Culver City. Kurt had never even heard of the place, and now he just wanted to get there. A middle school in Culver City to be precise. The autograph signing was actually part of a fundraiser for an inner city school project that helped kids realize their dreams of writing screenplays and scripts, so they were holding the signing in the outdoor courtyard where the kids ate their lunch every day. In the end, Kurt could say that spending $500 for his ticket was money well spent if it helped fuel the dreams of kids like his. Plus, he got the chance to meet Blaine Anderson to boot.

For the opportunity to meet Blaine Anderson, $500 was a steal, even if it did mean that his family would be eating mac ‘n cheese for the rest of the month. And not the name brand stuff either. The knock off store brand crap that he could only pass off because it, too, came in a blue box.

Blaine Anderson. Thinking about the man had made Kurt’s three hour and nine minute drive (thanks to a hellacious accident – one overturned semi and three cars piled up) fly by. Kurt had to park his car in butt fuck Egypt (every school had one, a parking lot so far away it might as well be on another continent), and jog over. It seemed insane to Kurt that kids would be required to cross a busy street and walk all this way just to get to school.

He prayed, for their sake, that it was one hell of an impressive school.  

Despite traffic’s best efforts to make him late, Kurt arrived fifteen minutes early, but by the time he got to the line, it was already a mile long.

Had he stayed in the lot where he’d parked, the line would have eventually come to him.

Traffic and long line be damned, Kurt remained upbeat. He couldn't believe that any minute now he would meet his idol. And get his autograph. And talk to him. And possibly shake his hand. But Kurt had a while to wait. He could feel a lump form in his throat in anticipation of meeting the one and only Blaine Anderson, star of Kurt's all-time favorite show Sing. Thank whatever abstract higher power creature lived in the sky above that Dave had forced him to go. Dave was right. Kurt deserved this. He deserved this moment, without Dave and the kids tagging along, to drool over this gorgeous man.

Kurt caught glimpses of Blaine over the sea of heads in front of him. There Blaine sat at a series of long tables beside his co-stars, including his on-screen bestie/off-screen girlfriend Mia Bradley, and rumored love interest Sebastian Smythe. Sebastian was handsome in a cheesy, CK model sort of way, but Kurt always thought he kind of had a meerkat face and horse teeth. And no, that wasn’t jealousy talking. Not at all. (Seriously, though, Kurt thought, they must cake the make-up on that man, because if the camera adds ten pounds, there’s no telling how badly it exaggerates a feature like that. There’s no way they don’t do something to fix it for the show.)

But Blaine Anderson was the genuine article. Apparently, most of Southern California thought so, too, as evidenced by the line Kurt stood patiently in. It wove its way around the asphalt courtyard three times before stopping in front of the man himself.

Kurt bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet as he waited on line. It crept along far too slowly for Kurt's taste as every teeny bopper and middle-aged woman felt the need to stop all forward progression to tell Blaine how amazing he was, how handsome, how talented, how genuine a person, as if Blaine Anderson, of all people, needed to hear that over and over and over …

Oh, who was he kidding? Kurt would probably do the same. Because regardless of if Blaine had heard all of that a thousand times before, he hadn’t heard it from Kurt yet, and as far as Kurt was concerned, Blaine Anderson needed to hear from Kurt that he thought Blaine was the most incredible man that ever lived.

Kurt received quite a few interesting looks as he waited. It seemed that when an event called for "business casual" on the invite, it was understood in this day and age to mean jeans and a t-shirt. Or in some cases, booty shorts and a tank top. Kurt wasn't exactly sure how that worked. He guessed it depended on what kind of “business” a person was in.

Considering his own line of work, was he really in a position to judge?

The answer to that was yes, but that was beside the point …

So, he was overdressed. So what? He was comfortable in his own skin, not to mention in his absolute favorite Alexander McQueen. He made a mental note to cook Dave his favorite rack of lamb a la Kurt as soon as he could afford one as a big thank you for rescuing his suit from the uncultured masses. 

The minutes inched ever closer, and Kurt's heart thrummed in his chest. Five people, then four people, then three, and two that came together (thank God), then one ... and Kurt had arrived.

There Blaine Anderson sat, as dreamy as ever.

He wore a tight, royal blue, long-sleeve Henley that looked so cozy, Kurt had to do everything in his power to keep from reaching out and feeling the material. A quick peek beneath the table told Kurt that Blaine was wearing his signature indigo jeans, the ones that left precious little to the imagination. Blaine's black curls had been left relatively untouched - such a stark contrast to the severely gelled coiffure he sported on TV. Kurt stood so close that he could brush a curl from Blaine’s face, maybe leave a kiss on his temple ...

