“Didn’t you know?” Blaine crinkles his nose, “I’m everybody’s friend.”

It’s hard not to look back at Kurt, it really is, but Blaine reminds himself that he’s working. Dancers don’t earn a salary unless they’re featured by the house. Tonight he is, but most nights he has to independently nurture business. He might not have to worry about cash flow tonight, but tomorrow he’ll be back to soliciting dances on the floor. It never pays to breeze by customers; Blaine’s job is a lot of talking. He learns the men here, listens to their stories, and fosters enough communication between them that they want to reach out for Blaine and not the first warm body.

“Do you want to talk about him or about me?” Blaine adjusts the hat on his head, tipping the brim down once in a swift salute, “Because I can take my new hat and go...”

Greg circles a button on the vest, reminding Blaine that he really should refasten it. “You probably should go, I’m here to listen to you sing. I can’t stay beyond that.”

Blaine takes off the fedora, neatly placing it on Greg’s head. Greg immediately removes it, setting it on the middle of the table. “A gentleman never wears a hat indoors, who taught you manners?” he asks playfully.

“Says someone born in, what, the fifties?” Blaine teases, fingers moving to button his vest.

“Can I?” Greg asks. If they’d been upstairs, Greg might have just reached for the article of clothing.

Blaine likes that Greg is more cautious on the open floor, and shakes his head once no. He grants Greg a few liberties in private, but granting them down here would only invite trouble later down the line. He smoothly fastens the buttons with a “Sorry.”

Greg is handsy, which means that he really doesn’t want a dance. He’s lonely. He wants to talk and he can’t bring himself to ask for even a few minutes of Blaine’s time, at least not with words anyway. Blaine chews his inner cheek thoughtfully for a second before dragging out a stool. He pushes himself up onto it easily, angling his legs so his knees brush against Greg’s each time he moves. The smile he gets from Greg is grateful, even if the corner of Greg’s eyes crinkle with something a great deal sadder than Blaine knows what to do with.

Blaine’s gaze is tender, one elbow coming to prop up on the small table. “I don’t know what’s wrong, so I don’t want to blindly say that it’s going to be okay, but I think you should know that no one is as alone as they think they are.”

Greg grows quieter, averting his gaze. Blaine hasn’t quite struck a nerve, but he doesn’t feel like he’s getting through either.

“I don’t have to be the only one who knows,” Blaine reassures him.

He remembers how shitty it was being closeted, and how awful it felt keeping a secret that he knew people would judge him for. Greg has much more to lose than Blaine thinks he ever did. He can’t imagine the weight of that burden, because it’s not only Greg coming to accept his sexuality, it’s having to tell people who’ve known him for forty-plus years that they Greg they knew isn’t the complete Greg. It’s not only his wife and kids: it’s his inlaws, colleagues, neighbors, and friends. Blaine doesn’t like to think about it, because the more he thinks about it, the more he knows that Greg is never going to get the life that Blaine has had.

“I’m not saying you start with your wife, or rush to PFLAG --,” something he thinks Greg needs desperately, “-- but I don’t have to be the only one. This place might be a dirty secret, but your sexuality doesn’t have to be.”

Greg adamantly shakes his head no. “I couldn’t, someone would find out. It’s hard enough to get a few hours to come here a week. My wife would notice.”

“You could just tell her you’re an alcoholic and you’re in AA,” he half jokes.

Blaine’s not sure if Greg looks like he’s about to laugh or cry. He’s relieved when the older man settles on neither. “Look at you, trying to save the world. One sorry sap at a time.”

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” Blaine deadpans, leaning forward to nod solemnly. The conversation is over before it really began, and Blaine lets it go. “Someday you’ll have to let me know how I did.”

To Kurt’s surprise, they haven’t torn themselves away from the club at the first opportunity. It’s been an hour or so: they’re drunk and reliving some of the better times from high school. It’s the music that seems to bring it all back. Most of the songs blast through the club and reignite old memories, a reminder of the performances they loved and ones they hated.

The more that Kurt laughs, the less he feels like laughing. He feels Tina and Puck slipping away from him. The three of them aren’t terribly close to begin with, but in a few days they’ll both return to their respective homes and he won’t see them again in person for another few years. Then, they’ll sit with one another and wonder why it is that they never really kept in touch. It’s cyclical. It makes Kurt’s throat feel tight and his stomach hollow.

He’s celebrating, but he’s doing so with two people who haven’t been anything more than casual acquaintances for years.

There’s no one who loves him intimately at his side. When Tina recounts her last phone call with Brittany, Kurt chokes on his drink and there is no hand patting him soothingly between the shoulder blades.

“No seriously, look how cute she is-” Puck says, swiping through the photos on his phone.

As far as Kurt’s concerned, Beth’s face is as familiar as the standard inserts that come with picture frames. It looks like someone he should know, but he doesn’t. She looks more like Quinn than she does Puck, but her attitude is all Shelby. She looks way too put together for a pre-teen.

“She’s gorgeous, does she have any boyfriends yet?” Tina shouts over the music.

“Excuse me, what?” Puck asks coldly. People used to make jokes about Burt Hummel sleeping with a shotgun, but Kurt thinks that Puck will literally destroy any boy who even holds the door open for Beth. “Of course not... she’s, like, ten.”

Tina shrugs, pulling out her phone and rooting for her own pictures.

Puck pauses, looking more and more concerned by the minute. “No seriously, do you think she has a boyfriend?”

“You won’t have to worry about it for the next few years, Puck. Relax.” Tina says, offering up her phone with a picture of her toddler holding a newborn. “Look how adorable.”

“You mean when she’s sixteen and stuff, right?”

