It took Kurt longer than he imagined it would to get to the motel. He cried the minute he sat in the driver’s seat of his freshly washed car. Why was he so upset? Why did he feel so foolish? Being made fun of wasn’t anything new for Kurt. He had been teased and taunted most of his life, shoved into lockers, tossed into dumpsters, and had ice cold drinks thrown in his face so often that, from sophomore to senior year, Slushie facials had become part of his daily cleansing regimen. Kurt Hummel was no stranger to humiliation … just not from this source. Not from a man he admired for standing up publicly against bullying, homophobia, and violence.

A man he had imagined kissing more times than he could count.

Kurt wanted to get to the motel as quickly as possible. He wanted to clean up, moisturize, go to bed, and forget that tonight had ever happened. But there wasn't a working traffic light anywhere. To top it off, the streets seemed to go only one way, and it was never the way he needed to go. His ancient GPS fizzled out and his iPhone battery died. After driving in a circle for an hour, Kurt finally found a single solitary freeway entrance. He didn't care where it went; he took it. Luckily, it led to the airport, and he finally caught a glimpse of an end to this miserable night in the form of a blinking neon sign that probably shouldn’t be blinking.

Well, it wouldn’t be a motel that Kurt could afford if something as important as the sign out front worked.

Kurt parked his car under the only lit light post, though by the looks of the neighborhood, light or no light would hardly make a difference. Kurt predicted he'd find a homeless person sleeping in his car by morning. Kurt sighed and trundled into the motel, somehow managed to rent a room, and slunk into the elevator. Once inside his room, Kurt dropped his bags in the doorway, not caring to carry them in much farther. He carefully undressed, delicately hanging up his expensive suit. Then he showered. The small, cream-colored bathroom had one narrow tub and a clownishly tiny toilet, but it would serve his purpose.

Kurt stood numbly under the spray of hot water and let the evening wash away. Hot shower water in motels came in an abundant supply, so Kurt was content to stand and do nothing, think about nothing, until the sight of prune-y skin on his fingertips prompted him to move. He turned off the water and stepped gingerly from the tub. Not bothering to towel off, he wrapped himself in a fluffy white robe and plopped himself into a chair in front of the vanity mirror. 

Kurt stared at himself. The horrible lighting from 60 watt bulbs flickering and hissing beneath the faded yellow bonnet of the overhead light fixture made his complexion appear ruddy and tired. Truthfully, he felt tired. Tired of his life. He had so many dreams. Even during the worst times in his existence, those dreams seemed so close, within his grasp if he only took one necessary step, whatever it could be. Now, whenever he looked back at his dreams, the farther they slipped away. He didn't regret his responsibilities. Raising those four kids became his sole focus the moment they entered his life. But they came with a lot of sacrifice, a lot of loss, a lot of long days and even longer nights. The consummate performer, Kurt tried not to let it show, but whether he liked it or not, it was written all over his face - in the fine lines at the corners of his mouth, in the dry patches along his hairline.

In his eyes, which he always thought of as one of his best features, hollow and empty.

He looked at the army of bottles and tubes he had laid out on the counter before him, an army that grew with every year he racked up. He took a deep breath in, and let it go.

Whatever it was that he felt needed to change, that change certainly wasn’t going to happen tonight.

He started to moisturize his face. He squirted lotion into his palm, and used his fingertips to massage it into his skin, questioning why he bothered anymore.

Knock, knock.

Kurt startled and shot out of his seat, surprised to hear at knock at his door. The floor had been quiet since he got there; not a peep from outside his door except the ping of the elevator as it skipped floors. His eyes flicked to the clock at his bedside. It was nearly midnight.

Who the hell …?

Knock, knock.

Kurt held his breath and willed himself to stand absolutely still. Maybe if he didn't respond, whoever it was on the other side of the door would go away and, you know, murder someone else. 

Knock, knock, knock.

The door handle jiggled, bringing Kurt’s eyes straight to it. He cursed himself when he noticed he hadn't flipped the safety bar or secured the chain. His bags still lay in a pile in front of the door, but if the person knocking had a card key, they could conceivably force their way in.

