was scribbled quickly enough that it couldn't be read.

Unable to focus, Kurt leaned up against the counter and picked at his cuticles, listening to the clock over the mantle as it ticked each second louder than the last.

After twenty minutes, he began pacing. After thirty, he lit a cigarette. When an hour had passed, he started to organize the fabric swatches by color. At an hour-twenty, he organized them by fabric.

When Jean-Philippe finally poked his head around the curtain separating the workroom from the ornate door to the shop more than two hours later, Kurt had also untangled three bundles of embroidery thread and was sharpening a pair of scissors with a pin. At Jean-Philippe's beaming smile, he missed the pin and stabbed himself in the finger with the scissors.

"Damn!" He sucked on the tip of his index finger as he looked up at Jean-Philippe. "Well, don't leave me all on tenterhooks now that I'm injured. Did she like them?"

"Oh, she loved my designs," Jean-Philippe teased, his dark eyes dancing with mirth.

"Damn you French bastards," Kurt chided. "You're positively infuriating."

"Don't be cross, mon chou," he said, tweaking Kurt's nose. "She loved yours as well. In fact, she ordered all five dresses I showed her."

Kurt clapped his hands together, disregarding the sting of the cut on his finger, and began to bounce excitedly on his feet. Unable to hold back his elation, he threw his arms about Jean-Philippe and spun them around the stool he had been sitting on.

"Oh my goodness," Kurt said, stopping short. "I need to get to work. I have so much to do."

Jean-Philippe's chuckle echoed through the room as Kurt hurried to finish cutting the satin he had abandoned two hours before. Kurt worked well into the night, and every night for the next three weeks, until he was certain he was well ahead of schedule on all his projects and could begin on the actress' dress.

As it turned out, Madame Bernhardt liked Kurt's favorite sketch as it was: without the extra color he had wanted to add. Instead of the red taffeta he had planned, Kurt made the dress from a pale cream satin, with elegant black beading and an understated red velvet trim.

After more than a week working on the gown, he finished by stitching in the tag that read, "Worth, 7 Rue de la Paix, Paris" and smiled. It was his first finished piece that would be worn by a woman with a recognizable name, and he could hardly contain his joy. A stray tear rolled down his cheek and threatened to stain the fabric, but he caught it just as it reached his chin, wiping the back of his hand across his face.

He stood up and stretched, his back popping and cracking like a damp fire as he yawned. His eyes were dry and aching, his hands stiff and red, but it was a good ache.

"Mother, I wish you were here to see this," he whispered to the empty room. And then he turned out the light.

"If I wasn't a gentleman, I would tear her limb from limb!" Jean-Philippe shouted. "Of all the insensitive, childish, manipulative—!" He paced through the salon, shouting obscenities and kicking at mannequins and dress forms without regard for the toppling displays. He upset a table laden with finger sandwiches and tea that splattered all over a blue organdy day dress whose owner was to pick it up that very afternoon. The seamstress who had just finished pressing it began to cry as the specks of tea soaked into the thin fabric, ruining the garment and destroying her hard work.

Kurt tried to appease him, offering to help fix whatever was wrong, if only Jean-Philippe would tell him what that was.

"What a horrifying wretch of a woman!" Jean-Philippe spat. "I can't believe I ever designed a thing for her, let alone my best work."

"Who?" Kurt begged for the third time since Jean-Philippe had begun ranting.

Jean Philippe laughed bitterly. " 'Who?' you ask me. 'Who?'" He flung his arms about like a madman as he continued to laugh. Kurt was growing worried for the man's state of mind.

"That does seem to be the question Monsieur Hummel asked," one of the girls in the shop offered.

Jean-Philippe turned to her, his face a brilliant shade of red. "Who asked you?" He pointed at the door. "Get out of my shop!"

The girl scowled at him, but didn't utter a word. Kurt tried to give her a comforting smile, knowing Jean-Philippe would not fire her once he calmed down, but he still felt badly for the poor thing.

The rest of the girls scurried off to the back room to get out of the fray. Jean-Philippe collapsed into one of the plush chairs near the floor-length mirror at the rear of the shop. Kurt walked silently toward him and crossed his arms, waiting for Jean-Philippe to speak. He would not make the same mistake as the seamstress.

"That infernal woman took our designs to Callot Soeurs and had her dresses made," he said softly, his voice now a soft contrast to his earlier rantings.

"Who?" Kurt asked again.

"Madame Bernhardt," Jean-Philippe said with a sigh. "She gave them the sketches for three of the dresses she had ordered from us and they offered the gowns to her for less money."

Kurt swallowed heavily as his hands began to shake. "Which dresses?"

Jean-Philippe looked up at him with apologetic eyes. "Yours and two of mine."

Collapsing into the chair next to Jean-Philippe, Kurt could already feel the sting of tears that threatened to spill. He blinked rapidly trying to hide his distress from his employer.