“Don’t worry,” Kurt interjects, even though he’s not really involved in the conversation. “I’m sure with you as her father and Quinn as her mother, Beth’ll be the patron saint of safe and responsible sex.” It might be catty, but with every anecdote about their respective families Kurt’s reminded of not only what he’s missing, but also what he never had. It’s not that he wants kids, he just doesn’t want to go home and be alone.

And with each drink, he’s getting closer and closer to going home to an empty bed.

He notices tears in the club's carpet that he didn’t see coming in. There’s cash trading hands and the dancers look bored, trying to wriggle out from beneath the grip of handsy perverts. Every dancer who approaches their table after Blaine leaves isn’t nearly as personable.

Where Blaine had been playful, the others just look lost. There’s no glamour here; the blue and purple neon lights find and expose every ounce of grit.

Kurt sees a lot of things, but mostly he keeps seeing Blaine. No matter where he is, or who he’s talking to, Blaine always seems to be the brightest spot in the room.

“Dude, let me buy a dance for my friend,” Puck corners Blaine.

Blaine looks at Puck oddly, standing up on his toes to see Kurt over the man’s shoulder. “Why do you care if he gets a dance or not?”

Maybe he shouldn’t be suspicious, just grateful for the promise of cash, but he can’t help but be. Puck makes Blaine nervous because guys like Puck have always had a way of making Blaine’s life hell. Without realizing that the movement could be construed as defensive, Blaine crosses his arms over his chest, covering the flimsy material of his vest.

“He’s not there,” Puck explains quickly, “he went to the bathroom. I figured that this is my shot to make something happen, because he’s really not going to do anything about his boner for you.” Blaine’s mouth drops open, but Puck holds up a hand to interrupt him. “He’s a good kid, I get if he’s not your type or whatever- but Kurt’s lonely. I think it might cheer him up.”

Blaine exhales through his nose, dragging out the breath like he’s trying to keep himself steady. If Puck’s being honest, then the sentiment is sweet. The problem is that the sentiment is also wrong. Blaine thinks that most people, Greg included, feel worse after private dances. If they’re lonely, then what’s healing about having something dangle out of their reach? What’s the point of longing for something they can’t have?

“It’s his choice,” Blaine says warily. “I’ll ask again later.”

Puck gives him a few crumpled up twenties. Blaine is pretty sure that it’s sixty dollars, even though he’s not necessarily counting the money. “Tina and I want to buy him a dance, just take the money.”

Blaine nods, because as far as he can see, that’s the best way to get Puck to go away.

The club thrives on smoke, colored lights, and silhouettes. Blaine knows that the audience can’t see his face through the deliberate shadows, but they can see every swing of his hips and anticipate every suggestive stroke of his fist around the pole.

He knows that there’s an art to it, because he’s worked damn hard to be good at what he does. If he tries hard enough, there’s a simple beauty to everything. The human body is a marvel of grace, power, and sinew. The dark helps communicate that, and Blaine finds that the bright stage lights cheapen too much of that message. In the dark, there’s no one feature to lock in on. The audience gets to see the full and unbroken line of his body. It’s these moments before the lights come up that Blaine cherishes the most.

The intro isn’t long. It’s fourteen seconds of building percussion met halfway by an electric guitar.

He grinds his hips against the pole with courage granted by the dark’s anonymity. There isn’t a man in the audience who can see his face yet.

The thrusts are sexual. He’s gripping the pole with both hands for balance. He’s counting the beat in his head, and it’s only when Blaine hears a low whistle that he knows he looks how he pictured in his mind’s eye.

He’s always been a perfectionist; there’s no move he does on stage that he hasn’t practiced a hundred times off of it.

He’s losing intro, the song itself is barreling in like a freight train, and when he backs away from the pole, he’s exposed by the bright stage lights. The costume is different for this performance: his top is another vest, with asymmetrical lapels and zippers that make it all too clear how the item is removed. His fingerless gloves match, but he wears them because he doesn’t particularly like to touch the pole. The pants hang loose at his waist, shapeless when following the pair he’d worn like a second skin around the club.

“What’s the time? Well it’s gotta be close to midnight--” he sings.

Blaine gets it, what Shelby said all those years ago. Performances aren’t made by costumes and red Chantilly lace. Out Tonight may not be Funny Girl in E-flat, but every performance since his limited involvement with Vocal Adrenaline has been colored by Shelby’s advice. Be a storm, not an explosion. Express what’s deep inside of you. Light yourself on fire.

It’s what Blaine does, because he knows that a stage can fade away with the right performer on it. He saw it happen and he’s been dying to make it happen since.

Blaine doesn’t sing like he means it; he sings like he wrote the lyrics himself. He doesn’t change anything, cheekily grinning over words like ‘tight skirt’ and ‘chick’.

Blaine isn’t featured by the club as often as he’d like to be, but he knows his audience. It doesn’t matter that it’s Thursday night-- the club is always rowdy and desperate. The dancers may have been carefully picked by the management, but the clientele isn’t weeded out. Greg isn’t the only one in a suit, but Bite doesn’t attract much of the Wall Street crowd. It’s early in the song and they’re already vocal.

His biggest weakness as a dancer is the pole. He’s strong; he could navigate it, but he’s never been able to without shame. It’s impossible to flirt with cold steel when there are warm bodies within his reach.

He stands against the pole, backing up so it’s firmly braced between his shoulder blades. A few men upfront stir in anticipation when Blaine makes eye contact with them. He coyly hooks the top of his foot against the back of the pole. He slides the laces of his boots up, leaning forward enough that it looks like he might be preparing to swing.