Oh God … please, no …

"Kurt?" a hoarse voice whispered through the crack in the door. "Kurt, are you there?"

Kurt's brow furrowed as he realized he recognized the voice ... a very unlikely voice.

"Blaine?" Kurt walked toward the door.

"Kurt? Could you open the door, please?"

Kurt stared at the door as if expecting it to do something. He kind of hoped it would, because he didn't know what to do. Why would Blaine Anderson be here, at a Motel 6 of all places? And even if his being in a Motel 6 was at all logical, why was he looking for Kurt?

Kurt approached the door slowly, cautiously, as if it could burst open at any minute.

"Kurt?" Blaine sounded desperate. "Kurt, the lady downstairs in the lobby said someone was killed in this hallway last night. I don't want to be next."

Kurt stifled a chuckle as he looked through the peep hole. He jumped, his heart stuttering, when he saw an eye looking back at him. 

"Kurt? Kuuur-uurt?"

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

"Please, Kurt ..." Blaine was whining now. “Please open up …”

Kurt tossed his bags aside. He unlocked the door and opened it wide, watching in partial amusement as Blaine pushed his way inside, launching himself into the room as if Satan himself were on his heels. Kurt shook his head as he closed the door, this time throwing the bar and chain across.

"Thank you, Kurt," Blaine panted, fixing his twisted jacket.

"Don't worry," Kurt said, watching Blaine fret over his clothes. "From what I hear, that stabbing was a drug deal gone wrong. A total misunderstanding." 

Blaine stopped all movement and stared at Kurt, eyes comically wide. Kurt was tempted to laugh at the scene before him. Blaine's mass of curls stuck out chaotically from a knit beanie pulled down low on his head. His flushed face made Kurt wonder if he hadn't run all the way up the stairs and down the hall. But Kurt schooled his face into a mask of indifference as he confronted Blaine.

"How did you know I was here?" Kurt asked.

"I heard you talking on the phone to your, uh, friend?" Blaine left it a question, hoping Kurt would confirm that, indeed, the person on the other end of that earlier call was a friend. Just a friend. Not a romantic relationship whatsoever.

But Kurt just stared at him.

“Anyway, you told them you would be here," Blaine finished.

"Stalker much?" Kurt murmured. He peeked at his reflection in the mirror to make sure there were no stray stripes of lotion on his face. “So, you knew I was here. Why did you come here then?”

"Uh, you left this. Back at the school?" Blaine presented Kurt with the forgotten photograph. "You should keep it. People are getting tens of dollars for those on eBay." 

Kurt barely glanced at the photograph as he grabbed it out of Blaine's hand and tossed it onto the vanity. 

"I ... added something to the signature.” Blaine pointed vaguely in the direction the photo landed. Kurt exhaled tiredly. He picked it up and read the new inscription - To my dearest Kurt, Please forgive me. I was an asshole. I am so so so sorry. With all my heart - Blaine Anderson.

Along the bottom, Blaine had drawn a line of hearts, along with some x's and o's.

Kurt looked at Blaine with a bemused expression.

"Seems a bit much, don't you think?" Kurt smirked, putting the picture back on the vanity, but this time, he fixed it carefully into the frame of the mirror. Blaine smiled in relief at the gesture. Kurt sat back in front of the mirror and opened a new tub of lotion. He ran his ring finger through it, then patted it beneath his eyes.

"Well, I wanted to be sure you knew how sorry I was, because I am really, really sorry.”

"It would seem so." Kurt tried his hardest to look as if he was paying little attention to Blaine in his room. In reality, though, a voice in a very far corner of his brain screamed like a teenaged girl - BLAINE ANDERSON IS IN MY ROOM!!

"So, are we good?" Blaine asked.

Kurt turned to him, confused. "Why does it matter if we are or not? After tonight, we're never going to see each other again."

Blaine sat on the edge of Kurt's bed and watched him apply his moisturizer. Feeling Blaine's eyes search his face through the reflection in the mirror unnerved Kurt, especially since he had no clue what the man could want. He got up from his chair and crossed the room to sit at the table on the other side. Blaine considered sliding down the bed to sit closer, but decided just to turn and face him instead.

