Two more shows, and Blaine had wound up in a cubicle after both of them, stroking himself and muffling his moans as best he could. He shuffled home each time to crowd his bathroom sink, trying in vain to work the stains of red lipstick from his skin, trying to keep the flash of blue eyes under kohl from playing over in his head.

He couldn’t keep his mind away from the memory, like a magnet he was drawn back with every absent thought – back to the smooth sound of that voice, to the weight of the muscles in those thighs and the way they slid under pale skin in the spotlight. The feeling of that mouth on his come-streaked fingers, on his chest, the feeling of those long, pale digits slipping around his cock and gliding over his body in the shadows backstage where nobody could see.

Blaine stopped dabbing uselessly at his chest and pressed both palms to the porcelain bench, shutting his eyes tight and breathing roughly against the want and need and now swimming in his veins.

It was torture, pure and simple. It was agony, alone in the early hours of Saturday mornings, and it was driving him insane.

And he knew, with every fiber in his being, that he didn’t want it to stop.

By the fourth straight week of torture, he was waiting for it, waiting for that slide of greasy red drugstore barrel lipstick against his skin, knowing he’d have to hide it for days, not caring if it stained and ruined any more of his shirts. But it never came.

He tried to stay focused for the rest of the performance, but caught himself touching his own chest, thumbing under his collarbones in spare moments of minor dialogue, wondering why his fingers never came away red.

It was different. Frank was different, like the last month had never happened, like everything was as it had been that very first night. The disappointment clogged his throat, hollow and clawing at him, and unexpectedly raw. Don’t be stupid, he scolded himself.

Once they clambered offstage, he’d made his routine trip to the bathroom, this time just to check.

Nothing.

Not a mark on him, and he caught the look on his own face in the mirror a moment too late. God, you’re pathetic.

He’d grown used to the wide, empty space of the side-stage that greeted him whenever he emerged from his post-show bathroom visit. What he didn’t expect this time was Frank, crouched by the tables, kicking at his bag and muttering under his breath.

There was that lump in his throat again.

In a flash Frank was on his feet, tugging the bag up to the table to search it more thoroughly. He jerked around, almost in panic, when he realised he wasn’t alone. “Oh, it’s just you,” he said, smiling and somewhat relieved as he resumed to his search.

“Just me,” Blaine agreed quietly, and winced at the sound of his own voice.

The defeated tone registered for Frank too, and he glanced back over again. “Are you alright?”

“Why did you… what changed?” Blaine asked before he could stop himself. Great, Blaine. Just bring that up. That’s just great.

Frank’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

Blaine looked down at his chest, and then to the ground. “Never mind, I’m just – tired, ignore me,” he said with a dismissive laugh, waving a hand and walking over to find his own carry bag and get out as quickly as he could. Don’t say anything stupid, Blaine, just get your bag, get changed and go.

“Jan,” Frank said softly as Blaine came to his side.

Blaine blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Jan asked me,” Frank continued, turning to face him, “to stop using the lipstick. She couldn’t get it off her costume after the last week, she didn’t want me to ruin another one.”

“Oh,” Blaine said quietly. He'd forgotten than Frank had a bed scene with Janet too, that he wasn't the only one who'd wound up with stains. He tried very hard to look anywhere that wasn’t directly at Frank.

Frank smirked.

“I guess I thought you didn’t…” Blaine paused, his brain trying to get the words out while his sensibility fought them back down at the same time. “That you were… you know…”

Frank’s shook his head, silently asking for clarification.

“That you were done. With me.” Blaine finished, his head tucked down in defeat.

It took a moment for Blaine to notice that Frank was looking him up and down, gaze lingering over his legs and the curve of his ass in the black speedos he used for the Floorshow finale. He always kicked off the heels and peeled off the corset as soon as he was backstage, before he went to the bathroom – it was rough and uncomfortable from the Velcro they’d used to make it quick-change, easy to get into mid performance. He had no idea how Frank managed an actual, honest-to-god lace-up corset for the entire show.

Like a rush of cool wind sweeping his body, Blaine realised in an instant that he was standing there looking like a kicked puppy, half naked, with sweat-drenched curls sticking to his forehead, wearing a black speedo and thigh-high fishnets. Oh god, what am I doing?

“Done with you?” Frank repeated, his gaze shifting away. “Funny, I was wondering the same thing. About me.”

Blaine’s embarrassment took a backseat instantly at the tone of Frank’s voice. He blinked numbly for a moment, mouth open and searching for words before the pieces snapped together in his head.

He hadn’t done anything, not one thing, to make Frank think he wanted more of this. Blaine Anderson, you are a fucking moron.

“You always do what other people want you to, don’t you?” Frank asked casually, still looking down at his flattened bag.

Unsure of how to reply, Blaine rubbed at the back of his neck. He suppressed a shudder at the sweeping memory of the law firm, and the last lecture he’d attended, where he’d fallen asleep and drooled on his sleeve. His father's voice, as always, played in the background. You’re an Anderson, son. Live up to the name. Make me proud.

“I… guess.”