When one man finds the edge of his seat, Blaine drags his foot back down. With both feet firmly planted on the floor, Blaine reaches over his head, gripping the pole, and when the song breaks before the bridge, he’s humming along with the instrumental, trailing his swaying hips down the pole until he’s crouching.

He loves the chorus of this song. It feels like he could soar when he hits it, “-- Let’s go out tonight, I have to go out tonight. You wanna play? Let’s run away--”

He can howl, he can writhe, and he can smile breathlessly because Blaine has known spontaneity, freedom, and fulfilling sex. So much of his appeal now comes from enjoying his sexuality rather than being afraid of it.

When he stands, his fingers are securely clutching a zipper and dragging it down, down, and open. He doesn’t ease out of it, he just leaves it behind, energetically moving toward the edge of the stage to collect some outstretched money.

He likes to sing. He likes the way it feels to have eyes trained on him because of a skill that has nothing to do with the way he removes his clothing. However, the latter was still his job, and he knows that. He navigates the boundaries of his own comfort without ever really compromising. He's proud that he's been able to do so every night, because he doesn't know too many people who can stay the same.

The song could do all of the work. Out Tonight in a strip club should be easy, but Blaine has never been a man capable of strutting. He enthusiastically lets the music guide him across the stage, vibrating with a private energy.

“-- So let’s find a bar, so dark we forget who we are, And all the scars from the nevers and maybes die--”

Hitting that note, drawing in so much of himself for a single breath, and gusting it out should take more out of him. But there’s no time for respite.

The song launches forward and it’ll leave him behind if he doesn’t push. Blaine surges forward with it, “Let’s go!” With a buoyant grin, he turns in a small semi circle, hands smoothly unfastening his pants. His shoulders and back continue to undulate with the music, even if the movement is half-aborted at his waist. Blaine teases the pants over his backside, dropping them once queued by a whistle.

He teases a flattened palm between his ribs, dragging it down over his navel. The heel of his hand comes dead center between his hipbones, catching the fabric of his shorts expertly. He eases it down, still rocking his hips, easing the center of the waistband down into a sharp ‘v’. The angles of the fabric cut into the lower muscling of his abdomen, exposing a vein to anyone close enough to see it. It ridges the skin, darting south into the sanctuary of cloth.

He drags it further down, gasping through the predatory moaning in the song.

“You’re sweet, wanna hit the street?”

This part of the song would have made him flush pink in high school. There’s raspy begging about being taken, being made, not being forsaken. His thumbs are curling under the waistband of the thin shorts, his hips swaying as he turns and guides them down just to the very beginning of his curves.

He’s edging them down, the left thumb deliberately braver than the other, angling the fabric so one cheek of his ass his clearly visible.

It feels like the end of the song is abrupt, even though it’s not. The song had been building that way for awhile, Blaine himself had been counting the seconds that stretched for little eternities with a pounding heart. The lights kick back off, bathing him in reassuring darkness. He’s gasping in relief, legs shaking, and lungs swelling in his compact chest like they might break his ribs.

The men surrounding are whistling, clapping, a few of them are laughing from a contact adrenaline high and groaning in disappointment.

It was a good performance. Blaine reaches for his discarded clothes, remembering where they are and finding them easily as the announcer makes a derisive comment about ‘Sable’ being a compulsive cocktease, and God help any man brave enough to ask him for a dance.

There’s a small dressing room behind the thrust stage; Blaine heads for it. He smiles gratefully to the one dancer who compliments him, and ignores the jealous chatter of the others. Inside, one goes as far as to use the tip of his tongue to bulb out his cheek, drawing a circled fist up to his lips. His friend laughs, “I wonder who’s cock I’d have to suck to get a featured slot.”

Blaine dresses quickly, tucking the performance outfit into his pack and shoving it back into his locker. He hates not being liked and the dressing room reminds him of high school. There’s too much cattiness that never gives way to acceptance.

He dresses in the outfit from before, wriggling into black pants that he originally had to lean against the wall to button. They’re looser because he’d been in them for hours. There’s a fine mesh undershirt that goes under the vest that he hadn’t been wearing, but he puts it on now like the fibers are a steel cuirass. He shrugs into his vest, locks his locker, and is gone before anyone can say anything else.

He’s out on the floor just in time to see Greg checking his coat. Greg only offers a small wave which Blaine returns.

Slowly people start noticing that he’s out, and it feels like he’s in a den of wolves.

When a prospective client asks Blaine if he wants a drink, he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t get a Diet Coke like he should, either.

Blaine deals with all kinds of men. Upstairs, Kurt is nervous. Blaine can handle nervous.

Sable is a non threatening personality. He seems to attract the burly men like Greg who want someone small, but can’t lust after someone who looks delicate. He also gets the anxiety ridden boys who’ve just turned eighteen. Both fantasize about dances without realizing how awkward they can be.

Blaine is the type of man who coaxes and reassures, which means that Sable is too.

He’s close enough that Kurt’s eyebrows shoot up once he smells the alcohol on Blaine’s breath. His voice is low and familiar, gingerly trying to coax Kurt out of his shell, “Is something wrong?” Kurt had initially embraced the prospect of a private dance with a smile; it was only after his friends started teasing that his smile became a restrained nod.

Kurt looks wary now. He looks like he wants to stay, but is embarrassed to be there.

Kurt’s eyes focus on the half-circle where Blaine’s clavicles meet. They’re trained there, hungry to look further down. “No, I want this-- I just feel guilty. And then I feel guilty for feeling guilty.”

There’s a flutter in Kurt’s breath, a thin exhale that makes something gentle expand in Blaine’s chest. Blaine’s invested in Kurt’s response. When he rocks back on his heels and cocks his head, it’s because Blaine actually cares.

