“I’m gonna have to tell ‘em too. Me. I’m the one that gave them this and now I’m the one who’s gonna have to take it away.”

Blaine wants to run because he can’t think of anything so awful that it could make Beiste look so fragile. Concern is written all over his face-- and maybe he should be colder than this, less affected by the sight of a woman in tears, but Blaine Anderson has never been a New Yorker. He is, and will always be, a boy from Ohio with a kind ear and a song in his heart. The song is a bit different now, but it’s still there. “I’m here to help,” Blaine says, shutting the door to her small office.

Her office isn’t what one might expect of someone running a privately funded arts program, but Shannon Beiste has never been a conventional woman. There are no art supplies, no instruments, and it smells musty because the building was never meant to be anything except a grey, generic commercial space. Blaine thinks it used to be a law firm, because no place can smell this much like paper and age without having housed boxes upon boxes of yellowing documents and shelves upon shelves of books. There are trophies scattered on every surface, both on the floor and on her desk. To Blaine, they've always seemed like the hard earned ghosts of the woman’s past.

She caps the tube of lipstick, sheepishly tucking it into her polo pocket. He doubts that the source of her embarrassment has anything to do with the fact that she’s barely holding it together, instead he feels like it's because he walked in on her applying makeup. “Coach?” He crosses the room to shy at the edge of her desk, leaning over to cautiously place his hand on top of hers. If she were any other woman he might have covered the back of her hand completely. He doesn’t-- her fingers dwarf his hand where it rests and, not for the first time, Blaine feels like a child trying to navigate a world that's too big. “I’m here to help. Let me help?”

“You help a lot, kiddo. You’ve helped a lot-” Beiste corrects guiltily. “I can’t ask you to throw any more of your money into this place. It doesn’t take a genius to spot a pig in a flock of sheep. When you’re in a hole, you quit diggin’.”

“It’s only money,” Blaine breathes out. He knows that it presents a legitimate crisis for the program, but this was New York. The state spent money at a rate of fifteen million dollars per hour. Everything cost, yet everything had a way of cycling back through. People threw dollar bills into guitar cases like they were the crumpled receipts from the bottoms of their purses, guitar players gave those bills to waiters. Restaurants gave that money to vendors. How... how could Beiste look at money like it was impossible to get? “It’s only money.” Blaine squeezes her fingers, “I’ve never minded giving it to you, to this place, because there is always going to be the chance to earn more.”

Beiste looks at him then, so sadly, so afraid to believe, that Blaine really wonders how bad the situation is. “They’re throwin’ us out of our own building.”

Blaine’s face crumples in confusion, not despair. “Can they do--” he snaps his mouth shut once he realizes how naive he sounds. Of course They can. Beiste’s eyes wouldn’t look like this if they couldn’t. Her eyelids are puffy, her cheeks too, and she’s been crying for a while. “Can you... can you get a lawyer?” He’s grasping for straws. He's twenty-six and his heart is bigger than his brain is logical, and right now there’s an incredible battle between his soul’s urge to comfort, comfort, comfort and his brain trying to jam the brakes and make him think. His father would know what to do, he thinks vaguely, but Blaine hasn’t really talked to his father about things that matter since he was eighteen years old.

“How am I gonna afford a lawyer?” Beiste untangles their fingers so she can wring her hands. She gestures for him to sit. Blaine does so immediately, perching on the edge of her desk and drawing one leg up to dangle above the floor. The look she throws him suggests that he knows where she meant for him to sit, the thick wooden chair that matches hers imperfectly. The shrug he gives her says that he’s going to keep sitting where he is and she can deal with it. “The best that I could hope for is one of those shady guys in cheap suits, you know, the ones from TV? The ones that yell? Even then, he’s not gonna care about this place the way I do.”

“Right!” Blaine says, imploring her to keep going. “The way that you do. Don’t... don’t give up,” his voice cracks, even though there aren’t tears in his eyes. He feels like he’s fighting for this place alone. He knows that he’s not, because there’s no way in hell that Beiste can be broken. Blaine understands her well enough to know that once someone starts throwing their weight at her, she throws it right back at them. Beiste is only struggling for footing after the first gut-punch.

Her fond look turns into an exasperated eye-roll.“You’re all guts but you got no horse, kid.”

“I... I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means that I can fight and fight and fight, but there’s no way that I’m going to be able to come up with two-hundred and fifty-thou, okay?”

That... sets Blaine back. He uncrosses his arms and slumps into the chair he’s been hovering beside. “Oh... that’s... That’s-- wow.” The number is ominous, but he doubts it’s as frightening as her timetable. “How long?”

She nudges the pen on her desk where it rolls to a stop in front of a stack of folders, “A month if I wanna keep the building.” Beiste rubs the corners of her eyes then, embarrassed. Blaine can see her drawing in and building herself back up. “I... even if I could come up with the money to save the building, there’s no way we’ll be able to stick with the programming. I guess we can move-- but this is our place. I built it with these kids, and they’re never gonna finish-”

She cuts off, but Blaine understands. There’s a mural that the kids started six years ago, starting from the double doors at the entrance and winding down the hallway. The hall always smells like paint. There’s always some kid standing nose to nose with the concrete, making their contribution to the wall, adding their fingerprint to the program’s collective hand in an otherwise anonymous city.