Jean-Philippe placed a hand on Kurt's knee. "I'm so sorry, Kurt."

Kurt sniffed once and rose to his feet, tugging his waistcoat down to straighten it. "That's quite alright," he said. "I still have the dress. We can sell it to someone else."

Averting his gaze from Kurt, Jean-Philippe pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well..." he began.

Kurt felt his blood run cold. "What happened to my dress?" he hissed.

"It might have gotten a bit torn when I was having my fit earlier," he said, opening one eye to peer up at Kurt.

"You what?" Kurt seethed.

"I was upset," Jean-Philippe reasoned. "It was an accident."

Kurt let out a frustrated breath and dropped his hands to his sides. "Well, isn't that just the icing on the blasted cake!"

"I truly am sorry," Jean-Philippe added.

Clenching his fist, Kurt could feel his anger bubbling up. "If you'll excuse me," he spat and turned heel. He didn't stop walking until he reached his usual café, deciding a bottle of wine sounded far better than stomping through the streets of Paris pouting like a petulant child.

Kurt was on his last glass when a long shadow crossed over him.

"Hello, Kurt."

Glancing up, Kurt was met with a broad smile and flirtatious eyes. "Hello, Sebastian," he said with a groan.

"Now, is that anyway to greet an old friend?"

"We are not friends," Kurt said, taking a sip of his wine and feeling his head buzz with the familiar fog of drunkenness.

"Future lover, then," Sebastian whispered, placing a hand on Kurt's arm.

Kurt snorted. "Doubtful."

Taking the seat opposite him, Sebastian clasped a hand to his heart. "You wound me," he said.

The gesture seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. He took another sip of his wine. "I don't remember asking you to sit down," he said to Sebastian.

"I don't remember asking your permission."

Kurt opened his mouth in protest, but Sebastian was already flagging down the waiter and lighting a cigarette, as if this had all been a planned engagement. He ordered another bottle of wine in perfect French.

"You are an absolute cad," Kurt said, swirling the dregs of his wine.

"Thank you," Sebastian said, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Kurt's head shot up. "That wasn't a compliment."

Sebastian merely shrugged. "Let me ask you something," he said.

Kurt finished his wine. "I have a feeling you will ask it whether I allow it or not."

Sebastian watched a carriage roll by in the street, the smoke from his cigarette curling away in the slight breeze. "Why do I always see you alone, Mr. Hummel? A handsome young gentleman such as yourself should have a captivating lover to keep him company."

Looking for his words, Kurt bit his lip, trying to stop himself from bursting into tears or blurting out his entire life story. "Perhaps I like being alone," he stated.

Sebastian laughed. "That's rich," he said. "No one likes being alone."

"Some do," Kurt said, bristling at Sebastian's judgment.

"Not by choice." Sebastian looked like he might continue, but the waiter arrived with the bottle of wine he had ordered. When he had left, Sebastian leaned back in his chair and sipped the deep ruby liquid from his glass.

"So what's your story?" he asked after a moment. "Lover abandoned you? His family found out?" He paused and leaned forward in his chair and whispered, "He was murdered?"

Caught off guard by the accuracy of some of Sebastian's guesses, Kurt sputtered as he tried to respond. His flustered stammering must have struck Sebastian as funny because he began to chuckle, the sound muffled as he pulled the glass of wine to his lips and took another sip. "So I'm correct," he said when he had swallowed. "Which is it?"

"You're dead wrong," Kurt said, lifting his chin in his most defensive expression. "You know nothing about me. So please stop pretending that you do."

"Mr. Hummel, pardon my brashness, but I wouldn't have to pretend if you'd just have a conversation with me." His smile held nothing of the smirk he was usually sporting, and something in his hazel eyes made Kurt thaw a little.

"I've just had a really terrible day," Kurt said with a sigh. "I'm sorry if I was rude."

"Not at all," Sebastian said. "I appreciate the challenge."

Kurt snorted. "You really do think highly of yourself, don't you, Mr. Smythe?"

"I like to think I have an accurate assessment of myself," he said with a smile. The corner of his mouth turned up with the hint of a smirk, but this time Kurt found it amusing rather than annoying.

"Do you not have an employer who will miss you?" Kurt asked when he could think of nothing else to say.

"Don't you?" Sebastian replied.

"I took the afternoon off."

Sebastian nodded. "I work at this café," he said, stubbing out his cigarette and finishing his glass of wine. He stood up and pulled a scrap of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to Kurt.

"If you'd like to stop being lonely, that's where you can find me," he said, pointing to the paper in Kurt's hand. "I'd be happy to show you what the real Parisian lifestyle is like."

"Bohemian?" Kurt asked.