“God, you probably think I’m completely stupid.” Kurt says on an exhale, smile tight though not happy. The effect is self deprecating enough that something softens in Blaine’s gaze. When Blaine starts to shake his head ‘no’, Kurt continues, cutting him off. “Seriously. This isn’t that hard of a concept. I sit back... you move. Three minutes and this is over.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid.” Far from it. There are only a few people that he still judges around here. Kurt certainly isn’t one of them. Blaine backs off, settling down at Kurt’s feet and sitting back against the club chair. One hand, fearless of boundaries, comes up to cup Kurt’s shin soothingly. “Is it me? You can find someone else, and I won’t be offended.” he says without malice.

“No, no...” Kurt flushes a bright pink. “You- you’re perfect. I mean- you-” he cuts off when Blaine brightens at the compliment. “Shut up- you know you’re perfect, you asshole.”

Blaine is beaming.

“It’s just-- how many guys have you danced for today?”

“Does it matter?” Blaine asks, knowing that the strained muscles in his torso and legs are evidence that the number really does matter to his body. He’s high from the performance, a little floaty because of the booze, and he thinks that there might have been four private dances. His feet though, his feet feel like they’ve walked a mile tonight.

“I guess it doesn’t... what... what are you feeling when you do it? Because if you feel awful, then I don’t want...”

“You’re asking a lot of questions here, Kurt.” Blaine’s fingers tease up the hem at Kurt’s ankle, sliding up over the low sock and winding up to caress Kurt’s bare calf. “Are you sure you’re not looking for a career change?”

Kurt’s mouth drops, before he realizes that oh- there’s a twinkle in Blaine’s eyes.

“Why are you here?”

Sometimes Lebowski says it best. “Gotta feed the monkey,” Blaine quotes simply. The fact that Blaine’s income goes to base essentials like feeding, clothing, and sheltering him makes him sound like a pity case. He’s not, and he doesn’t want to pretend that he is. “Kurt,” Blaine squeezes the man’s calf fondly before releasing it. “I promise, I wouldn’t be back here if I didn’t want to be. No one makes me do anything that I don’t want to do.”

It’s a few seconds before Kurt nods. The other man smiles tightly, the corners of his mouth drawing up without a hint of teeth.

Blaine doesn’t know if the dance is going to be more awkward now that they’ve talked, but he suspects it might be.

Blaine pushes up to kneel, hands cupping Kurt’s knees affectionately, wriggling his bottom a little in anticipation. His ear is craning toward the curtain, waiting for the next song to start. “I bet you five dollars it’s Guns and Roses,” Blaine winks, scooting closer so that his hipbones align with Kurt’s shins.

His fingers are kneading Kurt’s knees, trying to comfort the tiny tremors threatening to become full out trembling. Kurt does relax, deciding finally what to do with his hands, resting them at the edge of the seat. “I’d put my money on ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’, but seeing as it’s a gay club...” Kurt trails off, letting the joke fall where it may.

“It’d be unexpected,” Blaine’s hands inch up Kurt’s legs. “Is it okay to touch you?”

Kurt nods, “I think it’d be weirder if you didn’t. I just thought you couldn’t.”

“I can do what I want,” Blaine reassures him again.

The opening strains of a Garbage song fade in, pulsing in a way that Blaine’s hips instinctively know how to match. The lyrics are frighteningly creepy, but Manson’s voice is oozing through the club, heady, and Blaine is already rocking his back in time with the music, subtly rolling his shoulders. It’s slow. He thinks that Kurt can handle this tempo, and Blaine doesn’t have to be afraid of blowing through Kurt’s boundaries.

He tries to get Kurt to smile by offering up a smile of his own, and Blaine is so so thankful for the innate human response that makes Kurt do so.

His hands are solid on Kurt’s thighs, stroking around and underneath. He cups the underside of Kurt’s legs, sliding down to the backs of Kurt’s knees. He grips there, kneading his hands with the tempo before gripping and tugging Kurt forward. He pulls the man a solid two inches, Kurt’s bottom edging at the end of the chair. Instinctively, Kurt’s knees fall further apart, leaving Blaine with more room to work. Kurt’s eyes are riveted on Blaine, so Blaine gives another reassuring smile.

Kurt props himself up, gripping the edge of the cushion. The more he looks, the hungrier he seems.

He’s lonely.

“What’s your sign?” Blaine asks curiously, already smiling because he knows the question is ridiculous. It’s been a ridiculous pickup line since before either of them were born. It seems to work as a calming tactic though: Kurt immediately rolls his eyes and the last bit of tension leaves his body. He’s boneless, beautiful, and finally letting this be a shared experience for Blaine, not another performance.

“Really?”

Blaine nods, “It’s corny, but I like corny things.” He pushes up the length of Kurt’s body, putting slight pressure against Kurt’s groin with his thigh. “If you’re a Scorpio, you’re naturally lucky- but amethyst’ll make you lucky in love. Sardonyx will protect you from aging,” he leans near Kurt’s forehead, blowing gently along the man’s hairline. “Diamonds make Libras brave and Bloodstones are supposed to keep Aries from getting headaches.” When Blaine looks down, he sees that Kurt is gripping the cushion. Blaine stands, crooking a finger and beckoning Kurt to sit up. “The last one is crap, if my half empty bottle of Excedrin is anything to go by.” He mischievously dances featherlight touches along Kurt's neck, tracing nonsensical patterns from his collarbone to the masculine cut of his jaw. “And I’m pretty sure that topaz doesn’t really make Scorpios and Libras clairvoyant.”

“You believe in that?” Kurt asks, tilting his chin up. He’s enjoying the touch, but it’s clear to Blaine that Kurt thinks the zodiac is bullshit.