“Some corporate cowboy wants to make it a parking garage.”

Blaine winces. These things are hard to fight even if the building is an historical landmark, which this one is not. “New York... it has nowhere to build except on top of itself, I guess.”

“At the expense of the kids,” she grinds out, angrily opening the top drawer of her desk. She rifles through it. He hears the wrinkling of protein bar wrappers and the sifting of a thousand loose paperclips. Beiste finds the crumpled tissue she is looking for, uses it to delicately dab the corners of her eyes and then indelicately dig at her nose.

“Yeah well, kids have always been at the mercy of the adults who are supposed to protect them. And art programs? Well, there’s no CYS for the arts.” Blaine doesn’t know why, but talking doesn’t make him feel better. Normally it does. He talks and talks until he stumbles on a solution, but right now his brain feels too fuzzy to comprehend anything but the gravity of the situation.

He knows that he’s not of the kids who needs this place anymore, but he can’t help but think of how desperately he’d longed for it when he was back in small-town Ohio. He’d have given anything for the chance to have Shannon Beiste (a woman so awkward, gentle, and so hurt in her own right) tell him that she was forcing the world to make room for him. That even if she understood football more than she did sculpting and singing, she was going to give him a safe place to pursue both.

“I’m going to do everything that I can.” Blaine reaches into the inner pocket of his pea-coat, wishing that the number on the check was bigger. It just isn’t. He regrets paying his rent now, but he thinks if he can break his lease he might be able to guilt his security deposit back. If he can do that, he can get away with sleeping at the club for a few nights before he has to crash with the other dancers. Blaine smiles timidly, putting the check on the desk without preamble. “It’s not... anything really, but I’ll have another one for you tomorrow. And the day after... and then little by little.”

There’s no way that he can come up with all the money. There’s no way that he can even come up with three-quarters of it. But Blaine can get as much of it as he can, and he can sink every penny of his into this place like a captain going down with a ship.

Beiste reaches over, bypassing the check without even looking at the numbers, and grasps the tips of his fingers. “This is everything, kid. I know it might not seem big enough, but it’s the goddamn world to me.”

Blaine swallows against the heat that’s suddenly rising at the edges of his throat. He nods because he knows that he can’t speak.

Beiste has accolades that are too big to be contained by this office. She has framed certificates, awards, and there’s no way that she’s not made a contact somewhere along the way that can help. She just hasn’t thought of who they are yet or how they can help.

“You’re not alone,” he reassures her as much as he reassures himself.

He’s distracted. The weather is cold, the commute is miserable, and the city is so damn big that Blaine feels like a ghost. There are a hundred faces on the first subway platform, a hundred more on the next, and almost all of them Blaine will never see again. Their lives happen to graze by each other, moments that crept by with promise but soon faded into obscurity.

For the first time, Blaine wonders if he could really do it. No one would ever know. None of these people would see him on the subway, or in the grocery store and know. He could do it. He could take the money, give it to the program which needs it so fucking badly, and then he can move on with his life.

On his way to work, he gives his gloves to a homeless woman. It’s December and her cardboard sign says that she’s blind. He’s not sure if she actually is, but he gives them to her when she confesses that someone stole the dentures out of her mouth last week. His heart aches for her, he wishes he could do more, but he knows that in a few weeks he won’t even remember her name.

The city is so damn big that it just swallows people whole. Blaine’s not ready to be taken, but he thinks that maybe the city is ready to keep another shameful secret.

Greg would be perfect. He’s a regular, he has the money, and he’s married to a woman; which makes Blaine feel safe. Greg wouldn't tell a soul outside of the club, maybe not even inside of it, because he has the most to lose. If Blaine is going to do this, then Blaine needs the power of choice. He can’t become known for clandestine rutting behind the curtain. He can’t have men’s hands on him expecting more than he’s willing to give. Most of all, Blaine needs to be able to walk away from this in a month. He can help a friend, he’d do anything to help a friend because he has so few of them, but he can’t become a whore.

Greg isn’t perfect because he comes here. He doesn't want blowjobs in filthy bathrooms in seedy dance clubs, because he’s incapable of taking that final step into complete physical infidelity. He wants to talk, he wants to plead, and he put his hands on Blaine knowing that nothing will ever come of it beyond fantasy and longing. For him, it’s the perfect arrangement. It gets him through, grants him enough fuel to go home and fuck his wife and to actually come.

Blaine knows that Greg is fifty and will never come out of the closet, at least not to the people that matter. Blaine feels so sorry for him, because the only person who knows his secret is a stripper.

Greg’s palm flattens on Blaine’s hip, dangerously close. It’s not frightening, in fact, Blaine finds it empowering. Greg’s not permitted to touch him if Blaine doesn’t want him to, and now, Blaine’s letting him.

