Blaine had to remind himself that he wasn't okay with being owned.

Sure, he was fine with not having to worry about tuition, alright with living in a luxury apartment stocked with the high quality, fresh from the market foods.  He definitely didn't mind the sound system that was built into the walls in all the rooms from which he could play music off the TV which had more channels than he knew existed, including music from all around the world.  Blaine, in fact, liked not having to sleep on a NYADA dorm mattress - which were more closely related to bricks than the foam they were advertised as.  It was nice not to have to share bathrooms and showers with a whole floor of residents either, and not have to pray to the shower gods that there would be at least a minutes worth of hot water left.

The clothing he wore each day was brand name, like the stuff he had growing up.  No longer did he have to feel ashamed about the knock-off labels when he would be around his more well-to-do peers.  In fact, the clothing he had on his side of the closet was more up to date than anything they wore anyhow.  

The guitar he had been gifted with was also a real MacPherson Camrielle - something he had only ever seen behind glass and a heart stopping price tag in the music shops he frequented.  Whether Kurt purchased it because he actually knew about the quality of the instrument, or because he just picked the highest price in the store and went with it was a question Blaine didn't ask, but he felt like he was carrying pure gold each time he picked it up.

In fact, in the days that followed his feeble attempt to try and earn his freedom, Blaine had to wonder what the point would be in being free.  He had managed to convince Kurt to let him go back to school (though he had to return each day promptly after classes), had been given priority in class selection, and got to live as the affluent did - all for basically nothing but keeping the apartment clean and dinners cooked - and Kurt didn't even ask for that.

A niggling in the back of his mind insisted it was Stockholm Syndrome.  He had, as he recalled reading in his psychology textbooks back in high school, associated positively with his captor.  Regardless of whatever evils Kurt committed from his office, in the apartment he ensured Blaine had everything he asked for and wanted, and never put a move on him sexually or physically.  Hell, even Sebastian had made unkind comments at Blaine's expense in the company of their friends, but Kurt, though he didn't say much, never had.

In fact, all it had taken was Blaine complaining about how the cigarette smell that floated around Kurt like a cloud gave him headaches for Kurt to dump his ashtrays and silently commit to smoking out on the balcony or out of the apartment.  Maybe it was the way the air cleared without the toxic nicotine stench marring it, but Blaine felt more light on his feet each day, and had more energy.

But… he still had to remind himself that he was a hostage, and surely a hostage could never be happy.

“”Why don't you ever talk about your family?”  Blaine asked one evening over dinner, trying, as regularly seemed to be the case, to get Kurt involved in a conversation.

“Nothing to say.”

“There's no pictures of them around…”  Blaine noted, trying to keep the words flowing.

“I have pictures in my head.”

“Do they ever visit?”

“No.”

“Do you talk to them?”

“No.”

“Do you have any family Kurt?”

Kurt sighed and set down his fork, peering over at Blaine with those crystal blue eyes that seemed like something out of a dream or memory Blaine had once had.  They felt familiar, and yet didn't, accented by little wrinkles at the corners and dark circles below them.  “I do, but no one close enough to really bother with.  Is there something you want to know?”

Blaine frowned and shook his head, looking back to his meal and quietly scooping bites back into his mouth.  One of the major pitfalls of being alone in the apartment all day long, day after day, was the lack of social interaction - and Kurt was hard to engage.  Blaine was so used to people all the time, everywhere, that even having to share a bed with Kurt was almost a relief because it reminded him of the close proximity of living with other guys in the small dorms.  

Otherwise sleeping with Kurt was exceedingly weird.

For starters, the snoring would periodically wake Blaine, making it so he never got a straight eight hours of rest like he had trained himself to do for years.  Then there was the fact that Kurt was a total blanket hog and liked to keep the temperature in the apartment cool at night for some reason, leaving Blaine to freeze until he wore layers to bed - which he was.  There was also the issue of Kurt drifting towards his side of the bed as he slept, to the point that Blaine could feel Kurt's breath on him when he had those abrupt waking moments, and it wouldn't be so bad if not for the fact that Kurt's breath reeked of cigarettes and alcohol most of the time.  

On top of all that, Blaine always felt Kurt's eyes on him when he wasn't looking at Kurt, either before bed or on the rare morning when he actually woke up while Kurt was getting ready.  For a guy that so eagerly pushed Blaine off of him when Blaine was trying to show how desperate he was, Kurt sure had no problem ogling Blaine all the time.

Or maybe it was just Blaine's imagination running away with him.  Aside from being stared at, Blaine really had no proof that Kurt was even gay.  Or maybe he was just a closeted gay guy, which would fit with the whole mobster profile.  Maybe he wanted Blaine, but couldn't act on it.  Or maybe, Blaine was just that unattractive.

It wasn't a new feeling for Blaine, to consider himself unattractive.  Sure, there always seemed to be girls interested, but never guys.  He had thrown himself at one older guy who worked at a Gap store when he was in high school and was angrily rebuffed, and then there was Sebastian whom Blaine had spent way too many years pining over with no results.  Maybe there was something wrong with him.  Maybe he was unattractive, or too needy, or just… something.

