Blaine was fairly used to house calls.

Being in his line of business meant that he was fairly used to everything, from private strip teases, birthday surprises, stag and bachelorette parties, even the occasional cage dancer. But the real money was in the shows, or so Blaine’s boss had said. The shows were the ticket.

Somehow or other, middle-aged women always seemed more than happy to blow their husband’s wads on watching completely unobtainable men take their clothes off. Nine out of ten times, it was an overdone, humiliating spectacle of flesh, scripted banter, and the art of the tease, but Urge took in just enough money to stock the bar and keep their line-up of a dozen noteworthy strippers.

Blaine didn’t mind the stag and birthday parties so much. For one thing, the tips were always generous, and thankfully, nearly everyone came to a party to have a good time. He and Rocky, his main partner on these outings, always tried to make the best of a weird situation. If Blaine was Urge’s favorite boy toy, then Rocky was its star player and coming to the end of his career. In the strangest way possible, Blaine somehow figured he was being groomed to step into his footsteps, if the cards with his face and name –Blake Jackman, of course, given to him by Brian – were any indication.

At the end of the day, all of this was because of Brian. Before his new calling at Urge, a string of bad hook-ups and complete apathy had led Blaine to the club circuit. Brian, Urge’s event coordinator and booking agent, had seen him dancing and knew a star when he saw one. A former stripper, himself, Brian was five years Blaine’s senior, wickedly handsome, and a talented negotiator. They’d hooked up, as one does, and eventually began seeing each other off and on.

Before long, Blaine was Urge’s youngest and most fresh faced member and making more money in a week with one job than he had working two. Blaine pulled in just enough income to cover his portion of the rent and then some, and for the first time in his life – outside the confines of going to college, his parents, and even his past Ohio life – he was truly independent. But the hours were hell, and while Rocky took him under his wing and showed him the ropes, Blaine knew he was an outsider, a cheap trick, an incompetent college drop-out, a complete wash-up.

But most importantly, Blaine knew he wasn’t a prostitute or anyone’s boy.

The problem with being a stripper was that it hardened you. It turned boys into men and men into hard ass jerks. Even when it was all laughs and effects, it was a dark, dirty world with selfish sons of bitches making a cold dollar off your body. Blaine had been bashed and abused and bullied enough times as a teenager to know when someone was on his side or not. He hid his life away, claiming to work long and hard hours as a waiter to keep his disappointed parents at bay.

Rocky had told him right out the bat to keep a safety net and never let anyone touch his money, especially not Brian.

So Blaine took his clothes off day in and day out, throwing himself into the dark world of adult entertainment with his dignity as close to his person as his dark kohl eyeliner. He took his bookings and made men and women blush to equal amounts, never once thinking about his old life back in Ohio or what his brother would think or the boy he’d stupidly given up on over a juvenile, drunken kiss.

The boy who made Blaine crouch his head on the streets of New York whenever he saw a tall, lithe, perfectly coifed gentleman. The boy who adorned a New York Fashion Week poster on the scaffolds and street walls, eyes dark and lips pouted. The boy who donned spreads in Vogue Homme and VMan, which Blaine would never claim to purchase yet kept stuffed in a plastic box under his bed. The boy who stared back at him with wide-eyed shock and a hint of anger as he and Rocky ran through their patented good-cop-bad-cop script. The boy who, for whatever fathomable reason, had booked a set of strippers for Sebastian Smythe, of all assholes. The boy who bore shock and doubt into his eyes as Sebastian’s hips wriggled from Blaine’s touch. The boy who tugged at Blaine’s wrists and pulled him into a closet-sized bathroom to “talk,” despite Blaine’s insistent protests. The boy Blaine could technically have arrested, if he so wished, for forcefully pulling him from “the stage” and against his own consent.

The one boy Blaine had been trying to avoid yet casually run into for years, so many years. The boy. His boy, or the only boy that really mattered.

“Okay. Talk.”

Blaine’s eyes bore down to his feet before he glanced up to Kurt – shockingly breathtaking, if not alarmingly lithe and thin, Kurt. The years had been kind to him, but they’d been kind to Blaine, too, who stood at least an inch taller and had bulked out, maturing in all the right places but keeping that same boyish charm. But then, “boyish charm” was practically the opening line on his resume. If Brian wanted him to look older, he’d slick back his hair again and don his old, stuffy clothes. Banking on looking young was kind of his thing.