Frank smiled, but it was a sad smile. Even through the make-up, that much Blaine could see.

“Have you ever wondered what would happen if you didn’t?”

Blaine was moving before he could form another coherent thought, pressing into Frank’s space and brushing his fingers lightly over the laces that ran down the corset over his navel. “I want – I mean, I’m not...”

“Done?” Frank asked, his voice breaking slightly.

“God, no,” Blaine breathed. His eyes drifted closed as his fingers dropped lower, and the two of them walked together in stunted steps until Frank’s back hit the wall.

Blaine tried not to shake as he moved his hands up Frank’s sides slowly, his eyes following their path.

“You really don’t do this,” Frank tipped his head to watch Blaine’s expression, “do you?”

He swallowed, trying not to second-guess himself again, trying to stop his mouth from drying out as the pads of his fingers grazed over the garter straps on Frank’s thighs. He looked up timidly from under long, dark lashes. “No, I don’t.”

“You want to,” Frank stated calmly.

“Yes,” Blaine whispered, his breath coming faster now.

“You don’t do anything you really want, do you?” Frank asked, eyes bright and searching.

“No,” Blaine managed on a choked sound. “I don’t.”

His breath caught as he met Frank's gaze. He was still, and stunning in the dim light that framed his pale face, making the wet red of his lips seem almost violent in contrast.

Frank mouthed, so quiet Blaine wouldn't have heard if he wasn't only inches away: "You should."

His entire frame caved in at the whisper of sound, crowding Frank into the wall as he rose up on his feet and kissed him fiercely. Frank’s lips parted quickly, letting Blaine in, letting him lick inside and taste him like he’d needed to for weeks. Blaine pressed their bodies together, scrambling and bucking forward at the slide of Frank’s thigh between his legs.

When Frank groaned against him, Blaine let his mouth pull into a smile, and a tiny thrill of victory shot down his spine. They kissed wetly in bursts of frantic lips and gasping sound, sucking back on each other’s tongues before Blaine lowered down from the balls of his feet and started mouthing at Frank’s collarbones, hands gripping his hips and pushing him hard into the wall.

“Oh god,” Frank gasped, eyes drifting closed as Blaine mapped a path up and down his neck, firm hands gliding over both thighs. His fingers pushed under each garter strap to stroke lightly between lace and skin.

“Fuck.”

He dropped lower still, breathing hotly and licking over any skin bared through triangle patterns of the corset laces. Frank let out a tiny mewling sound as Blaine ended up on his knees, tongue and lips probing under the straps and along at the twitching muscles of his open thighs.

Blaine buried his face there, fingers pressed into the muscle and bones of Frank’s hips and sliding over the satin of the briefs. He took his time, dragging his tongue over creases of soft skin, encouraged with every whimper and moan pouring down from above him like applause.

He bit down softly on the exposed thigh just below the line of lace that cut the seen from the unseen, earning himself a cry of ecstasy from Frank and a shudder that rippled up his entire body. Blaine felt like he was on fire, moving without a second thought and finally in control of himself, ready to stop denying himself everything he wanted. And right now, everything he wanted was Frank, in his mouth, filling him and stretching his lips and dripping on his tongue.

Thumbing gently over both hipbones he glanced up, his bruised and wet lips glistening in the leftover light as he sought out Frank’s gaze. But Frank’s head was thrown back, eyes closed. His mouth hung open in pure rapture, both arms above his head and fingers gripping tightly to the solid metal curtain clasp.

Blaine smirked, and nuzzled gently at the thick, warm bulge straining at the fabric in front of him, stopping to mouth along the outline of Frank’s painfully hard cock.

Frank moaned loudly, hips pressing forward against Blaine’s tongue as he worked him over through the satin with little mercy, leaving it wet and clinging to the shape. He’d pinned Frank’s body to the wall with both hands, stroking possessively up and down past the top of the briefs, unclipping the garter straps and tugging at the fabric with every slide until he finally caught the edges with his fingertips and stripped them over Frank’s thighs.

“Oh fuck,” Frank groaned, eyes rolling back as Blaine’s fist coiled around the base of his cock and a hot, wet mouth slid down the length of him completely.

Blaine made a gravelly, desperate noise around him, gliding his lips back and forth, building a rhythm and squeezing his own muscles violently against the rising warning that was pooling in his belly. The taste of Frank, the weight of him on his tongue sent waves of pleasure into every nerve, and Blaine sucked eagerly back, pulling off with a slurp to lick up the underside and trace a heavy vein.

He panted breathlessly, fighting his own need and glancing up for a moment to take in every inch of Frank with his eyes. A primal, filthy sound made its way out of him, hips twitching and muscles flaring at the sight of Frank’s cock arching perfectly up towards his belly, wet from Blaine’s mouth and glistening obscenely. He dipped his head to take both balls in turn, swirling his tongue as he sucked each into his mouth. He rolled them over his lips, trying not to choke on his groan as Frank let out a torrent of pleas and noises above him.

