There was a boy...

Chapter 1: Sparkling Diamonds

"Is there a reason that you neglected to inform me that the 'theater' we would be visiting this evening is actually a strip club?"

"I think the more appropriate term is 'exotic entertainment facility,' actually."

Kurt stops short, but Rachel doesn't break stride, eyes firmly fixed on the ornate front door. He folds his arms over his chest, settling in for what is likely to be a long and very annoying conversation, and waits for her to notice that he isn't falling in line. She whips around, hair fanning out and catching the blue and red neon glow from the signage above.

"I don't actually care what it's called, Rachel, I can't believe you thought this could be anything other than a complete and total waste of my time!"

"Look, everything I told you is true."

"Sure, if I'd written a show about strippers."

"It's an amazing performance space in a completely untapped neighborhood."

"I'm starting to think your definition of 'performance' is much looser than mine."

"Just give it a chance. You'll see!"

"Have you actually seen it?"

"Well, no, but – "

"Rachel, you have to know how crazy this is."

"Just listen, Kurt, please. I know someone on the inside." Her voice has dropped to a whisper. Kurt rolls his eyes. "She says the owner is looking to change their, um, rather unsavory image. Once she finds the right piece and secures some financial backing, they're going to close the place down and turn it into a theater. A real theater."

"Oh, come on. Even if you're right, this is hardly the place for us to make our debut. No one in the business would take us seriously."

"No one is taking us seriously now. I don't know if you've noticed, but we've come to the end of our options, Kurt. And, personally, I'm tired of serving coffee to tourists in Times Square."

He could make a comment about the fact that she's been a barista for less than two months, how it's the first paying job she's ever had, how these things take time and there's nothing wrong with the life of a starving artist, but...well, she's kind of right. There isn't much more they can do beyond staging it at the Lima Community Playhouse, and that's a little too off-Broadway for Kurt's taste.

The bottom line is, he isn't ready to give up on this. There are other things he could do with his life – he is a trained singer, after all, and the former protégé of one Isabelle Wright. The world could be at his feet, if he wanted it to be. But this is what he wants.

He just needs to find someone who will bring his words to life.

Rachel must be able to sense him faltering, because she grips his shoulder and gives him the doe eyes.

"This is your dream, Kurt. Our dream. It can't hurt to check it out, right?"

He sighs, hating that she has a point.

"Okay. But you are paying for my drinks. And the cab ride home."

She squeals and pulls him into a jostling hug.

"Oh, you won't regret this, you'll see!"

Right. The place is called The Moulin Rouge. The sign has an actual, flashing, neon, rotating windmill. He's pretty sure he already does.

They dig out their IDs (no need for fakes anymore, thank God) and show them to the bouncer. He waves them in, remaining impassive even in the face of Rachel's blinding smile.

Kurt holds back another sigh. He's pretty sure he'll be doing that all evening.

The noise of the place hits him right away. There's music, of course, and not the cheesy, techno kind that Kurt was expecting. It's something poppy that Kurt can't put his finger on right away. It's blasted fairly loudly, but not loud enough to drown out the cheering and chattering of the crowd. It's obvious that the place is filled to the brim, even before they round the corner and see it with their own eyes.

"Are you sure we have to do this?"

"Yes. Now hush, and let's go find a table so we can enjoy the show!"

Right now, "the show" consists of a line of scantily clad women gyrating in unison to a song that was popular five years ago. Kurt's pretty sure that the chances of him enjoying it are slim to none.

Even so, Kurt lets Rachel drag him to an empty table near the back and order him a cosmo from the overly-waxed waiter.

The production values, at least, Kurt can admire. The lighting is tasteful, striking the right balance between seductive and soft, the costumes are actually quite beautifully-made (even if not to his particular taste), and the stripper poles appear to be operated by hydraulic lift from beneath the stage. There's a curtain, too, in a heavy, richly-hued red velvet that wouldn't look out of place in any theater on Broadway. Kurt's hopes start to perk up, just a bit.

The next number starts, boys and girls mixed this time. It features surprisingly interesting choreography, more burlesque than grotesque, but it's still not enough to hold Kurt's attention. He leans in close to Rachel's ear, to be heard.

"How long are we planning to stay, exactly?"

Rachel won't meet his eyes. She pretends to be riveted to the stage, but Kurt knows better.

"Rachel. What did you do?"

She looks at him, scandalized.

"Nothing!"

"Come on, Rachel, just say it."

"Okay, fine. I was going to tell you soon, anyway." She leans in, the gleam in her eye back and brighter than ever. "Santana told me that things are moving pretty quickly. Sue, the owner, she's almost got enough investors to give the project the green light. We've got to get our hats in the ring now, or we'll miss our chance."

"What does that have to do with tonight?"

"I may have set up a meeting."

"For a Friday night?"

"Well. Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to tell you!"

"What, five minutes beforehand? I don't even have a copy of the script."

"It's okay, don't worry, I sent one ahead."

"You need to tell me about these kinds of things, Rachel. We're partners."