“Not particularly,” Blaine draws a leg up and over, effectively capturing one of Kurt’s knees between his. He resumes the instinctive movement once both of his feet are firmly planted on the ground. “There’s too much that I’ll never learn, you know? I like to pick up what I can. I don’t have to believe in it for it to be interesting.”

“It figures that I’d find the only philosophical stripper in New York,” Kurt chuckles, the sound warm and throaty. It’s a little drunk, but definitely real.

“Strippers,” Blaine says, cupping Kurt’s shoulders. “--Happen to be fairly educated. A lot of them are trying to pay for college.”

"What about you? What are you studying to be?"

Discomfort eases into Kurt’s expression once Blaine starts touching his clothes, inadvertently wrinkling the fabric. Blaine immediately releases his grip, “Sorry.” Blaine turns, stepping away from Kurt’s knee and back between the man’s legs. “If I said ‘doctor’, would you think I was lying?”

“I would have guessed lawyer. You talk too much to work in an ER. Your patient would bleed out and it’d take you half an hour to notice that they weren’t answering any more.”

Blaine laughs, the sound carrying over his shoulder.

The song never builds to anything. It’s level and heady from start to finish, guided by a synthetic beat that never craves going up or downhill. Blaine’s tired, but right now he feels like he could continue like this for a long while. “You can touch me,” Blaine says, easing the vest over his shoulders and gracelessly dropping it into Kurt’s lap. He’s close enough to Kurt that he brushes his ass once against Kurt’s chest before turning to face him again.

Kurt tentatively wriggles his fingers over the mesh above Blaine’s navel, grinning like he won something when Blaine’s stomach clenches like it’s been stricken by a bolt of raw energy. It’s not arousal; the texture of the mesh scraping against his skin is foreign and Blaine’s slightly ticklish. He’s steady beneath Kurt’s touch- refusing to jerk away from the man’s fingers.

Kurt is so warm. It’s not hard to want to be near him.

Even if Kurt’s quiet, there’s something reassuring in his stillness.

The mesh isn’t Blaine’s fantasy, he’s not even sure that it’s Kurt’s. It’s not easy to part with, especially not when Kurt’s fingers are rolling the fabric in his hands.

Kurt’s nose suddenly wrinkles, and Blaine has to ask, “Hmm?”

“You deserve much better fabric than this...” There’s an awkward pause where Kurt doesn’t know his name. “Sable’s ridiculous. You deserve a better name than that too.”

“Do you like Gavin better?” Blaine asks, gripping the hem of the mesh and easing it way from Kurt’s fingers and up over his head. Gavin is as close as Greg’s ever gotten. It’s another character, just like Sable.

Kurt’s eyes quickly rove over his exposed chest, nodding. “Gavin is much better.” That wrecked inhale is back, only this time, Kurt can’t seem to swallow it. His lips are parted, fingers suddenly unsure against Blaine’s skin. “Mesh is so bad for your skin. If you take anything away from tonight, please tell me it’s the knowledge that the human body should never be dressed in something used in the production of tote bags and mosquito nets.”

“You’re incredibly opinionated.” Blaine drops his his head, blowing from Kurt’s temple to his ear. Blaine has always used his breath to gauge the comfort of the men he’s dancing for. It doesn’t break Kurt’s focus this time either.

“Stubborn too,” Kurt’s hands finally cup Blaine’s ribs. They’re so soft, palms smoothed and fingers uncalloused. Blaine has never felt their equal on his skin, and he can’t help but choke back a gasp.

The gasp forces his ribs to contract beneath Kurt’s touch.

The song is winding down, but Blaine isn’t moving away. Kurt’s fingers are just starting to find their courage. They’re mapping the ridges and contours of Blaine’s sides like a lover, and Puck and Tina have both paid for at least another dance. “One more,” Blaine whispers, startled because he hasn’t quite found his breath yet.

The next song does turn out to be Guns and Roses, which makes both men quake with restrained laughter. Blaine recovers first, swaying from his ankles and opening his legs gradually. The beat is less heady, but it’s a staple in the club. Blaine can swear that he hears Guns and Roses in his sleep. It’s gritty, it’s jerky. It’s the kind of song that breeds coquettish stroking and slapping.

It’s not long before he’s in Kurt’s lap, knees bent and arms gliding around Kurt’s shoulders.

“I want you,” Kurt breathes meekly, biting down on his lips. He looks so embarrassed once the words are out, flushed from his neck to the tips of his ears from arousal.

Blaine sighs, feeling more affectionate than he does powerful. He drags the soft tip of his nose against Kurt’s cheek, pressing a kiss to Kurt’s chin that’s comparatively chaste to the dirty circling of his hips.

He almost asks Kurt ‘why’, it’s edging at the tip of his tongue, but he knows he doesn’t really want to hear the answer. Blaine has been selling Kurt a fantasy all night; it’s only now that Kurt’s ready to buy it. Kurt doesn’t want Blaine, he wants Gavin-- but with every blush, every uncertain stroke to his skin, and with each change in Kurt’s breath, Blaine wants Kurt a little more. Blaine’s feeling a personal desire that goes beyond his need to please and do his job well. That’s new.

Blaine knows himself. He knows when he wants and when he’s ready to leap-- at that moment, he’s not sure that he is, but he’s close. He could be. Blaine nudges Kurt’s lips with his nose and settles his palms on Kurt’s chest.

“You can have me,” Blaine whispers against the corners of Kurt’s mouth. “Promise you’ll be good to me, and you can have me.”

Kurt’s lips are parted, his breath puffing in tiny noises of frustration.

