Something inside him had changed.

Gone was the placid smile that never reached his eyes, the nod at each command and the undercurrent of an eternal need to please these people. His gaze remained unfixed, wandering as he listened to instructions or demands. He kept to himself, he did what he was expected to; but any air of desperation had slipped out of his being, replaced now with a quiet confidence, thrumming and crackling like electricity under his skin.

It began the moment he fell to his knees that night, and it hadn’t dissipated since. You don't do anything you really want, do you?

You should.

He stopped worrying about taking his breaks at the perfect allocated times, about not being so much as a second late getting back. His work was done without his usual frantic double-check to ensure everything was perfect. He stopped staring at the carpet when he walked through the hallways, and started muttering quiet, abusive callbacks under his breath whenever the senior partners passed him by.

Somehow, nothing seemed so big anymore. His future, the law firm, the whole unconquerable mountain had become a strange and unwanted molehill he had little interest in standing on.

He just wanted to make it back to Friday.

Monday, his brain corrected him, and he froze for a moment. Right. Monday. He waited for Mondays, not Fridays.

He sighed, slumped against the elevator wall on his way out of the office one afternoon, eager to get home and out of his suit. The lift let out a familiar ding! as the doors slid open.

Making his way out into the marble lobby, he adjusted his bag, stepping around other fast-escaping employees from various offices and trying to keep out of everyone’s way. At least work was over, and with his class schedule free, he had a quiet night ahead of him.

His eyes grew wide the moment he glanced out the huge glass doors, stopping to stare openly as he tried to process exactly what he was looking at.

Kurt.

Kurt, or at least, the all-too-familiar back of him, was right there. He was right there, on the street outside the huge glass lobby windows, caught up in a warm embrace with another man.

Blaine felt something hot lodge thickly in his throat as the stranger grinned over Kurt’s shoulder, both arms wrapped tight around his back. He was huge, whoever he was, and broad like some kind of gargantuan quarterback.

The sinking sensation in Blaine’s stomach suddenly left him feeling like half his organs were somewhere near his knees.

Kurt had a boyfriend.

Blaine’s open lips trembled softly around nothing, and he blinked a few times, moving in awkward half-steps when passers by began to bump into him and glare.

He was numb the rest of the way home, breathing air like soup and walking clumsily on cotton wool. Kurt had a boyfriend. He could even have a husband, for all Blaine knew.

He couldn’t feel anything. Even his scolding inner voice was silent, drowned out by the sickly feeling in his chest that washed through his blood and left an absent whistle in his eardrums.

The days dripped by at an agonising pace, and Friday was no exception. By the time he reached the theatre he’d managed to bury all thoughts of his miserable week at the back of his mind, focusing instead on the gathering rage that was anchored by the note in his pocket.

Side-stage there was no sign of Rocky yet, no hint of telltale sandy hair or that nauseating sneer that seemed permanently spread across his face. Blaine changed, dragging himself into costume distractedly and glancing around every few minutes until Col and Riff shifted, and there he was, struggling into his gold hotpants.

Blaine let go of his bag, his brow dropping into an angry glare as he bee-lined determinedly to his target. He’d made it four strides across the room before a strong arm coiled around his waist, practically dragging him off his feet towards the wall by the exit door. He stumbled under the pull, struggling in protest as Frank gave him a sharp shove that sent his back colliding with the smooth black-painted concrete.

Frank shifted gracefully in front of him, blocking his view. “What are you doing?”

“Well I was going to show Rocky what a real fist tastes like,” Blaine spat angrily, tilting to try and peer around Frank’s frame.

Frank’s hand pressed into Blaine’s chest, holding him back against the wall. After a moment spent searching his face, he let out a long, exasperated sigh and let his head hang as his eyes fluttered closed. “You found the note.”

“I found the note,” Blaine repeated. “How is he still here? When he does things like that? It’s harassment!”