“Blaine, oh, god,” he stuttered out on sharp breaths, eyes still closed, head pressed back and thrashing side to side as his shoulder blades slid up and down the wall. “Fuck. Oh god.”

Licking up the length of him again, Blaine pressed his tongue across the slit, letting out a blissful sound at the way the taste melted into his senses, perfect and strange and wonderful all at the same time. Frank’s head rolled forward, arms still clinging tight to the curtain clasp to keep him upright as a wave of begging sounds poured out of him at the overwhelming sensations.

Blaine tried to ignore the almost painful ache in his own pants before he sank down, abused lips stretching tight while he pumped his fist once, and again, and sucked hard over the slick head.

With a violent cry, Frank threw his head back and came, his mouth open and throat exposed, hips jerking forward and pushing him deep down Blaine’s throat as he swallowed around him over and over. Blaine whimpered at the stretch and the fullness, clinging to Frank’s hips for all he was worth. The taste, the feel of Frank coming down his throat and the press of Frank’s body against his face sent him over like a tidal, and Blaine managed a shattered, muffled moan around the cock in his mouth as he came, untouched, in his pants.

Frank was still shaking above him, chest flashing with sharp breaths as he rode the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hands falling to rest on Blaine’s head gently.

With a quick glance up as he let Frank’s cock slip out of his mouth, Blaine smiled weakly, lines creasing at the sides of his tired eyes.

Frank’s fingers wound into Blaine's hair, and he stared down at him with a strange look in his eyes. In his post-orgasm haze, Blaine wondered if he was mistaking awe for affection.

“You’re very, very good at that,” Frank laughed softly.

“So I’m told,” Blaine shot back with a grin, his voice gravelled and cracking from the strain on his throat. He rubbed soothingly at Frank’s thigh for a moment, enjoying the playful fingers teasing his hair.

A new expression flashed across Frank’s face when he realised what he was doing. It was almost hidden by the make-up, but it was there all the same. He straightened quickly, letting go of Blaine’s hair to pull up his briefs, and re-clip the garter straps.

Blaine stilled at the sudden change of mood, confused and a little stung until Frank looked down again and smiled warmly. But it wasn’t the same as the look he’d given him a moment ago. This was different. It seemed … controlled.

“Thank you,” he said, helping Blaine to his feet.

“You’re… welcome?”

“I should get home, it’s late,” Frank told him, striding back over to the table and scooping up the strap of his bag to pull it over his shoulder. “And you need to clean up.”

“W-wait, we just…” Blaine noticed mid sentence that Frank’s bag was flat, and empty. But he was still in costume. “You’re going home dressed like that?”

“What can I say?” Frank shrugged as he sauntered to the door. “I do what I want.”

“You’ll get mugged,” he said concernedly, following for a few steps before Frank waved him off.

“I’ll get a cab. Home’s not far. Stop worrying.”

Blaine ran both hands through his hair, stomach churning with the sudden turn of events and his skin prickling with discomfort from the mess still in his briefs. “I can’t help worrying,” he said.

Frank gave him a tiny smile, just a curve at the edge of his mouth, but his eyes shone with affection. There it was again, and Blaine grinned. He didn’t imagine it.

“Goodnight, Blaine,” Frank called back as he slipped through the exit door and out onto the street.

“Goodnight,” Blaine said, mostly to himself, as the door swung shut.

With a blissful sigh, he wandered back over to his bag to gather his change of clothes when he spotted the note in his peripheral vision. It was just a piece of paper, sitting on the ground, scrunched up like it had been balled inside a fist. On closer inspection, the faint outline of sharpie marker sinking through to the back and one word – whore – made bile rise in Blaine’s throat.

He reached down and plucked it from the floor, unfolding it carefully and pressing it onto the table. The handwriting was thick and blocky, and something instantly told him it wasn’t Frank’s.

Guess who’s got your clothes, whore? Why don’t you come by my place, wrap those pretty lady lips around my cock for a while. I know you love it on your knees like you ain’t never got it, so come over here if you want your shit back and I’ll show you what a real cock tastes like.

The blow to the table cost Blaine the skin off two knuckles, but he didn’t care. It was better than throwing up, which is mostly what he wanted to do. The note was signed, with an address written out below it. Rocky. Of course.

He was three strides to the door and ready for a fight before he remembered he was in his underwear, his come-stained underwear no less, and he stopped and screamed in frustration, pressing the heels of both palms to his eyes.

Frank didn’t take the note. He didn’t have the address. He wasn’t going. Blaine kept repeating the obvious to himself, over and over, but it didn’t stop his anger at the fact that the note existed in the first place.

He didn't have his number. There was nothing he could do. At least, not until the next show.

He turned back to the table and buried the ball of paper in his bag, scooping it up and hauling himself off to the bathroom to clean up. Fear awoke in the back of his mind, and he wondered just how well Frank and Rocky really knew each other. Did they work together? Did Rocky know how to reach him outside of the theatre?

Worry seeped in to his chest, burrowing in with the anger and frustration. Blaine closed his eyes, and wondered how the hell he was supposed to survive the next week until Friday came around again.