"I know, okay? I'm sorry. I just knew you wouldn't be very...taken with the idea."

"Gee, I wonder why."

"Come on, would you stop being so negative? This place is great! It's charming, don't you think? And aren't the dancers talented? If you could stop being so judgmental for a few seconds and just imagine what this place would look like with some nice, cushy theater seats and a splash of paint, you'd see just how much potential it has. I found us an opportunity, Kurt, it wouldn't kill you to be a little grateful."

Her nose is turned slightly up in that haughty way that Kurt hates, but he has to admit she's maybe a little right. The place is much less disgusting than he imagined when he saw the marquee. And he definitely wouldn't have come at all if she'd told him about the plan before they left the apartment.

"Okay. Fine. What time is this meeting with what's-her-name?"

"It's Sue. Sue Sylvester. But we're actually not meeting with her."

"But you just said – "

"We're meeting with someone else. Santana told me, she said that Sue's tastes are very...particular. She suggested that we get someone on our side that Sue will listen to."

"What about Santana?"

"They've had something of a...falling out, apparently. She was recently demoted to the chorus line. She wouldn't tell me why."

Kurt blinks. The idea of a strip club chorus line is a little...unusual. He decides to let it go.

"Well then, who – "

He's drowned out, suddenly, by the roar of the crowd. The curtain is closed, the lights dimmed, and there's a low, female voice coming through the speakers.

"I think it's time for some real entertainment, wouldn't you say, gentlemen? Without further ado, club Moulin Rouge presents...our sparkling diamonds."

The cheers and catcalls from the audience are overwhelming. Kurt raises his eyebrows at Rachel, but she seems equally baffled. Just as Kurt has convinced himself that this can't mean anything good, the curtain opens once more.

There must be 15 women up on that stage, all of them dressed in corsets and fishnet stockings, evoking the decadent yet understated sexiness of the 1940s pin-up girl. They are, all of them, dripping in what Kurt knows can't actually be diamonds, catching the light and throwing out sparkles so bright Kurt thinks he might go momentarily blind.

The music starts, and it, too, is not what Kurt would have expected. A leggy blonde, gorgeous with loose curls and a brilliant red lip, steps forward and, to Kurt's surprise, starts to sing.

"A kiss on the hand may be quite continental..."

Her voice isn't amazing, but her moves certainly are. Kurt understands, without a doubt, why so many men in the crowd are visibly drooling over her, even if he isn't one of them.

"Look!" says Rachel in the closest thing to a whisper she can manage above the noise. "That's Santana, the one on the end?"

Kurt looks. She, like all of the girls, is beautiful, alluring, sexy. She also looks incredibly bored. Kurt can sympathize – it sucks being stuck in the background when you're meant to shine.

"How do you know her, anyway?"

"We've run into each other on a few auditions. She's not the nicest person, but I let her borrow my shoes once when her heel broke, so she owed me."

The song ends with a flourish and a roar of applause, and the dancers blow kisses to the crowd before the curtain closes. Kurt applauds, too, because no matter the purpose or the setting, that was a fine performance that deserves to be recognized. The dancers filter out, after the noise has begun to die down, and disperse themselves throughout the audience, batting their eyes and draping themselves over laps, bending over to show off what Kurt is sure is impressive cleavage. Collecting tips, no doubt, or maybe reservations for lap dances. Kurt doesn't really know how those things work. There is a mysterious doorway by the stage, lit neon red and watched over by a burly bodyguard, that Kurt suspects may lead to rooms meant for more...private dances.

He shudders, and turns his attention back to Rachel.

"So, wait, you never told me who we're meeting."

She bites her lip.

"Well, it won't exactly be the both of us."

"What are you – ?"

"I think it might be easier to convince him if you're alone."

"Wha – him?"

"Yes. Apparently, he's Sue's favorite – Santana was very bitter about that – but she said he's the one we should talk to if we want to have any kind of chance at this."

"Rachel, if you don't tell me who it is, I swear – "

The voice is back. The room hushes so quickly Kurt can hear ringing in his ears.

"You know, some of you ladies and gentlemen still seem a little lonely." The voice is dry, almost mocking. The crowd laughs and catcalls and collectively leans forward, eyes glued to the stage. "But don't you worry your inebriated little heads – if our lovely ladies don't do it for you, our strapping young gentlemen most certainly will."

A drumroll has started without Kurt's noticing, a low rumble that builds, just slightly, as the announcer takes a dramatic pause. Despite himself, he can feel his own anticipation ratcheting up.

"Without further ado, the shining star of The Moulin Rouge. Our very own teenage dream."

The curtain sweeps open. Rachel clutches onto Kurt's arm.

"It's him," she hisses, nodding meaningfully at the stage.

Kurt doesn't even flick his eyes in her direction.

There is a chorus of men onstage, dressed in tight black vests and black leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, but there is no doubt as to who, exactly, Rachel is referring to.