“Promise,” Blaine commands shakily, sealing the distance between them. The kiss itself is slack, an investigative skimming of Blaine’s lips over Kurt’s bowed mouth. For the first time, Blaine’s fingers return to Kurt’s neck. There’s no intent to tease, he’s just searching for an anchor. Blaine doesn’t know that he wants to feel how soft Kurt’s hair is until his fingertips are currying it at the nape of Kurt’s neck.

Kurt nods dumbly, one hand coming up to cup Blaine’s cheek, his other arm coming to wind around Blaine’s back. It’s supportive, forearm bracing Blaine with more strength than Blaine expected. “Do I?-- Should I pa--?” Kurt can’t seem to find the courage to ask for more details.

Blaine nods, lips pursing over Kurt’s, suckling lightly at the man’s top lip. He releases it with a kittenish bite.

“After,” Blaine insists. He knows it’s dangerous to play a numbers game after he’s given a piece of himself, but if they stop for even one second, Blaine will think. Thinking means this is over, and it doesn’t have to be over. Not with Kurt.

“I feel like I’m out of control,” Kurt seems just as eager to pretend. He’s panting against Blaine’s cheek, fingers cupping Blaine’s face and guiding their mouths back together.

“We are,” Blaine moans against Kurt’s mouth, unsure how far this is going to go. Beneath him, Kurt’s hard. Blaine’s not there, though he wants to be. His body is heating up, stoking flames beneath his skin. What he feels goes beyond frustration, it’s lust. They are out of control. Right now, they’re a car careening without end, spinning and Blaine wonders if it’s ever going to stop. He wonders if the crash is going to hurt.

“My name is Blaine,” Blaine insists, hands cupping both sides of Kurt’s throat, dragging him forward for another kiss.

“I’m really Kurt.”

Blaine feverishly closes his eyes, grinding down.

When Blaine opens his mouth to Kurt, lips finally parting in silent permission, Kurt groans- wantonly spurring his tongue forward.

Kurt knows that this would never have happened without the kissing. He’s still not sure what ‘be good to me’ means. If it means to touch, caress, and reassure Blaine- or if means to sit back and let this end. If it means that Blaine is going to fall apart, pleased, once Kurt hands are on him, or if Blaine would be humiliated if Kurt even tries.

He couldn’t have let go without the kissing. Blaine’s lips make it easy to feel and pretend. The situation, if Kurt were to stop and think of it, should be appalling, but he’s never experienced a romance quite like the slide of Blaine’s mouth and the desperation in Blaine’s fingertips.

The problem comes from the fact that at some point, Blaine turned in Kurt’s lap.

Blaine’s pants are unfathomably constricting, which is saying something considering that it’s Kurt who’s boggled. The man’s thighs stretch the fabric to the seams, thinly veiling every curve. “You didn’t wear these to work, did you?” Kurt asks, fingers uncertainly clasping Blaine’s hips.

Blaine laughs in surprise, turning his head enough that he can see Kurt over his shoulder. “No... no. This is a costume.”

Kurt immediately starts mentally dressing Blaine, wondering if he’s missing the point of having a new man writhing in his lap, but god, Blaine’s body is searingly beautiful from every angle. To see it dressed properly? Nothing could make Kurt harder than imagining the man straddling his lap in a three piece suit. Or maybe even the straining loop of suspenders clipped to expensive trousers, tucked beneath a finely tailored jacket.

“You’d be a menace to society if you wore these outside,” Kurt concedes, the heels of his hands finally coming to rest on Blaine’s hips.

There’s a mole beneath Blaine’s left shoulder blade. It’s small, a discoloration that hardly ridges the skin and it’s the only imperfection on the lean expanse of the man’s back. He’s miserable that he doesn’t have the courage to lean forward and close his mouth over it. Kurt wonders if Blaine even knows it’s there.

His back is as alluring as Kurt half-fantasized it to be. It dips and curves with power and sinew, winding muscles pistoning beneath the surface with each pivot of his hips.

There are two dimples in the small of his back, and when Kurt gingerly swipes his thumbs into the ridges of muscle, Blaine’s hips stutter out of their rhythm with a breathless and surprised gasp.

His chin drops to his chest, and Kurt can see the way that Blaine almost looks back, but shies away from doing so at the last second. Blaine leans forward, gripping Kurt’s knees and clenching the fabric there.

Blaine’s entirely compact, but his waist and hips are so narrow, a fact beautifully highlighted by the angle with which he is bent.

The circles start again, slowly building from a few cautious ticks of his hips to relentless and mindless grinding.

Kurt’s breathless, lips parted with no intent to ever close again. His toes curl and autonomously stretch inside of his shoes every time Blaine’s hip sputters once the circle nears completion. For some reason, he can’t make a perfect circle. Each time he rounds Kurt’s cock, dragging from left to right, to up, there’s a tick so imperfect that it’s flawless. It’s like the upstroke of a handjob, a sensation forced from an angle that a wrist shouldn’t entirely be subjected to.

Curiously, when Blaine drags right to left, to down, the gritty circuit is complete. Whole.

“Your pants.” Kurt groans.

“If you like them so much, they’re yours, okay?” Blaine jokes over his shoulder, abdomen clenching when Kurt’s knees shake.

“Can you-? Would you take them off?” His own pants are still on. He thinks it would be better if he could see Blaine, even if he’s never going to feel anything save for friction. Kurt feels humiliated asking, but he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t. For some reason, he knows that this experience will be both a secret shame and his go-to fantasy for years to come.

Blaine shakes his head, gasping when he finds friction he wasn’t necessarily seeking. “I’ve been sweating. I don’t think you could get them off if you had a pair of scissors and half of the fire department.”