“I’m working on it,” Frank said, and he glanced up as he spoke. “I have it under control, but it’ll help if you could not get arrested for assault in the meantime.”

Blaine let out a huff of frustration, swallowing down his anger and growling under his breath. “Fine, alright. I … can do that. But if it happens again, I–”

“You’ll do nothing,” Frank instructed calmly. “Because I need to take care of this myself.”

They locked eyes for a moment, Frank searching him carefully for any sign of understanding.

“Alright,” he whispered, resigned.

“Do you still have it?”

Reluctantly, Blaine pushed a fist into his pocket, dragging out the crumpled note and pressing it into Frank’s open and outstretched palm.

“Thank you.” Frank’s voice was gentle like it had never been, and Blaine felt a tremor at the warmth in his eyes.

Blaine couldn’t help but move with the invisible pull he felt, drawing in to Frank’s chest and reaching up to cup his jaw. When Frank stepped back suddenly, flashing him a quick look of warning, Blaine almost choked on the surge of disappointment that came before the recognition.

Not here, not now.

The rest of the cast milled around them noisily, throwing props back and forth and singing fragments of random pop songs as they prepared. Nobody seemed to have noticed their exchange, and Blaine breathed a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he needed right now was to screw this up. He didn’t want to think about what he’d be left with, if he lost this too.

What had been an absent thought turned out to be a dam break, and with that notion slithering around in his mind all he could think about for the rest of their performance that night was how badly he could potentially screw everything up.

All he could think about was Kurt, and the boyfriend. That soon became his stupid bosses, and his father’s disappointed expression at their last family dinner. He couldn’t even remember why it was there, this time.

That surge of frustration then melted into the shape of Frank, his Frank, hiding him away like some dirty secret until the day he blew it. And then Frank would look at him that way, too.

Disappointed.

He wondered if Kurt would look at him that way, if he ever really knew the truth.

Blaine dropped his cues all night, struggling to remember simple lines and shooting looks of apology to the others as they carried on regardless. He tried to focus, tried to steady himself and escape from the torrent of what-ifs in his own head.

The bile that rose in his throat every time Rocky opened his mouth wasn’t helping anything. It didn’t matter that he was only speaking his lines; all Blaine could hear was the note. All Blaine could hear was lady lips and whore.

The show ended to a mediocre smattering of applause, and as the cast filed backstage Blaine tried to ignore the feeling that every muttered word and frustrated grumble was aimed at him.

He shuffled quickly to the bathroom, dragging his bag behind him and changing tiredly in the largest stall. As much as he enjoyed the strange sense of power and freedom the costume gave him, tonight he was ready to be rid of it, to be plain and boring Blaine again. The student. The intern. Invisible, agreeable (pushover, his brain supplied) Blaine.

Glancing at himself in the mirror as he came out, he flinched at the outline of his face, appearing almost sickly under the harsh glow of the fluorescent bathroom lights. Nothing special, he thought to himself. No wonder he doesn’t know who you are.

He trailed his fingers lightly over the edges of the corset poking out the side of his half-zipped bag. What a strange thing, to slip out of Brad and back into himself with the peel of fishnets and leather. All he saw now was Blaine. Just a kid in jeans and a ratty old long-sleeve t-shirt he’d had since he was in high school, but he loved all the same. It didn’t matter how long he stayed in the city, somehow that one shirt always smelled like home. Like Dalton, he corrected himself.

Tired and bone-weary, he pushed past the door with his shoulder, stepping out into the empty room. Frank was waiting for him, this time, not distracted or going about his own worries but visibly waiting, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded neatly and his long legs jutting out on a slope, crossed at the ankle. “There you are.”

Blaine managed a weak smile. “Sorry, I know that was… I was terrible. I’ll do better, next week.”

“Did he turn you down?” Frank asked suddenly, his expression impassive but his eyes flickering with curiosity.

Bemused, Blaine moved closer. “Sorry?”