He's in the middle, a bright spot in a sea of dark. His vest is made of a red material that molds to his body and seems to shimmer in the light. His head is down, like the rest, but his presence is like a magnet in the middle of the stage, drawing every eye to him without moving a muscle.

The entire room is holding its breath, a long moment of suspense that stretches tighter and tighter as the silence prolongs. Just as Kurt thinks it will snap, the man looks up.

Kurt has to bite his lip to keep from gasping aloud.

It's just – he's got these eyes, these big, wide eyes that seem to sparkle brighter than any fake diamond in the world, picked out with dark eyeliner and lashes so gorgeous that Kurt suspects they may be store-bought. His face is a study in contrasts – the softness of his mouth played up against the strong line of his jaw, the lushly styled curl of his hair against the sharp jut of his cheekbones. Kurt can see, now, that he has a thick band of leather circling his throat, bobbing and stretching as he swallows.

He looks over the crowd. His lips twist slightly up. He opens his mouth and starts to sing.

It's his voice, alone, and Kurt would laugh at the song choice if he weren't so entirely transfixed.

"Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me,

I think they're okay..."

Slow, lovely, maybe a little ironic. His voice cuts Kurt to the bone.

"If they don't give me proper credit,

I just walk away..."

There's a lingering pause, here, before the music kicks in and the men behind him come to life.

They dance, they sing, they unbutton their vests, but Kurt couldn't care less, and he suspects he isn't alone. He almost feels sorry for them, performing like that when they could easily be invisible.

The man, the lead – and God, but Kurt needs to know his name, Kurt is meeting with him tonight – he moves with the kind of grace that can only be inborn and a sexy self-awareness that can only be learned. He smiles and winks and flirts with every eye he meets, and he does it with such sincerity that Kurt starts to melt in spite of himself.

There's just...there's this light that he seems to pull up from inside when he sings, and this wicked twist to his mouth when he calls himself a "material girl," and then the music shifts, and suddenly it's –

"I'ma get your heart racing in my skintight jeans,

Be your teenage dream tonight.

Let you put your hands on me in my skintight jeans,

Be your teenage dream tonight – "

He pauses, looks out over the crowd, every inch of him an open invitation as the tension of the silence pulls tight.

" – 'Cause we are living in a material world,

And I am a material girl..."

The juxtaposition is clever, just sweet enough and bitter enough that Kurt is genuinely impressed.

This man invites the attention, he plays and he teases, and he builds the fantasy with his warm, melting-honey eyes, but the warning there is clear: you can buy me, but you can't have me.

The man's breathing is coming harder by the time the music ends, pushing the muscles of his chest appealingly against the confines of his vest, emphasizing the narrow dip of his waist. The barest trace of sweat across his forehead glitters under the stage lights.

The curtain closes. There's a moment of silence, and then the crowd bursts into uproarious applause. Kurt is nearly too dazed to join in.

"He was good, wasn't he?"

Rachel is bright-eyed and watching him expectantly.

"Oh. Yes. He's very, um. Flexible."

Kurt is very happy that his voice has managed to remain steady, even if he can't get out more than two words at a time.

"He's expecting you in 15 minutes. You just need to tell the bouncer that Santana sent you, and he'll let you back."

"What – back there?"

Rachel rolls her eyes.

"It's not contaminated, Kurt. You're just going to sing for the guy, show him why we're the best fit for their foray into musical theater."

"You want me to sing for him?"

"Obviously. How else are you going to sell him the script?"

"I don't know, plot synopsis?"

"Kurt, I'm ashamed of you. Since when are you not ready to sing at a moment's notice?"

Kurt doesn't take the time to point out that they're not actually living in a musical and that most people don't find it necessary to break out into song in the midst of their daily lives, but only because he is currently freaking out. This is so far out of his comfort zone he might as well be in Siberia.

"How do I know when he's...ready for me?"

"Santana said she'd come find us."

Kurt nods, unable to do much else.

Some of the women from earlier are back on stage, but it's nothing special, and no one is paying very close attention. Kurt takes the opportunity to people watch instead.

Kurt has always been under the impression that married scumbags and douchey frat boys make up the bulk of customers at establishments such as this one, but he has to admit that this crowd seems a lot more diverse. There are women sprinkled throughout, cougars on their lonesome and a rowdy group that is most definitely a bachelorette party. There are younger men, too, men in suit jackets whose body language screams money and arrogance, surveying the room like hawks on the hunt.

A low, murmuring buzz has settled over the crowd, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. The performers are still interspersed amongst them, working their assets for all they're worth, stroking hands over cheeks, perching prettily on knees, charming their way through a seduction that's old as time.

The place is undeniably classy, Kurt must admit, as much as that word can apply to a strip club. Sue Sylvester must be a smart lady, and she must be making bank. He's still skeeved out by the fact that she makes that money by selling off the people in her employ to be ogled and treated like objects, but that doesn't prevent him from admiring the skill it takes to make a place like this remotely palatable. The distinct lack of g-strings and the quality of the talent certainly help.