“Nice to see you, too,” Blaine muttered humorously, his own voice raspy and unlike itself.

“Blaine, you’re a stripper.”

Blaine fought the urge to roll his eyes. “And you’re friends with Sebastian Smythe. At least on my end, I’m not the one getting fucked over.”

Kurt visibly bristled and glanced away, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Blaine had been a typical teenager when they dated, but he still wasn’t one to casually drop expletives or speak crassly. The years had hardened him in more ways than he could count.

“I’m just showing concern. You… can’t exactly blame me for being a little shocked, can you?”

Kurt shifted uncomfortably and Blaine knew this wasn’t going to be easy, so he let out a sigh and glanced toward the door. “Yeah, okay, I’m a stripper. I take my clothes off for a living. I realize it’s an unexpected change—“

“Last we spoke, you were going to Columbia, Blaine. You had your whole life ahead of you.”

“Yeah, and last I checked, my life and circumstances aren’t any of your business.”

Blaine’s eyes, outlined faintly with smoky black liner, bore into Kurt’s as Kurt noticeably bristled. Kurt didn’t step off the defense, taking one step toward Blaine. But just as he was about to speak, Blaine cut him off once more.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, Kurt, but from a strictly legal standpoint, dragging me in here is totally illegal.” Kurt’s brow furrowed in slight confusion. “As in, my partner’s probably wondering where the hell I’ve gotten off to or if I’m safe. Rape whistles and pepperspray aren’t as commonplace as they should be, but you’d think—not that I’m saying you’d—anyway …”

He attempted to butt past Kurt, but Kurt stepped in front of the door and placed a hand over Blaine’s shoulder to stop him.

“Your—your partner?”

At just one simple touch, Blaine had to remember to breathe, and Kurt looked equally flushed. Blaine barely registered Kurt’s question, but he’d caught the tail end of it, at least. Enough to string a few words together.

“My, my buddy, I mean. On the job. It’s like a safety thing.”

Kurt’s brow furrowed as he pressed back against the doorknob. “A safety thing?”

“A buddy system, in case things get—“ He let out another deep sigh and shook his head. “Do I have to spell this out for you, Kurt? Look, from a purely moral standpoint, I actually don’t want Rocky to call the cops. So please move.”

There was a sudden bang on the door and Kurt jumped back with a slight yelp and into Blaine’s immediate proximity. The bathroom was a tight squeeze, but Kurt still managed to bounce from Blaine’s body distance and into his own space. Blaine heard Rocky’s authoritative voice on the other end and closed his eyes.

“It’s okay in here, Rocky. Give us five.”

“You know the rules, Blake.”

“Five more minutes, Rock. I swear everything’s okay.” Blaine pinched his brow and cast a quick glance over to Kurt. “Just don’t tell Brian.”

There was a pause on the opposite end of the door followed by a grunt and a small laugh. “Yeah, Blake, five minutes. Then we’re calling a night. But I mean it, pretty boy; five minutes and not a minute longer.”

Kurt was concentrating extra-long on the color of his shoes before Blaine turned slightly and met his eyes once more. The silence passed thickly between them and the tension could be cut through with a knife, but Blaine had five minutes and he was going to give them to Kurt, in spite of his own best judgment. Or at least, as long as it took for Kurt to say what he needed to say and leave him be.

“Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?” Blaine finally spoke up, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He felt a draft and suddenly wished he was wearing more, but he hadn’t been left with much choice. He could feel the pull behind Kurt’s eyes to not make eye contact at first, but Kurt succumbed to meeting Blaine’s gaze.

“We need to talk, Blaine. Even just over coffee.”

Blaine uncrossed his arms and let out a sigh. “It’s been… what? Seven years, Kurt? Longer? I’m not the same person I used to be. What more do you possibly need to know?”

Kurt shook his head emphatically. “Look, what do you expect me to do, Blaine? You can’t just show up in my life again under these conditions and expect me not to care. I know we were in different places when we were eighteen, but this is now. This is here.”

Blaine had to laugh, his head shaking back and forth as he his eyes darkened. He was calloused, more calloused than he had any right to be or could have envisioned himself becoming, but that was life. “Again, what business is it of yours what I do or… or where I am in my life?”