“You’re walking around like someone stomped on your heart before they spat on it,” Frank said, lightly enough that it felt like a friendly tease. “Either you asked the guy out and he said no, or he died.” Then, in a rush: “Oh god, he didn’t die, did he? Please tell me he didn’t, I don’t need that kind of guilt.”

Blaine laughed softly, closing his eyes for a moment. “No, he… I mean. It’s nothing,” he said.

Frank’s gaze narrowed. “But it’s about him.”

Blaine shifted awkwardly. “It’s silly. It’s nothing, really. He… he has a boyfriend.”

Something flashed across Frank’s face, something that looked a little bit like victory. “That’s it? What, he didn’t tell you about him?”

“Oh, no,” Blaine mumbled, embarrassed and staring at the floor, “it’s not like that, he’s … I’m … he doesn’t know I exist. He’d never… God, he’d never look at me twice.” Blaine admitted with a shrug, trying to play it off as casually as possible.

Frank’s amused expression faded, replaced with a measuring stare.

“It’s ridiculous, I know, to … pine after someone who doesn’t even know your name,” Blaine said earnestly. “But that’s all it is. I’ve just worked it up so much in my head. But really it’s just … me. Pining.” He laughed, mostly at himself and how ridiculous it all seemed aloud.

“Why him?” Frank asked, his voice higher than usual. “If he doesn’t even know who you are?”

Blaine sighed, trying to come up with the words to explain as his eyes mapped the wall absently.

“Have you ever … seen somebody, in just a fraction of a second but it felt like so much longer. And you knew, in that moment, that you were…” he struggled for a moment, mouth trembling. “You were made to hold them? That you would give everything just to hear their voice? That’s how it felt, when I saw him. I mean, it sounds insane, it sounds like something out of a bad movie..."

Frank cocked his head to the side, watching him carefully as he spoke.

“But it happened, and I haven’t been the same since.”

With a slight nod, Frank wet his lips. He appeared expressionless, if maybe a little lost.

“It’s hard to explain,” Blaine used both hands to gesture as went on, his eyes still glancing around the room spoke passionately, “but have you ever just – seen someone for that one moment. And it didn’t matter how far away you were, or if they saw you too, you just knew, in that fraction of a second,” he breathed, “that they were absolutely perfect.”

Blaine didn’t see Frank shift to look at him, or the way Frank’s eyes trailed down the line of his profile to his mouth and up again. He didn’t see the flicker of sadness that swept across his features.

“Yes,” Frank whispered. “I have.”

“Wait, how did you know?” Blaine asked suddenly, his brain finally catching up to realisation. “How did you know about him?”

Frank arched a painted eyebrow.

“You did hear me! That night, you were listening.”

“Of course I heard you,” he said with a scowl.

“The lipstick!” Blaine’s eyes widened. “That was … I mean, I knew it was deliberate, but that was because of…?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Blaine let out a punctuated laugh. Frank was jealous. Frank had heard him, and marked his body with his mouth for weeks on end because he was jealous. Blaine’s cock twitched in his pants as the awareness hit him. The knowledge left him aching; made him want to push Frank down into a cinema seat and strip those fishnets down with his teeth. He wanted to spread Frank’s legs as ridiculously wide as he knew they would stretch so he could settle there, against the heat of him, and taste him all over again.

He dropped his bag, crowding into Frank’s space and holding him tight to the wall as he kissed him deeply.

Frank whined against his mouth in delight, his tensed muscles relaxing under Blaine’s fingers. “Mmm,” he hummed softly when Blaine pulled away.

Studying him for a moment, Blaine drew a long breath. He wanted all of it, the heat and the rutting and the slide of skin on skin, and he wanted it with Frank. But first he had to know. “Why me?”

Stunned, Frank tipped his head back. “Why you what?”

“Why this, with me?” Blaine uttered, thumbs stroking over Frank’s sides as he spoke. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking you to stop, I just … don’t understand why you made an exception.”