Kurt's mind flickers to those amber eyes, lit bright by the spotlight.

His heart skips a beat. His blood spikes. God, he's in trouble.

He's woken from his reverie by the sound of a throat clearing. He looks up to see one of the chorus girls – Santana, he remembers – looking at them with an almost lazy sort of impatience.

"Glad you could make it," she says, slow and sardonic.

Rachel beams.

"Thank you for inviting us. Your performance was very good."

Santana rolls her eyes and turns to Kurt, arms folded beneath her breasts.

"Boy Wonder is ready for you."

Kurt takes a deep breath, hoping to calm the racing of his heart. It doesn't exactly work.

"Okay. Do I just – "

"Tell Puck you're here to see Blaine and he'll let you in." She gestures back to that red-lit door without bothering to look.

Blaine.

"Puck?"

She rolls her eyes again, harder, this time, if that's even possible.

"God, do I have to hold your hand?"

She doesn't wait for a reply, just grabs Kurt by the wrist and drags him out of his seat.

"I'll wait here!" trills Rachel, as if she has a choice in the matter.

Santana navigates through the crowd with ease, only letting go of him when they reach the doorway. Not bothering to spare him a glance, she smirks at the guard and leans in to whisper in his ear. The guard – Puck, probably – breaks into a dopey smile that couldn't be more different from the stoicism he's been wearing all evening. Santana pulls back, and he schools his expression once more. He glances at Kurt.

"Well? Go ahead."

"Go get 'em, tiger," puts in Santana.

"Where do I – ?"

"You'll figure it out."

Santana snickers, but Kurt chooses to take the high road and throws her a weak smile.

"Thanks," he says.

He takes one last fortifying breath and walks through the doorway.

There's a hallway just beyond, dimly lit with wall sconces and strips of lighting on the floor. The walls are deep red and unadorned. There's a sharp right turn, and then a long stretch dotted every so often with plain white doors. Some of them have placards with names written in curling, golden script. There's one that reads Sam, one for Brittany, then Santana, and, finally...Blaine.

It's the last door in the hallway. Kurt lifts his hand and knocks before he can lose his nerve.

"Come in," he hears, faint over the muffled noise from the club and the thick wood of the door.

He closes his eyes, turns the knob, and doesn't look back.

The room is not exactly what he expected. It's richly, opulently decorated, with brocade upholstery and fat, tasseled pillows arranged around a lacquered-dark coffee table, laid out with platters of hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of champagne set to chill.

Most surprising, however, is the presence of a bed.

It's huge and practically centered in the room, draped with a midnight-blue satin duvet and an inviting array of pillows. Kurt has a suddenly terrible feeling about this.

It doesn't go away when he finally lets himself look at Blaine.

He's standing by the bed, effortlessly at ease in his body, a warm, sly smile bringing out the glint in his eyes. He's changed since his performance, now decked out in black from head to toe. It's artful, how beautifully the outfit highlights his body. The vest is so tight the buttons strain every time he breathes. It has small corset ties that accentuate the ratio of his waist to his shoulders. His thighs strain at the seams of his pants, stretching the leather over sculpted muscle and leaving no doubt that he is extremely...gifted in other areas that Kurt won't let himself linger over for too long. He's here for a business meeting, for Christ's sake.

Blaine's choker is gone, leaving the line of his throat bare to the collarbone. There's something elegant about the curves and hollows there, and something almost fragile.

"Why don't you come in and make yourself more comfortable?"

There's a light tease in his voice, but his eyes are kind.

"Oh, um, alright."

Kurt moves to one of the couches and sits, stiff and straight-backed. Blaine turns to follow him with his gaze.

"Would you like some champagne?"

Blaine starts to reach for the bottle, but the thought of navigating this situation with champagne bubbling through his veins is much less than appealing.

"No. Thank you, but I think I'd rather just get to it."

Blaine's eyebrows shoot up, just a fraction, and a strangely surprised expression flickers over his face. It's gone as soon as it came.

"Then let's get to it."

He smiles broadly and starts to move closer. Kurt is reminded of a lioness stalking her prey. He stands up abruptly and puts a little distance between them.

"I thought I'd start," he says, voice squeakier than he'd like. He'd really hoped to maintain his cool, not let himself get intimidated, but it looks like that ship has sailed. "I'll give you a taste of what I do, and you can tell me if you think it'll be a good fit."

Blaine has stopped short, mouth gaping slightly open, and Kurt tries not to dwell on just how attractive that is. Blaine smiles again.

"I'm sure it will be."

He winks, and it should be cheesy, but it's not. He settles himself on the couch, lounging on his side and propping up his head in one hand. It's a seductive pose, one that draws attention to the bulge of his bicep and the curve of his hip. Kurt tears his gaze away.

What the hell is going on here anyway? Is this guy just like this, like, all the time, or is he trying to throw Kurt off his game? Either way, Kurt can't look at him right now or he won't be able to get out a note.

"Okay, um. Here it goes," he says, and he opens his mouth to sing before he can second-guess himself any longer.