“There’s an image,” Kurt says disappointed.

Blaine nods, pausing before unzipping the front of his pants anyway. Kurt imagines that the air rushes at the sweat slick skin, soothing away the discomfort from the fabric and confinement.

He knows the feeling so well that he groans in empathy. Gratefully, one hand comes up to grip the fabric- toes stalling in his shoes. The alcohol makes everything warm. He’s muddled but he knows that his orgasm is building.

Noises are pouring out of his mouth; embarrassing, dirty noises that thrum through his body. He’s tugging on the back of Blaine’s waistband like he’s pulling on reins, desperate for something between his fingers.

Kurt’s head tips back in a frustrated moan, one the Blaine sympathetically echoes. He wants to come, badly. It builds enough for him to feel the hope that it’s going to be this moment, every picture brighter and clearer now that he’s on the edge, and it’s perfect except for the way that climb flatlines. It reaches only the summit, it hasn’t blown the peak.

The hand not tangled in Blaine’s waistband is rooting for the man’s hip. He wants to sit up, but he’s afraid of moving because fuck if he isn’t close again.

He’s sucking in a deep breath when it hits him like an avalanche, thundering through his seizing abdomen and quivering thighs. His cry is savagely garbled, choked.

Kurt’s certain that he sees nothing but light beneath his eyelids.

When life fades in, the reality of the situation doesn’t fully register. Not until he realizes that not only has Blaine stopped moving in Kurt’s lap, Blaine’s shoulders are shaking.

“Do you need--?” Kurt starts to ask politely.

“No-” Blaine’s voice is very tight. “No-” he reaffirms. He’s so very still that Kurt wonders if Blaine would shatter into a thousand pieces if brushed by a feather.

He’s never needed to see someone’s face as badly as he needs to see Blaine’s.

Kurt is terrified when he smooths his hands tentatively over Blaine’s shoulders. He’s never been good at comforting people when it matters and he doubts that the touch is soothing. Sobriety feels hard earned; the alcohol is wearing off, even if orgasm has left him muddled. He’s blushing fiercely when he dares to circle a fingertip over the mole. “Are you okay?”

Kurt realizes he’s still gripping the back of Blaine’s pants. When he releases them, Blaine uses one of Kurt’s knees for balance, clambering to his feet and rubbing his face with his palms.

He’s very clearly trying not to freak out. Kurt both appreciates it and wishes that Blaine would yell, or sob, or even sniffle, anything.

“I’ll be fine,” Blaine warbles.

He’s visibly not fine. Kurt doesn’t know Blaine at all, he doesn’t even know if Blaine is really even his name. This is the third name he’s been given for a man who may or may not be studying to be a doctor. Kurt wishes that they’d talked about it before, because there’s no way to conclude business without sharpening the sting. “What- what should I do?”

“I guess you take it up with the manager,” Blaine finally looks up. “I’m not sure what that was really worth.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.”

Blaine buttons his pants, zipping up the track that had become loose with Kurt’s tugging. Kurt knew that Blaine had been half hard at one point. There’s a flare of panic and disgust when he thinks that’s why Blaine changed positions in the first place, because he couldn’t.

“I don’t know what to say,” Kurt manages, throat suddenly too tight and face menacingly warm. He doesn’t know when or how he’s made Blaine feel cheap, but he knows that this is not what Blaine meant by ‘be good to me’.

“... I guess you can say what you want.”

Kurt frowns, thinking desperately. “You matter, Blaine.” The blush isn’t fading, in fact it’s spreading. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you don’t, but you do.”

Kurt does something he’s never done. He backs out and away, feeling weaker with each step out of the private room and down the stairwell into the main club. There’s no mirror, but he’s sure that he looks ravished, rumpled from head to toe. His pants are dark enough that the stain from his come isn’t readily visible to anyone not staring. As a cursory measure, he trades his ticket for his coat. True to his word, humiliated and furious with himself, he settles his tab with the manager by credit card. The sum is high, but it’s not outrageous. The fact that it’s not bigger makes Kurt ill.

How is Blaine selling himself even worth it?

He’s dazed when he returns to his friends, feeling like he slipped into an alternate reality. At the table, nothing’s changed. The music even sounds the same. The lights haven’t changed. Puck has an empty beer bottle now, and Tina is giggling into his shoulder. It makes Kurt want to rage.

“You were gone for a long time,” Puck says suspiciously, getting ready to prep his right hand for a high five. Kurt wants to huff and physically strike him.

“It was a dance,” he lies. “I was nervous, so we talked.”

Puck frowns not sure whether he can believe the words coming out of Kurt’s mouth. He frowns deeper when he believes him. “You look like crap. He must have sucked... where is he? I’ll get your money back.”

“No!” Kurt puts both hands on Puck’s shoulders, wrangling him back into his seat, “He was fine. It was just really awkward.”

He gestures with the coat covering his hips. “I’m ready guys, I really... this place isn’t my scene at all.”

It’s not just that Blaine hates what he did, because he does. It’s that he knows he can never forgive himself unless he’s able to take it back, and it’s nothing that he’ll ever be able to take back. He can’t reconcile who he is today with who he was yesterday, and last night... he didn’t like who he was. Until last night, sex had never been divorced from emotion, be it lust or love.

He works with fantasy, he creates it and struggles to maintain it, but it’s all pretend. Blaine leaves everything behind after last call in favor of rolled up sweatpants and an art project.

Last night is going to stick with him forever. It’s not something he gets to leave behind.

Blaine’s going to remember selling himself every time another man is gasping into his mouth. He’s going to go on to kiss, and to smile, and to burrow his face into some man’s neck. He’s going to find someone to love him, and he’s going to pray that they never find out.