Greg leans forward, his cock nudging distinct interest at Blaine’s inner thigh. Blaine shifts in Greg’s lap, inching forward enough to blow on Greg’s earlobe, grinding out a little moan over the music that he doesn’t feel, but knows that Greg does. “Let me fuck you,” Greg’s breath is hot against Blaine’s neck when he begs. “I’d give anything to fuck you.”

Blaine feels heat flare in his cheeks, but doesn’t stop the rhythmic teasing of his hips. “You’d think for someone who’s time was almost up, you’d be watching more and talking less.” His voice is raspy, making him sound turned on even though he’s not. The rasp is courtesy of two shots of bourbon and a night spent talking over thrumming music and shouting, horny men.

His hips swivel and thrust, moving Greg’s hands without disrupting them, circling above where Greg wants him most.

Greg’s head drops uselessly against the back of the club chair, framed by Blaine’s wrists as he uses the furniture for leverage.

Greg makes it good for Blaine; he’s handsome and will be obnoxiously so for at least another decade, he smells like every fantasy about strange men that Blaine has ever had. He’s meticulously dressed, groomed, and wears enough aftershave that Blaine doesn’t mind burrowing the tip of his nose into the crook of Greg’s neck. Greg follows the House Rules. Greg understands that this is all about denial, about pushing the edge of restraint like one dangles at the edge of orgasm.

Blaine should hate himself for private dances, but he loves how much power they give him. He should feel vulnerable and used, but Greg wants him, and Blaine has always craved being wanted. He’s safe in this room.

The song is familiar enough that he knows they’re nearing the final chorus, rushing headlong into the outro.

Blaine slides temple to temple with Greg, brushing his stubble over Greg’s cheek. The groan he gets in response is so desperate. He reaches for Greg’s wrists, squeezing forcefully, letting Greg get a tease of the strength he craves, and moves Greg’s hands to cup Blaine’s ass. The older man gropes almost immediately, squeezing like he’s asking for permission.

They’ve been playing this game for months.

When their time draws near to a close, Blaine gently eases off of Greg’s lap, one thigh pressing apologetically against Greg’s erection, granting him a little torturous friction. It’s enough to give Greg something, and light enough that Blaine can pretend it was an accident.

He’s kneeling between Greg’s legs, chin coyly coming to rest on Greg’s knee. There’s a smile on Blaine’s face, no bared teeth but the shyest of raised lips. His eyes are sparkling with contentment and power and he’s waiting for Greg to come back to earth. “You’re a beautiful dancer,” Greg says when he does.

Blaine smiles, bashfully turning to nuzzle his cheek against Greg’s lower thigh before sitting back. His head hooks toward the curtain with a ‘beat it’ nod backward and a fond grin.

Blaine knows that Greg hasn’t ever seen him dance. When Blaine dances, he’s free. He’s ridiculous. He’s young, clumsy and bumbling, and it’s perfect- because there’s no intent. It’s for no one, save for him.

This... that... it was a different thing. This is show.

“Thank you,” Blaine says once Greg tucks the money into Blaine’s palm.

Greg quirks up an eyebrow, as if Blaine doesn’t thank him each and every time.

“Hey, can’t a guy be polite?” Blaine asks, slowly rising to his feet.

Greg laughs, already working to straighten out his clothes and rebutton his blazer. His tie is hopelessly wrinkled from where Blaine had gripped it, working the fine silk with one hand while loosening the knot with the other. It’s a strange picture, because Greg looks like he’s been thoroughly ravished save for a few details. His mouth is untouched, his hair is as carefully styled as it was when he entered the club. His pants are firmly buttoned and his belt is only slightly off-center. “Only you could behave like you just stumbled out of finishing school after doing that.” Greg reaches up and undoes his tie, folding it up carefully and tucking it into his jacket pocket.

“I’d like to think that people choose me for my manners.”

Part of him wants it to be Greg because he thinks that Greg would be grateful, worshipping. He thinks that Greg’s hands might even shake once they’re on his body, and if Blaine is going to do this, then he needs that. Greg wouldn’t make him feel cheap.

And then Blaine wonders how much of that kind of thinking is fantasy. Blaine only knows Greg when Blaine's keeping himself out of reach. He doesn’t know how deep Greg’s frustration runs, if he hates being gay, if he’d hate Blaine for letting him cheat on his wife.

He knows that when Greg comes here, he’ll only request Blaine. He knows that he has to be a staple in Greg’s masturbatory fantasies, but he doesn’t know where those fantasies lead. Greg could either want to love him, or want to destroy him for being everything that Greg can’t be.

Blaine is young and strong, but Greg is broad where Blaine is compact. Greg has had thirty years of tentative, frustrated sex. That kind of experience is frightening in a way that Blaine can hardly comprehend.

As Greg adjusts himself, sliding his cock up so it’s compressed by his waistband and belt instead of tenting the front of his fine trousers, Blaine blushes instead of offering to help him with it... because he can’t. He’s not ready to trust Greg in that way.

He’s not ready to lose that last part of himself.