The song isn't his best work, but it's the only one that comes to his lips in this moment. He's written it and re-written it so many times it's been pounded into his muscle memory, this big, romantic number that falls flat no matter how many key changes he builds in. It would figure, the one song he wants to forget is the only one he can remember.

Oh, well. He'll just have to make do – this is his moment and he's going to work it to the best of his ability. It's been a long time since he sang for an audience of any size (besides Rachel, who doesn't count), but Kurt Hummel still knows how to sell a performance.

He's about halfway through the second verse when he chances a glance back at Blaine. What he sees is...weird, to say the least.

Blaine has got his eyes closed and his mouth open, as if in ecstasy, and he's running a hand up and down his chest, sensual and slow.

Kurt stops, confused and kind of horrified. What?

Blaine's eyes shoot open.

"No, no, no, God, don't stop – your voice is such a turn-on. I heard you were talented, but I never knew a voice could make me so hot. Come on, baby, sing for me."

Baffled, Kurt picks up where he left off, trying to make himself heard as best he can over Blaine's low moans and the thump of him thrashing his head back against the cushion.

Kill me now.

This isn't working. He has no idea what the hell is going on, except that this guy is completely and totally crazy and holds Kurt's fate in the palm of his hand. Whatever this is, he isn't being taken seriously.

He stops. He waits for Blaine to notice. It takes longer than he would like.

His eyes dart around the room, desperate for some sort of inspiration to strike, because this is important and Blaine needs to listen or else Kurt's embarrassed himself and used up his last chance for nothing. Kurt will make him listen. He just needs to figure out how.

He sees something glint golden just on the periphery of his vision, and, caught, he turns to look. It's a cage, large and ornate, meant to hold a menagerie of exotic birds. It's empty.

It's certainly a strange decorating choice, but there is something rather...evocative about it. Lonely or triumphant, Kurt isn't sure, because the birds have flown to freedom, but they've left their home behind. He feels a sharp pang of recognition in his chest.

He has an idea.

He doesn't take the time to consider it, just goes with his gut and the song suddenly in his throat.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night..."

It isn't his, but right now, he doesn't care. It's what he has.

"...Take these broken wings and learn to fly.

All your life,

You were only waiting for this moment to arise..."

He's always had a soft spot for this song – it's always given him hope, from the painful months following his mother's death to those interminable weeks his junior year of high school when he was terrorized every day and no one seemed to notice. It's a song he feels in the tenderest parts of his heart.

He just needs Blaine to feel it, too.

When he turns to look, Blaine has stopped his antics. He's sitting up, stock still, looking at Kurt with parted lips and a shrewd, searching gaze that looks realer than anything Kurt's seen on his face tonight. His entire face softens as Kurt sings, shifting into something open and almost vulnerable.

There's a moment of silence after Kurt finishes. They look at each other in something like wonder.

Blaine clears his throat.

"That was...really beautiful. Your voice is... It's rare, to find a producer with that kind of talent. We're lucky to have you."

Kurt smiles, an automatic reaction to such earnest praise. Then Blaine's words sink in.

"Wait, producer?"

Blaine freezes. His smile drops.

"Please tell me you're a producer."

"No, I'm a writer – Santana told me she'd arranged this meeting with you to discuss – "

Blaine shoots up, running a hand through his hair, and starts to pace.

"Oh, God, I'm going to kill her. You're Kurt Hummel, aren't you? You wrote that script."

"Yes, I did. I – "

"You can't be here right now."

"What are you – ?"

"You have to leave, you have no idea what could happen if you get caught, you can't be here."

Blaine has a hand gripped around his elbow now and is forcibly steering him toward the door.

Suddenly, there's a resounding knock. Blaine breathes sharply in. He swallows. He nods once, to himself, and turns to Kurt.

"You have to hide."

Kurt has no idea what's on the other side of that door, but Blaine's eyes are wide with panic and begging Kurt to take this seriously. Kurt nods.

"Thank you," breathes Blaine, and then Kurt is diving for the space beneath the bed. The duvet hangs down far enough that he should be shielded from view.

"Come in," calls Blaine, and the shift in his voice is actually quite incredible.

Kurt can't see anything from his current vantage point, but he can hear the click of the door and the heavy rhythm of footsteps on the carpet.

"At last, we meet in person," says a voice. It's a man, slick and oily. Kurt can practically hear him smirking.

"Sebastian. I've heard so much about you."

"All of it good, I hope?"

"Of course. I've been looking forward to this meeting all night."

"Meeting, hm? Is that what we're calling it?"

Oh, God, this guy's got sleaze literally dripping off of him. It's quiet for a moment, and Kurt can't help himself. He maneuvers the duvet so that there's a slit for him to look through. He can't see much, but what he does see is more than enough. Sebastian is much like Kurt imagined – young, tall, and fairly good-looking in a rodent sort of a way, wearing an Armani suit and a hairstyle best suited for teeny-bopper television. He's trailing a hand down the line of Blaine's body, tracing the musculature of his torso, the jut of his hip bone, and back, beyond Kurt's line of vision, to the firm curve of his ass.