It has nothing to do with Kurt. This feeling has everything to do with himself. Blaine can’t pretend he didn’t know what he was doing. He just didn’t realize how much of himself would feel tainted by it. Until the moment Kurt physically came beneath him, it had been nothing more than a friction lapdance. The second Kurt came, it became something wholly different.

He was right before. No one knows. He’s walking through crowds of people who don’t see him and don’t care, and instead of feeling powerful, he feels like a ghost more than ever.

Blaine finds ‘Kurt Hummel’ after a cursory Google Search. There’s a business address. He’s not traipsing around boundaries when he puts on his coat and heads out the door, he’s blowing through them.

It takes him half an hour to get there from his shithole apartment in Brooklyn. He’s running solely on shards of courage.

“I’m looking for a Kurt Hummel,” Blaine says. While waiting for the receptionist to hang up the phone, he unwinds the scarf around his neck. He cards his fingers through his hair, combing the curls forward into some semblance of order.

“Your name?”

“Blaine.” He flushes, wrapping his scarf around his fingers in an attempt to warm them. It’s a nervous gesture. Kurt had been fairly drunk, did he catch Blaine’s real name or did he remember only the fake one? He almost corrects himself, tells the receptionist his pseudonym, but thinks better of it. Would she know? “If he’s not here, that’s okay too. I just have something of his, maybe I could leave it with you?”

“Relax, kid.” The receptionist calls upstairs, speaking to Kurt in a clipped professional manner. She looks back to Blaine every few seconds. Once the call ends, she nods curtly, pointing to the elevators at the back of the lobby. “He says go on up... he’ll meet you in Suite D, seventh floor.”

Blaine feels his stomach plummet. He’d almost been hoping that Kurt wasn’t here. That Kurt wouldn’t remember him, or would refuse to see him. The shame, which had been burning low and privately all day, suddenly flares to life. His cheeks are a deep red by the time he reaches the elevator. His thighs are shaking, and he’s afraid that the motion of the elevator might make him ill. The scarf is being abused, Blaine realizes as he’s wringing the fabric, tugging on delicate threads that shouldn’t be strained.

The adrenaline makes time speed up, when he thought instead it would have slowed down. The elevator feels like a rocket and his legs are begging to run.

Suite D is easy to find, because Kurt is standing in front of it.

Kurt. Long legged, beautifully polished, lean Kurt. He looks way more composed than Blaine feels, and Blaine wants to shrink and fade away into nothing.

Yesterday, he would have never been intimidated by the sight of him.

Kurt looks wary. Rightfully so. “Blaine?”

Blaine points to the door for the suite. “I’m so sorry for coming here. You probably think I’m crazy, but I promise this is only going to take a second of your time.”

Kurt looks over at the office space, half frightened.

“I’m not here to ruin anything, I swear.” God, this is probably every John’s worst nightmare. He’s worse than Glenn Close, or Sharon Stone, or Kathy Bates. Kurt probably thinks that Blaine is here to leech off of his success, or knock him down a peg. No man’s success should mesh with his dirtiest secret, and Blaine is so apologetic for doing this to Kurt.

Blaine’s eyes feel too wide and he probably looks deranged.

Kurt nods anyway, opening the door for Blaine with a ring of keys, and flipping the lightswitch. “Come on in,” he says breathlessly.

Once the door is shut, Kurt is more patient than Blaine would have been had their roles been reversed.

“I didn’t want to come here, I just didn’t know how else to find you.”

Kurt lifts his shoulders, shrugging cutely. His face is too nervous for the gesture to come off like he intended. “It’s not like I gave you my number.”

“No,” Blaine scoffs. “It’s not like I gave you mine, either.”

Kurt is still edging by the door, folding his arms between the small of his back and the door. “Is everything okay... I mean, is there something--” Kurt cuts off.

Blaine vaguely imagines the hundred worst-case scenarios going through Kurt’s head. Hey, I’m here to ruin your life. Hey, I have some horrible STI, just thought you should know. Hey, you bought my virginity-- we should be together forever.

Blaine rubs his face with a humorless laugh. Make it quick-- like ripping off a band-aid. “I never do what I did last night,” he starts. “You were the fir-- I’ve never been paid for....” Okay. Like ripping on a band-aid that gets stuck on every last hair on the way up. “I’m not asking you to understand, because I know that you probably don’t, but I feel so disgusted with myself. I’d like to think that I’m going to feel better, but I won’t if I don’t do something.” Blaine reaches into his pocket, flattening the fabric against his stomach so he can reach into the pocket unhindered. He digs out a thin envelope, extending it shakily to Kurt. “Please, this is yours. I can’t keep it.”

Kurt reaches for the envelope, pink faced and uncertain. “You didn’t want to?”

Blaine doesn’t know how to respond to that. “It was my choice. You didn’t force me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Kurt toys with the corner of the envelope, nodding. Blaine realizes that Kurt was worried about that.

“I made my own decision, Kurt. I could have stopped it at any time, but I didn’t. And I owe you an apology, because I didn’t know it was going to feel like this.” He shakes his head, starting to move for the door. When Kurt doesn’t unblock it, Blaine’s footsteps die in their path.

“Why didn’t you stop it then?”

“I thought I had to, but there has to be... I’m gonna find another way.”

Kurt looks more worried at that then he was before. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I’m so sorry, Kurt.” Blaine says. This time he reaches for the doorknob, and Kurt moves out of the way. “Especially for coming here. I-.” Blaine reaches into his pocket for his scarf, already walking down the hall as he loops it over his head.

When he gets home, he vomits.

Blaine doesn't return any phone calls. He doesn't go to work, either.