Whatever the case was, he was glad that Kurt had the sense to stop him, because in that moment when he was face down on Kurt's crotch Blaine was on the verge of tears at what he was doing, how low he had gone (both literally and figuratively), and how much he wanted to be on stage after seeing the play.  The actors, the stage, the music - it made his heart stutter in his chest to think about it.  He got goosebumps, prompted by the chills the ran down his neck and out to each arm.  When the audience stood and clapped, Blaine was the first one on his feet, and for a second he felt like it they were clapping for him.  The accepted him.  They liked him.  They wanted more of him.

Of course the moment passed, but Blaine remembered it vividly, and now more than ever he wanted to act and sing and have the world worship him.

But he was stuck in an apartment with the only audience available to him being Kurt, who barely seemed to give Blaine any notice except to stare at him uncomfortably.  

It became more wearing as time went on.

Kurt would be gone most of the day, and often sometimes at night, but the final straw for Blaine was when Kurt left a note for him one morning saying he'd be gone on a business trip for the whole weekend.  

Blaine lasted until the first night until he got so maddenly lonely that he went into the bar, grabbed something that looked toxic, and drenched his liver in it until his head was numb and tingly and his body felt warm all over.  

After that he didn't remember much, but thankfully woke up in the bed - though with a killer headache and only one sock on.

The second night he originally thought he'd behave himself, but again he found himself in the bar, hugging a bottle to his chest, sitting and singing out show tunes in every key but the right one.  

That's when things started getting really hazy in his mind, as the lines between what he should do and what he could do blurred.

“Hey!  Kurt!”  He yelled up at the ceiling, bottle in hand splashing out and over the rim and onto his hand.  “Why tha' ‘ell you keep leavin' me ‘ere all ‘lone?!  Ain't I good ‘nough for you?!”

This was followed by an obscene amount of giggling and hiccups before his constantly spinning wheel of emotions stopped on angry again.

“Wha' you want?” A hiccup.  “A show?”  Another hiccup.  “I'll give ye' one!”

Blaine was vaguely aware of the fact that he was stripping down, complete with little breathy sing-song hums to accompany his rotating hips, and at one point he registered that he was standing up on the couch in nothing but his underwear and a new bottle in hand - but didn't recall climbing up on the couch or getting a new drink.  What he did remember was crashing backwards over the couch and landing on his back, and no matter how much alcohol he had drank, it didn't seem to help the pain.

Yet he wasn't so easily brought down, and once he had finished sipping the bottle dry from his position on the floor, he crawled to the bar to collect a new bottle of something.  Anything would do at that point.  If there was one thing Blaine knew about himself it was that the more he drank, the less the actual type of drink matter.  He was just constantly thirsty.

It was when Blaine was snuggled against the mini fridge in the bar that he heard the door open, but with the way everything seemed to be processing in a delayed manner, he only heard the door and the footsteps after his eyes had spotted Kurt walking to him, shaking his head as he did in that disapproving way and crouching down to meet Blaine's eyes.

“You're a mess.”

It didn't look like Kurt was yelling, but to Blaine's ears it sure felt like it and he cringed with the words before tossing an accusatory finger in Kurt's face.  “‘n you're there!”

It sounded like it made sense in Blaine's mind, but the way the corner of Kurt's mouth crept up into a smile and another shake of his head was given, he realized it probably didn't make sense, and, before he knew what was happening, the bottle had been pulled out of Blaine's hands and Kurt was picking him up.

It made Blaine dizzy, and all he could think of to do in response was wrap his arms around Kurt's neck and whimper in the hopes Kurt would understand his pain.

“Christ… how much have you had to drink….”

It was less a question and more a statement as Kurt looked over the empty bottles in the living room before carrying Blaine up the stairs and to the bedroom.  The journey made Blaine's stomach bounce though, and again he whined and buried his nose in Kurt's neck.

“Why don'cho like me?”

“Oh good grief…”  Kurt huffed, carefully setting Blaine down on the bed, which he crawled down the center of and hugged the pillow he usually rested his head on.  “... what the hell are you talking about?”

“You bought me…. but you don't even want me… and I'm so alone all the time….”

Blaine heard a sigh, and shut his eyes to block out the light over the bed that seemed to be digging holes right through his eyes and into his brain.  “It's not my policy to have serious discussions with drunks.”

“But you won't even talk to me when I'm sober…”  

“It's been a long time since I've had to talk about anything outside of business Blaine…”

“But you're all I have!”

The room went quiet then, and Blaine heard the light switch snap and the light behind his eyelids faded.  He let them open again to adjust and watch as Kurt peeled his clothing off until he was only his his underwear as well before crawling into the small space Blaine was affording him by dominating the center of the bed and looking directly at him with those bright blue eyes.  

“I'll try more.”

“Why'd you even buy me….?”

Another sigh, and Blaine, drunk as he was, didn't miss the pained expression Kurt made before turning away from him.  

“I'm trying to figure that out still.”