Blaine doesn't object, instead seems to relish Sebastian's touch, but Kurt's seen just how good an actor he really is.

"Would you like some champagne?" murmurs Blaine.

"No. I think I'm thirsty for something else."

He's smirking, and sliding his hand over Blaine's jaw, sinking his fingers into the loose curl of his hair. He pulls Blaine closer, close enough that their bodies touch, close enough that Kurt realizes for the first time how small Blaine actually is. He tips his head up to look Sebastian in the eye, eyelashes sweeping demurely down, lips curved into a smile.

"I believe Sue informed you that I require payment first?"

Sebastian's eyes dip down to Blaine's lips, then back up to his eyes.

"It's taken care of, don't you worry. And I'd pay a hell of a lot more than that if it means I get to fuck that glorious ass of yours tonight."

Holy shit. Kurt feels like an idiot. A complete and total fumbling idiot. There is a bed in the middle of the room. How did he not get that this is a brothel?

Sheer, blind hope, probably. And the fact that he's never actually been to a brothel. Or a sex club, or whatever the right name for this is.

Oh, God, that means Blaine is a hooker. And he thought that Kurt... Oh, God.

"What do you say we move this to the bed?"

Right. Of course. The bed. The bed that Kurt is currently hiding under, of course. Fuck.

Blaine must have the same realization in this moment, because he glances briefly in Kurt's direction then trails a hand up into Sebastian's hair.

"Are you sure you don't want to bend me over the couch?" he purrs.

"No. I want to look at you." He rubs his thumb roughly over Blaine's cheekbone. He places a hand on Blaine's chest and pushes gently back, toward the bed.

"Wait," says Blaine, a slight edge of panic in his voice that has Sebastian narrowing his eyes. "Kiss me, first."

Sebastian smiles, slow and smirky, and complies. It's a gross, claiming sort of kiss with lots of tongue, but Kurt is saved from his own sick fascination by Blaine's free hand, which is waving at him frantically in a way that seems to indicate that he should vacate the bed area as soon as he can. Kurt scoots carefully out the other side and has almost made it to the door when Sebastian breaks the kiss.

Kurt freezes. Blaine hurriedly turns their bodies so that he's facing Kurt and Sebastian is facing away. Kurt reaches out a hand, almost touches the knob, in fact, but something stops him.

Something doesn't seem right about leaving Blaine with this man who's paid for the right to treat Blaine's body like an object that he owns. So, he doesn't.

Blaine shoots him an incredulous, panicked look while Sebastian is busy sucking at his neck. Kurt shakes his head. Blaine waves his hand. Kurt moves instead to hide behind the couch, Blaine holding back an exasperated sigh and hauling Sebastian's body around so that Kurt doesn't get caught.

"Mm. I like it when you get rough. You're a real tiger in the sack, aren't you?"

Blaine bites his lip, runs his hand almost shyly up Sebastian's arm.

"I guess you'll find out, won't you?"

It's like a spark to a match – Sebastian surges in and attacks the hollows at the base of Blaine's throat, sucking like he's trying to draw blood out through his pores.

"Careful," gasps Blaine. "Sue doesn't like us to have marks."

"Oh, yeah? And why is that?"

"Customers tend to get jealous."

Sebastian jerks back at that.

"I suppose they would, wouldn't they?"

He traces thoughtfully at what Kurt is sure are purpling bruises on Blaine's skin.

"Do you have anyone else tonight?"

"Well, the night is still young."

Sebastian's eyes go sharp at that.

"How much would it cost for me to ensure that you don't?"

"I don't know, you'd have to take it up with Sue."

"Maybe I'd better go do that. Make sure our time together isn't...interrupted."

Blaine smiles. If Kurt hadn't seen the real deal with his own eyes, he'd swear this was it.

"Mm. Maybe you'd better."

"Don't get too lonely without me."

Blaine leans up to kiss him, sweetly, then murmurs into his ear, "Hurry back."

Sebastian backs his way to the door and exits without another word.

Blaine slumps in relief. Kurt stands up, cautiously, and Blaine whips around to face him, face stark with fear and anger.

"You! You need to get out right now. Under no circumstances can you be anywhere near this room when he comes back. Do you have any idea what he would do to you if he thought we were – ?"

"Okay, alright. You're right, I'll leave if you want me to. I just – Blaine, is this really worth it?"

Blaine rolls his eyes.

"Oh, God, this is really not the right time and definitely not the right place for a morality lecture."

"No, I just mean – that guy's a sleazeball. Do you really want him...touching you?"

Blaine softens, but the look in his eyes is still steely.

"Look, your concern is sweet, but this is really none of your business."

"It will be if you choose my script."

Blaine raises his eyebrows, surprised.

"You still want to be a part of this project? Even after all that?"

"More than ever."