Kurt blushed, and he felt foolish. After all, in the end, Blaine was just a person - an incredibly handsome, successful, compassionate person – but, a person. 'Still puts his pants on one leg at a time,' his dad would have said. Kurt rolled his eyes. 'Great. Thinking about my dad. That always helps when confronted with introducing myself to a sexy man.’ But Kurt was no shrinking violet. Kurt Hummel was a force to be reckoned with. He pulled himself to his full height and cleared the lump from his throat. He held out his photograph and said, "Excuse me. Mr. Anderson?"

Then something unexpected happened. Blaine looked up. He reached out for Kurt's photo ... and took hold of his hand instead.

***

Blaine loved autograph signings. Mia felt indifferent about them and Sebastian couldn’t stand them, but for Blaine, an opportunity to have his ego stroked by the masses who loved and adored him was always a welcome way to spend a Saturday night. He had already signed well over a hundred head shots, but the line kept growing, and he was far from tired. He was enjoying himself so much, he barely registered the scowl from Sebastian as his co-star flipped between one app or another on his iPhone and sarcastically commented to the fans that had waited minutes on line for Sebastian's autograph compared to Blaine’s over an hour-and-a-half. 

Blaine looked up at the next person in line, expecting to see another hot teenager in a too-tight-to-be-appropriate tube top gush at him. What he didn't expect was to lock eyes with an angel - an angel with pale, flawless skin; crystal blue eyes; a head of wavy, chestnut hair; dressed impeccably in Alexander McQueen. Blaine's mouth dropped open slightly as he approached. The angel smiled at him, extending a hand for Blaine to shake. Blaine took it and held it.

And oh, the angel's skin was soft. So very, very soft. 

Everything around Blaine stopped dead, everyone around him disappeared, and Blaine started entertaining thoughts he shouldn’t be in the presence of a PG-13 crowd. Wouldn't it be so easy for him to get up and walk away with this angel in his arms? He didn't really need to be there. The rest of the cast were there signing autographs. Sebastian would love the extra attention. No one would miss him. Even if they did, so what? What could be more important than being with this heavenly vision? 

Blaine held the angel's gaze, mesmerized. He looked into the angel’s shimmering azure eyes and planned the rest of his life, from these few minutes to the next fifty years ... and Blaine didn't even know his name.

"Hello. My name's Blaine," he said lamely. The angel giggled. 

Then the angel opened his mouth, and there came a voice ... a voice that rang like a bell, high and clear, inhuman in its beauty. It drifted into Blaine's brain like a song that he knew would be there forever, in his head, in his heart, stuck like an earworm wiggling its way inside his brain.

And he hardly minded. 

"I know," the angel said. "My name's Kurt."

Kurt.

The angel’s name was Kurt.

"Well, Kurt," Blaine said, swallowing thickly, "it's nice to meet you."

Blaine's reaction overwhelmed Kurt. What was happening here? Were they sharing a moment? 

'Shh, Kurt,' he said to himself. 'Blaine Anderson is an incurable flirt, remember?' 

But this didn't seem like regular, everyday flirting to Kurt. Blaine Anderson, the Blaine Anderson, was staring at him in awe, holding his hand captive. Kurt gave it a little tug, but the man would not let go.

Sebastian looked up from his game of Candy Crush and over at his co-star when he noticed Blaine’s line had stopped moving. When he caught Blaine staring in rapt attention at the man standing before him, Sebastian was shocked ... and then he seethed. Was Blaine Anderson really gawking like a lovesick teenager at one of his fans? Nu-uh. Not Blaine. Blaine didn’t fuck with fans. Neither of them did. That was dangerous territory. Besides, Blaine had had his dick down Sebastian’s throat not five hours ago. There’s no way he was making googly eyes at someone else. Sebastian had to squash this and fast. He pulled out his iPhone and tapped out a text message.

Blaine snapped awake from his daydream when he heard the chirp of his message alert. He let go of Kurt’s hand and picked up his phone. He swiped through the lock screen and saw Sebastian’s message: Mayday, mayday! You've got your gay face on! Turn on the baby maker charm and get rid of Captain Super Fag!

Blaine winced at the words on the screen, but unfortunately, Sebastian was right. Regardless of the fact that Blaine knew who and what he was, how he wanted to live his life, he was tied to the studio and this show. It had made him a star. The studio created his image, and they liked him a certain way - a sweet, sincere heterosexual; nerdy, but with an unmistakable “bad boy” side; who looked vaguely Eurasian; who could play a homosexual role and bump up their diversity quotient - to be adored by women and men alike. It didn’t seem to matter that the gossip mags were right on the money; that Blaine had been fooling around with Sebastian since Sebastian's character had been introduced on the show a year ago. Blaine was dating Mia, his on-screen best friend. He had to play the role off-screen of the raging heterosexual with an open mind and effervescent charisma, but that meant being himself only behind closed doors.

That wasn’t Kurt’s problem, though. And Blaine being attracted to Kurt wasn’t Kurt’s fault. Blaine didn't know how to rectify this situation, how to dismiss this angel and move things along.