"Bohemian, Greek... you name it," Sebastian said, gesturing widely. "I think you will find this city has a lot to offer. If you know where to look." He tipped his hat to Kurt and bowed, and then he was gone.

Kurt stared after him in disbelief for a few moments before remembering the slip of paper in his hand. As he opened it, he took a sip of the wine Sebastian had left behind, choking on it when he saw the scrawling words on the page.

He couldn't believe his eyes. It was nearly identical to the note Quinn had found in Blaine's possession on their honeymoon: the address, the handwriting, the name. Sebastian.

Kurt felt so stupid for not putting it together before then. Of course, what were the odds that both he and Blaine would be propositioned by the same man so many months apart? He laughed to himself, stopping short when he remembered he couldn't share the story with the one person who would find it as amusing as he did.

Shivering in the cooler evening air, Kurt pulled his coat up tight around his throat and fingered the edge of the note, as if it were a thread connecting him to the life he'd left behind. He sniffed back a few traitorous tears, the weight of the day's events finally settling in on him as he stared at Sebastian's messy script. As it blurred and nearly disappeared, Kurt wiped his eyes with the back of his hand to clear them. He felt lost and alone and utterly hopeless.

"Blaine, where are you?" he whispered into the starlit night. "I need you."

That night, Kurt burned Sebastian's note in the same fireplace in his small apartment where he had let his aborted letters to Blaine meet their end. He resolved to throw himself back into his work and find a way to make a name for himself on the Parisian fashion scene.

Jean-Philippe offered to help him repair the dress he had destroyed, and things mostly returned to normal, though both he and Kurt had developed a newly manic air about them regarding their work. Nothing was ever good enough, and the seamstresses who worked in the shop stayed well clear of them both when they were creating.

A rush of orders had come in for the holiday season, a flurry of balls and celebrations creating demand for high-end, one-of-a-kind fashions that would rival anything Kurt had ever seen in New York.

He and Jean-Philippe were working late one night to finish a gown for a wealthy client — a stunning ivory dress with an intricate scrolling pattern of black velvet that had been custom made to fit the garment.

"I can't imagine the ball this must be for," Kurt said as he worked on the bodice. "It would surely be a grand affair."

"Indeed," Jean-Philippe said. "Myself, I'd be glad to have a quiet evening at home after all this work we've been doing."

"It is quite pleasant," Kurt said.

"Being alone?"

Kurt nodded. "I read a lot, and I sketch, paint... sing."

Jean-Philippe pulled a pin from between his teeth and secured the seam he was working on. "You should get out more," he said. "Perhaps meet a young lady?" He raised an eyebrow at Kurt.

Kurt snorted and tried not to laugh too loudly. "Decidedly not," he said. "I'm happy being a bachelor."

Jean-Philippe was quiet for a moment, the only sound in the room the gentle slide of their hands on the fabric as they worked. "What about a young man?" he asked suddenly.

Kurt stabbed himself in the finger with the needle he held. "Blast!"

"I didn't mean to offend you," Jean-Philippe said. "There are a lot of chestnut gatherers in Paris. It does not bother me."

"Chestnut gatherers?" Kurt asked with a raised eyebrow.

"In England we used 'lavender aunts'," Jean-Philippe said. He leaned in to Kurt and whispered conspiratorially, "It means you prefer the company of men to that of the fairer sex."

Kurt felt his skin flush hotly with embarrassment. "Am I that obvious?" he choked out.

Jean-Philippe's burst of laughter made Kurt jump. "No, it is not obvious — just a lucky guess."

"And you're not... disgusted?" Kurt asked. Even though his father had turned a blind eye and Felix had accepted it outright, Kurt still expected most people to react negatively.

Biting his lip, Jean-Philippe looked down at his hands where they rested on the ivory satin. "Well, I can't say it's for me," he said, "but I knew boys who engaged in such activities in school. It is not unheard of."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Kurt returned to his sewing. "I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that," he said. "I'd hate to have to start my own fashion house and run you out of town."

Jean-Philippe laughed again, helping to ease Kurt's heartbeat back to a normal pace. "Kurt, do you have a place to go for Christmas Dinner?" he asked.

"Just my apartment," Kurt replied.

"Well, that won't do," Jean-Philippe said, smiling at him. "You'll be our guest at the familial House of Worth."

"Oh, I couldn't impose," Kurt said, unable to make eye contact.

"Nonsense," Jean-Philippe said. "I insist."

"That's very kind of you, Monsieur Worth."

Jean-Philippe put down his sewing and clapped his hands twice in a staccato rhythm. "Why don't we call it a night? This will all be here in the morning, and I'm beyond exhausted."

"My bed sounds like Heaven right now," Kurt said, stretching his back and neck for good measure.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Jean-Philippe said, pulling a small envelope from his chest pocket, "this arrived for you earlier." He handed it to Kurt and began to switch off electric lights and blow out gas lamps.