"Okay. Look. We can talk about this some other time, alright? Just...contact Sue and we'll set up a meeting – you know, a real meeting – and we'll figure it all out. Okay? But right now you need to get out of here."

Kurt nods quickly.

"Okay. Great. That's – we'll be in touch. Thank you."

Blaine smiles tightly and waves a goodbye that looks more like shooing away.

Kurt hastens to comply.

He's opened the door and stepped out into the hallway before he realizes that he really, really shouldn't have. Because there's Sebastian, striding purposefully toward him, and he's been seen. He freezes.

Oh, God.

"You!"

Sebastian clenches his jaw and quickens his step to a jog. There's nowhere for Kurt to go but back inside Blaine's room, and that's no better a choice than this dead-end of a hallway. Before he can blink, much less make a decision, Sebastian is on him. He shoves Kurt easily into the wall, his head snapping back with a thunk that leaves him dazed.

Blaine, alerted by the noise, no doubt, is at his side in a second.

"Sebastian! What are you doing?"

Sebastian's grip tightens as he turns to look at Blaine, a warning to Kurt to stay where he is.

"Are you playing me, you whore?" he growls. "Did you get me out of the room so you could suck some other guy's dick while I was gone?"

"Of course not! Let him go, Sebastian, he didn't do anything – I promise. Tonight, I'm yours. Okay?"

"Well, then what's he doing here, Blaine?"

"Let him go and I'll tell you."

They hold eye contact for a few moments, strength matching strength and neither backing down. Kurt knows better than to intercede. Finally, Sebastian lets go of his hold on Kurt's sweater. Blaine softens immediately.

"Thank you. Sebastian, this is Kurt. He wrote the show you've so generously agreed to finance. He heard from Sue that you'd shown interest, and he came down to celebrate. Puck saw you leave and told him I was free. Okay? So you can see this is all just a misunderstanding."

"Hm. Well, I haven't signed the papers yet, Blaine."

"I know. But you're going to, aren't you?"

Blaine chances a teasing smile, here, and looks up at Sebastian through his lashes. Sebastian takes the bait and grins back.

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"I've got to know what I'd be funneling my money into, don't I?"

Blaine cuts a glance over at Kurt, who hasn't moved a muscle.

"I have an idea. Why don't the three of us go back in, and Kurt and I can tell you all about it. Maybe even get your input? Your talent is practically legendary."

Kurt has to fight, hard, not to roll his eyes, but he manages.

Sebastian smirks and runs a hand over Blaine's chest, fingertips sneaking beneath the material of his vest.

"Alright. Fine. The night is young. There will still be time, after, to acquaint you with my other talents."

Blaine ducks his head then looks up, biting his lip and seeming to fight a grin.

"Sounds perfect."

Sebastian holds the door open for Blaine and runs his eyes up and down Blaine's body as he enters, lingering over the stretch of leather over his ass. Sebastian follows close behind, not bothering to spare a glance for Kurt. Kurt sighs, feels the back of his head for a lump that he doesn't find, and follows them in. God, Rachel must be freaking out by now, he's been gone so long. Kurt himself isn't far behind. And he almost got out, too...

Sebastian settles himself on the couch and helps himself to a glass of champagne. Blaine sits beside him. Kurt takes the armchair, seating himself delicately on the edge of the cushion in case a hasty exit becomes necessary.

"So," says Sebastian, shooting Kurt a shark-eyed smile. "The script?"

"It's amazing, Sebastian, you'll love it," assures Blaine.

"But what is it about, exactly?"

Now this, this is something Kurt is comfortable with. Finally.

"It's about love."

They both turn to him, Blaine startled and Sebastian faintly disgusted.

"Love?"

"Yes. I – all great stories are about love, aren't they?"

The sneer is still very prominent on Sebastian's face, but before he can open his mouth to reply, Blaine steps in.

"It's a modern take on 19th century exoticism."

Kurt looks at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. Not even Rachel got that without being explicitly told.

"It's set in India," Kurt adds. "There's a boy – "

"A servant boy."

" – a slave boy, actually. A courtesan. To the maharani."

Blaine shoots him a quizzical look, but he goes with the change nonetheless.

"He falls in love with a penniless sitar player, who wins him over with her incredible talent."

"But the maharani is a jealous woman, and won't let the poor boy go."

"They conduct their love affair in secret – "

"Until a close confidante lets it slip. The maharani sentences the sitar player to death, but she is made to see the error of her ways, and the lovers prevail."

Sebastian doesn't look entirely convinced.

"Sounds boring."

"Okay, so the plot isn't the most original." Blaine shoots Kurt an apologetic look, and Kurt tries not to be offended. "But it isn't just about that. This show is a – a feast for the senses. I mean, can't you just imagine it? Vibrant colors, decadent fabrics, choreography that defies the laws of physiology and, probably, physics..."

"Like Bollywood on crack," puts in Kurt. Blaine snorts, then schools his expression into the doe-eyed submission that seems to work so well with Sebastian.

"People will eat it up."