Why in the world would he want to?

In the end, he didn't have to.

"Hey, princess," Sebastian said. "That's a very ... uh ... eclectic outfit you have going there."

Kurt turned to Sebastian, suspicion wrinkling his brow. "Um, thank you?" Kurt replied, but it came out more as a question, because Sebastian's compliment sounded like a thinly veiled insult.

"What is it that you do?" Blaine asked, motioning for the next person in line to come forward, picking up where Sebastian left off. "Are you a designer?" Blaine's tone had changed, had become less than sincere, and Kurt had the chilling feeling that, all of a sudden, he was now the butt of some inside joke.

"Um, no, no." Kurt stumbled out of character, but it wasn’t a conscious mistake. He felt like he was back in his high school cafeteria, cornered by wolves dressed in letterman jackets. He’d been cornered by older versions of those same wolves before, so that part he was used to.

But the wolves in front of him dressed a lot better, wore more convincing disguises, and that threw him off. 

"Actually, I'm a ..." He stopped. He wasn’t ashamed of his profession, even though society tried its damnedest to make him feel ashamed. Maybe he was once, but not now. It’s what he did, not who he was. But the lines of people waiting for autographs had stopped moving, their occupants watching him with amused expressions. He had also managed to garner the attention of some of the other stars at the table, including Mia. The look in Sebastian's eyes told Kurt that no answer he gave would be right. He could cover by saying he taught classes down at his local rec center, which was true and much more innocent, but even that would get twisted around somehow. The man would find a way to make fun of him. That was his goal.

Kurt couldn’t win.

Blaine's expression, on the other hand, was indecipherable - a mixture of mocking and nausea. Kurt didn't know what to do, so he went with his first instinct. He stood up straight and squared his shoulders.

"I'm a professional Dominant,” Kurt said. “Dominatrix is the title I prefer, to be honest."

If Kurt was going for shock value, well, he definitely achieved that. He could tell by the expressions on the faces around him that no one expected that as an answer. Sebastian's bottom jaw fell to the table and Blaine's eyes bugged out of his skull. Kurt would have laughed if he didn’t feel surrounded, completely closed in by the tables and the crowd. Kurt heard some snickering, but he was mostly met by a stunned silence.

"Wait, wait, wait," Sebastian said, his underscoring chuckle slicing through the quiet, paving the way for other laughs like it, "so, you tie people up and have sex with them?" When Blaine didn't immediately join in, Sebastian kicked him under the table. Blaine snapped his head to glare at Sebastian, who egged him on with his eyes. Blaine’s lips lifted reluctantly into a smirk.

"And the spanking," Blaine added with a chuckle of his own, inviting others, by his action, to do the same. He grabbed Kurt’s photo and signed it without looking at Kurt, as if he wasn’t even there.

"No," Kurt said defensively, catching the autographed photo that Blaine flung his way. "My job isn't that simple. And it's not all sexual."

"But, that means some of it is sexual," Sebastian helpfully filled in. The tittering girls behind Kurt laughed. Then Mia laughed. Blaine laughed as well. That sound, the sound of Blaine's ridiculing laughter, froze Kurt.

"No,” Kurt tried again, needing to make them understand, to make Blaine understand, “I -"

"Admit it, Kurt," Sebastian leapt in, not leaving an opening long enough for Kurt to speak, "you tie people up, you smack them around, and then you have sex with them. People pay you money to have sex with them."

"Like a prostitute," Blaine finished, and this time everyone laughed. It wasn't tremendously loud, but the sound of it overwhelmed Kurt. Kurt opened his mouth a couple of times to say something, to explain, defend himself, but nothing came out. He was mortified, humiliated in public by his idol, his role model. Kurt held his photograph closer to him, wrapping his arms protectively across his chest, not caring if his suit wrinkled or not. His face burned and his eyes watered, but he refused to let these people see him cry. 

When his voice came back to him, he managed a subdued, "Thank you for the autograph." He straightened his spine, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Sebastian clapped Blaine on the shoulder with a triumphant grin on his lips. “Good job, tiger. We’ll celebrate that kill later. Now, let’s get back to business.” Then he returned his attention to the fans in his line. He was so pleased with himself, he even forfeited his game of Candy Crush.

Blaine's face fell instantly, his smug smile gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Kurt walk away. With each step, Kurt's shoulders sagged a bit more. From the slight tremor of his upper body, Blaine knew he had broken down. Blaine felt helpless. Worthless and helpless because he had done that. He had help tear down this man when that couldn’t have been further from what he had wanted. But Blaine couldn’t do anything about it at the moment, not when his fans were calling out to him, shoving pictures in front of him, each one vying for his attention with much less class than Kurt had. Blaine caved to the pressure, forcing a smile back on his face for his adoring public while, under the table, he dug his fingernails into his thigh and hated himself thoroughly.