Kurt stomped a foot aggressively and bit down on his lip, shaking his head back and forth. “Don’t you get it? Once upon a time, you were someone to me. Hell, you were everything.”

“We were just kids. We didn’t know anything.” Blaine’s eyes faded down to the floor and down to the interesting shade of tiles on the floor. Kurt’s shoulders squared and he never left Blaine’s eye line, taking another step toward him.

“I did. I thought you did, too. At least when it came to us.”

Blaine laughed; this was all so clichéd and he hated it. But underneath it all, it just hurt.

“Stop it.” He felt tears brimming behind his eyes as he looked away. Kurt frowned at the sight of him and how badly he wanted to brush his thumb over Blaine’s wounds and wipe it all away, if only to be the friend he once was to a brilliant man he once knew.

“Please let me call you,” Kurt muttered, and it wasn’t a question. Blaine was silent and Kurt’s voice lowered. “Blaine.”

“I didn’t hear you.” Blaine studied his fingers and refused to meet Kurt’s eyes, his ugly frown getting bigger. He lied; he’d just lied to Kurt and it was so easy, it was too easy. He could he ever expect to be Kurt’s friend, if that’s what Kurt wanted again, if he couldn’t even stop himself from throwing in a little white lie.

Kurt simply rolled his eyes, reached into his back pocket for a ballpoint pen (being the coordinator of Sebastian’s party had its upsides), and reached for Blaine’s forearm. Blaine let out a sharp, uneasy breath as Kurt began to scribe his number of the man’s wrist in slow, deliberate motions.

“The ball is in your court, Blaine, but I am putting myself out there – as just a friend, as an open ear, as anything. If you ever need me. You hear me?”

Blaine looked down at the pretty little numbers scribbled over his skin and nodded his head slowly, left with the choice of washing off his arm or dashing away his fears and opening himself back up again. There was a bang on the door and Blaine sighed out deeply. “Five minutes is up. I gotta go, Kurt.”

His arm was released from Kurt’s gasp as he took a step back, pressing his wrist against his chest. Kurt gave a small nod and raised his fingers in a small wave. “Bye, Blaine.”

Grasping for the door, Blaine pushed it back out, giving Kurt a wordless nod as he grabbed his clothes from Rocky and shoved himself out into the lush apartment. Clearly Sebastian had done well for himself, as Blaine expected he would, if this was his place. Blaine only looked up to make eyes with Tina Cohen-Chang, whose eyes widened as she pulled herself from her date and mouthed his name at the edge of her lips. Blaine barely acknowledged her as he pushed his arms into the sleeves of his pathetic get-up and walked shamefully to the door.

It wasn’t until walk home from the subway (Rocky and Blaine both lived on the same side of Hudson, making for a safe commute home) that Blaine shoved the sleeve of his shirt up to type Kurt’s name into his phone, saving him as simply K.H. Rocky pretended not to notice and asked him if he was all right, but Blaine shrugged it off with a smile.

“Occupational hazard. The guy thought he knew me.”

Rocky quirked a knowing brow. “I don’t know, Blake. You acted pretty familiar with him, if you ask me.”

Blaine’s smile faded as he glanced down to his phone, his fingers brushing over Kurt’s name. He numbly started to write a text message and let out a small sigh. “It’s all good, Rock. I swear. Don’t worry about me.”

Rocky gave a small smile and patted his friend on the shoulder before he cast a quick glance down the block. “This is me. You take care of yourself, kid.”

Blaine only gave a small nod, his dazed mind walking him back home in a cloud as his thumb still hovered over the “send” button, a potential action which could – would – change the course of his life. Even if he’d resisted giving away his number, he hated this control, and he especially hated Kurt for putting him in this position. He’d given him a choice, but it was a farce. Blaine was putty in Kurt’s hand, after seven odd years.

So he pressed “send,” but not without turning off his phone, burying it in a drawer, and going straight to bed (not like he expected to sleep; this was the earliest night in Blaine had gotten in years). Maybe, at the end of the day, this was all just a big dream, and he hadn’t just texted Kurt Hummel, and his life would go back to normal.

= = =

917-555-xxxx

April 3, 2020 1:08 AM

Coffee? -B

K.H.

April 3, 2020 1:14 AM

Yeah. Coffee.

And Blaine?

Thank you.