Sebastian looks at Blaine a moment, seems to soften.

"I'm sure they will, as long as you're the star. That is the whole reason I agreed to talk with Sue about this ridiculous project in the first place."

Blaine ducks his head and glances at Kurt out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, no doubt.

He has no reason to worry. Kurt hasn't been envisioning anything else since the moment he saw Blaine on that stage tonight. No one else could play this role, now.

"Of course," he says. "Blaine has the part as long as he wants it."

Blaine smiles at him, a real, grateful smile, before turning his attention back to Sebastian. It goes flirty in an instant.

"So. Does that mean you'll sign the papers?"

"Maybe. We'll see how I feel in the morning." Sebastian smirks – it's like his default expression, God – and places a deliberate hand high on Blaine's thigh.

"I think I told you I take payment up front."

Sebastian frowns.

"And I told you, I already paid. For the whole night, I might add."

"Well, you can have your money back, as long as you sign those papers."

"Raising your price a bit, aren't you?"

"No, more like...raising the stakes." He slants his eyes at Sebastian in a way that toes the line between coy and shy. "I was just thinking. I don't know if one night is going to be enough. For either of us."

Sebastian inches his hand up Blaine's thigh.

"What are you saying, exactly?"

Blaine leans in, close enough that his lips are brushing Sebastian's ear when he speaks.

"You should talk to Sue about an exclusivity contract."

Sebastian breathes sharply in, then presses a long, sucking kiss to the side of Blaine's neck. Kurt is pretty sure they've forgotten he's there. Which is fine, because he's pretty lost.

"That sounds like an excellent idea," whispers Sebastian against his skin. "In the morning."

"That's not how it – oh – how it works."

"Tomorrow evening, then."

"I'm not some low-rent streetwalker you picked up, Sebastian – I won't allow you to string me along. We play by my rules or we don't play at all."

Sebastian stares at him, breathing harsh and fast, and Kurt thinks for a moment that this is the moment he snaps. But he doesn't. He just looks at Blaine, for all the world like he's nothing Sebastian has ever seen. Kurt understands the feeling.

"Believe me, I know you're not cheap," says Sebastian, quiet. He leans in, kisses Blaine almost tenderly, and trails his lips over the angle of Blaine's jaw to the hollow beneath.

Blaine gasps at something Sebastian does with his tongue and slides his fingers into Sebastian's hair. His voice comes out breathy and intimate.

"Please – I – I don't want to be with anyone else, not if I don't have to be. If we really want me to be yours, and yours alone, we have to have a contract. Sebastian."

This last is more like a moan than a word, and Kurt has never wanted to leave a room more than he wants to leave this one. It's like watching a car crash – he can't quite look away.

Sebastian pulls back.

"Okay, fuck." he gasps, and presses a last, dirty kiss to Blaine's mouth. "I'll sign the papers, and I'll have Sue draw up a contract, and you'll be mine, right? No one can have you but me."

His voice is rough, even desperate, but Kurt catches the glance Sebastian sneaks at him out of the corner of his eye. Kurt can't tell if it was intentional or not.

"No. No one. But hurry, please?"

He nods, caresses Blaine's cheek, and hauls himself to his feet. He strides out the door without another word.

Blaine collapses back against the couch cushions, relief warring with fatigue all over his body. He tips his head back and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

Kurt tries to respond, but nothing comes out. He clears his throat.

"No, it's fine. I just – I'm sorry you had to do that."

Blaine looks at him and smiles, thinly.

"It's for the best. Sue will know exactly how to work him over. We're getting this project financed if it's the last thing we do. Welcome aboard, by the way."

"Doesn't Sue have to approve before we make it official?"

Blaine laughs shortly.

"She doesn't care. She's leaving the choice up to me. It was Sebastian we had to convince. His ego couldn't handle it if he didn't think he was involved in the creative process."

"Oh, God, does that mean he's going to show up to rehearsals?"

"Probably."

"Kill me now."

"I'd rather not. We kind of need you and your awesome talent."

Kurt laughs.

"I don't know, you were doing pretty well on your own."

"No, really." Blaine's eyes are doing that thing where they're so sincere they take Kurt's breath literally away. "Your script is amazing. It was my choice before I ever met you."

"Really?"

"Of course. Interesting re-writes, though, I have to say."

"I was inspired in the moment."

Blaine looks at him for a moment, searching, then breaks into a grin.

"Well, I can tell already that this is going to be fun."

Kurt can't help but smile back.

"I'm really glad my friend Rachel dragged me here tonight."

"Me too."

"Speaking of, she's kind of been waiting for me."

"Oh! Well, then, you should go. Just – we'll see each other soon, alright?"

He touches Kurt's shoulder in a friendly gesture of camaraderie. Kurt nods, not trusting his voice in that moment. His heart has broken out in flutters over the warmth of Blaine's palm.

"Good night, Blaine."

Blaine's smile is like sparks shooting up from the pit of Kurt's stomach.

"Good night."

He was right. He's in so much trouble.