Kurt opened the envelope to find a telegram. "It's from my father," he called out.

"Good news, I hope," Jean-Philippe replied as he stepped up behind him and glanced over his shoulder.

Kurt stared at the slip of paper in his now trembling hands, rereading it frantically for answers.

"What is it?" Jean-Philippe inquired.

Somehow Kurt managed to choke out two words: "Blaine's dead."

The telegram fell to the floor without a sound.

Late November was cold and dreary, perfectly mirroring Kurt's dimmed heart. The telegram from his father had been brief, but the subsequent letter from Rachel had revealed more.

Blaine had been sailing to Europe when he disappeared from the boat he was on. His body was never recovered, and Quinn was ordered to bed rest by her doctor to protect the baby. Rachel, of course, couldn't know how devastated Kurt was by the news, instead filling her letter with details of Quinn's despair, her own shock, and the ostentatious funeral the Andersons held for their youngest son. There was nothing to tell him why Blaine was sailing across the Atlantic, but he could only guess, and that made it hurt all the more.

The thought that Blaine had been chasing after him haunted him day and night. He felt guilty, and moreover, regretted never sending one of those letters he had burned. Maybe if he had, Blaine would have known how he felt before he had died. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much, or feel so empty, like a great chasm had split Kurt's heart in two, severing the essence of his soul from his body.

One afternoon in early December, he sat on the steps in front of his apartment, letting the icy needles of rain pelt his body. He'd taken to sitting alone with his thoughts of late, but he relished the opportunity to sit in the rain until his tears had been washed away. It felt better to be cold and in pain than to endure the nothingness of grief. Kurt tilted his head up and let his tears be cleansed from his face, the hot sting of mourning mixed with the cruel persistence of nature.

Closing his eyes, Kurt listened to the steady patter of the rain as it met the ground. The quiet rhythm lulled him into the stoic mask that had now replaced all other expressions — the mask he wore so he could make it through each day and continue the life he no longer wanted to live.

He'd tried dulling the pain by distracting himself from it, first through drinking and when that didn't work, through finding sensory pleasure with young men who couldn't remind him less of Blaine. None of it made a difference.

Jean-Philippe had understood Kurt did not wish to talk about Blaine's death, but he still handled Kurt with kid gloves, giving him extra time off and accepting designs they both knew were not up to the House of Worth standard.

And then he'd run into Sebastian.

There was barely an exchange between them. It took only a smile from Sebastian, and Kurt felt arousal stirring deep in his belly, a hot pinpoint radiating outward and spreading over him like molten lead. Kurt couldn't explain it, but it felt like a link to Blaine somehow. The fact that Blaine had met Sebastian and that now Kurt was able to touch him solidified his grief in a way that made it bearable. It tethered him to the earth and kept him from spinning out of control, or more likely, running away.

Being with Sebastian wasn't like being with Blaine. Nothing could be. But it was as close as he was ever going to get to it in his lifetime, and so he let it happen time and again until it felt like a mechanical routine — a habit more than a conscious action.

Every Tuesday like clockwork, he'd finish up at the salon and head over to Sebastian's apartment; he'd spend the night making love to one man — if it could even be called love — and desperately wishing he were another. Then Wednesday morning, he'd go home and bathe to get ready for work. The cycle repeated each week and sporadically on a Friday or Saturday if Sebastian wasn't working at the café.

Kurt rarely spoke to Sebastian during their nights together; theirs was a language of pleasure. If Sebastian knew of Kurt's pain, he never mentioned it, nor did he ask why Kurt was so distant. It seemed he was content with their arrangement as well.

Outside of the bedroom, Kurt would verbally spar with Sebastian much as he had before, but they both knew it was a game of cat-and-mouse that would end with heated kisses and intimate touches.

Pulling his coat tighter about his neck, Kurt felt a trickle of icy rain slip down his spine, and he shivered. Sebastian would be wondering where he was, and Kurt desperately needed the escape. He stepped into the street, his foot landing in a murky puddle. Shaking off the mud, he cursed his poor luck and paused, considering going back up to his apartment to put on dry stockings. He glanced up at the hazy afternoon sky; the rain clouds looked ominous and thick. Changing his clothing would be useless, and he wouldn't need it once he got to Sebastian's anyway.

Kurt bowed his head against the torrent of rain and took two steps before nearly colliding with a damp, smelly mess of a man.

"Pardon me," Kurt said, glancing up at the bedraggled man. A thick, scraggly beard obscured most of the man's smile, and he wore a soaking wet brown suit that looked more like a sack of potatoes than actual clothing. "I don't have any money," Kurt added apologetically. He was about to step around the beggar and continue on his way when he realized the man had unmistakable eyes the precise color of whiskey.

He froze.

"Hello, Kurt."