Frank stilled, his Adam’s apple darting up and down in the dim light as he swallowed. With a tiny huff of breath he let his gaze fall, fingers trailing up and down Blaine’s biceps lightly as he tried to come up with an answer.

“Janet told me, she said it to everyone that night. You don’t fool around with the cast, ever,” Blaine went on. “I respect that, I do. But it would help if I knew why me. And why it’s a secret. I have to keep reminding myself not to touch you when they’re around." He squeezed possessively at Frank's sides. "God, I want to touch you.”

The way Frank’s breath punched out of him in little bursts sent shivers up Blaine’s spine, and he felt the fingers on his arms grip against the muscle.

“I can’t,” Frank managed to whisper. “You have to trust me.”

Blaine dragged his teeth roughly over his bottom lip, trying to force down the thousand questions that rose in his mind. “Okay.”

As he met Blaine’s gaze, Frank’s eyes were heavy and half-lidded, filled with gratitude and something else; something indescribably warm that coiled inside Blaine’s chest and made his breath stutter.

“Can we still…” Blaine began to ask, trying to find the right words. Don’t screw this up. “Are we still going to do this?”

“Yes,” Frank said quickly. “If you want to.”

“I do,” Blaine replied just as fast, his huge eyes searching Frank’s face. “I don’t think I can… stop.”

Frank’s gaze dropped to the line of Blaine’s mouth for a moment, and lingered there, silence pressing around both of them before they met in a fierce kiss. Frank slid both long, gloved arms over Blaine’s shoulders, leaning into him as Blaine squeezed his hips again.

“Blaine,” he managed breathlessly as they pulled apart.

Blaine silenced him with another kiss, sliding both hands down and over the supple curve of his ass, cupping it in his palms.

“I want you. Please, I need-” Blaine begged in ragged breaths between kisses, and Frank nodded rapidly in agreement before they met again, and rolled against the wall.

It was always slow, always languid and teasing like drawn out worship, when they touched each other. Blaine let his breath ghost over skin hotly; let his tongue trace patterns over muscle and lace, his body thrumming with desire and heat whenever he slipped down between Frank’s thighs. He was alive, here, he knew who he was, knew what he could do – and every sound that Frank gave him was affirmation. It crept up his spine, sunk into his bones; the sounds that were just for him. Because of him.

He bent Frank over a cinema seat that night, tongue sliding inside of him as he pawed at soft red fabric and screamed out Blaine’s name over and over, begging and pleading for him to keep going, don’t stop. Please don’t ever stop.

Blaine did as he was told this time, wet pink tongue slipping in and out of Frank’s body as he massaged fingers into the muscle of his ass, stroking down his thighs and grunting desperately against the soft skin. Blaine wanted to bury his mouth there forever, feel the tight ring of muscle against his tongue until he couldn’t breathe anymore.

By the time Frank came, moaning obscenely and loud enough to echo through the theatre, Blaine’s arms were braced against his pale hips and holding him down. He didn’t stop for a moment, tongue working him through it, dropping to suck gently on each of his balls and drag a wet stripe over his perineum before he went back to stroking him open with his mouth.

Frank keened, struggling and thrashing briefly before his body went lax and he lay there, taking it. With every sweep of Blaine’s tongue and press of his lips, muffled incoherent sounds poured from Frank’s mouth and ricocheted off the theatre walls.

When Frank came a second time, Blaine joined him, draping his body over Frank’s frame and clinging tight as they both shuddered and shook.

When they began to come down from the dizzying haze, Frank cast a glance over his shoulder, scarlet lips curled at the side in a weak smile. “And who told you that you could get away with that?”

Blaine laughed, pressing his mouth lightly across Frank’s shoulder to the top of his spine. “Someone told me,” he said between kisses, “that I should start doing what I want.”

Frank laughed breathlessly against the seat fabric, warm and sated under Blaine’s weight.

After a moment he sighed blissfully, closing his eyes.

“Well, then, let me be the first to say,” he murmured. “You’re an excellent listener.”