"Yeah, you see" - Blaine cleared his throat - "that would make sense. But for some reason, I don't like that outcome."

Kurt shook his head. "I don't understand.”

"I don't ... I don't like the idea of never seeing you again."

Kurt scoffed. "You don't even know me. You literally just met me. I'm one of your million biggest fans … or, at least, I was ..."

Blaine flinched. Ouch.

"All you know is that I spank people for a living ..." Kurt stood again and paced, too antsy to sit, his attention trained on a distant spot out the window. "Actually, wait. No. I sleep with people for a living. I'm a prostitute. I forgot."

Blaine sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. He felt that, in one night, he had rubbed his face raw. Suddenly, Kurt stopped pacing, and realization dawned on his face.

"So that's why you're here." Kurt threw up his hands. He looked at Blaine through eyes narrowed to slits. "You want me to sleep with you, is that it?"

Blaine stood, reaching his arms out to Kurt, but Kurt grimaced.

"I told you," Kurt said, stepping around Blaine, "I'm not a whore."

"I don't think you're a whore," Blaine said softly. "I never did." Blaine could see Kurt's face in the window, watched him wipe silent tears from his cheeks. A dozen emotions were imprinted on his face, a deep sadness in his eyes. "Can we talk about this?" Blaine asked, gesturing vaguely.

Kurt shrugged. "What is there to talk about?"

"You," Blaine said, hazel eyes dancing with an inner light as Kurt looked staunchly into them. "I want to know about you, this life you lead. I've only known you for a matter of minutes and you fascinate me."

Kurt didn't know whether to scoff or dance. Either way, he couldn't give in to the joy that bubbled inside of him at the knowledge that Blaine Anderson wanted to know more about him ... that he fascinated him. Blaine disarmed Kurt with his charm and his beauty, but Blaine wasn’t the man Kurt thought he was. He’d proven that tonight. The Blaine of Kurt's fantasies wouldn't have treated him like garbage. On the other hand, Blaine had gone through all of this trouble to find Kurt and apologize.

Should Kurt take a chance on this man who had felt the need to humiliate him in public and apologize in private? Which Blaine was the real Blaine? Was it worth it to Kurt to find out, if only to preserve the sanctity of his well-crafted fantasy, a daydream that got him through some of his loneliest times? Or should he put his fanboying over Blaine Anderson behind him and move on to a new fantasy, a more mature fantasy?

Could that fantasy include Blaine Anderson, too? This new Blaine Anderson, viewed from a different perspective, a more realistic one?

It was a toss-up. Kurt needed to find a way of getting the upper hand long enough to decide.

"I don't trust you,” Kurt said. “I have no idea what your intentions are. I met you, I thought we shared ... a moment, and then you insulted me." Kurt ran his hands through his hair, his eyes darting around the room as if the answer was hiding somewhere under the bed or in his bags. Kurt’s gaze landed on his gear bag, which he had no need for in his motel room alone, but that he had brought up from the car out of fear that it might get stolen, and smiled. 

"If you want to talk to me," Kurt said, his voice silky smooth, "then you're going to have to compensate me for my time."

Blaine looked at Kurt blankly. "You - you want me to pay you?"

"You want to get to know me, know about this life I lead, then the best way to do that is for me demonstrate. And seeing as this is what I do for a living, I need to be paid."

'There,' Kurt thought. He widened his stance, crossed his arms defiantly in front of his chest, and let his inner Dominatrix shine through. 'That should put him in his place.' Kurt didn't necessarily want to scare Blaine off, but Blaine's speech intrigued him. What would Blaine do with this proposition? How far would he go with this charade if it was one?

"You ... you're going to dominate me?" Blaine asked. Kurt couldn't tell if he sounded excited or horrified.

"Yes," Kurt said. "Pay me to dominate you, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

Blaine swallowed hard. He didn't know why, but his clothes felt too hot, too tight, and he started salivating. Blaine wasn't into BDSM. Both Sebastian and Mia had brought up the idea. Nothing too crazy – some handcuffs, a blindfold, a paddle - but he’d balked. So why did the idea of Kurt dominating him make him want to fall to his knees and thank God for whatever he had done right in the world? 

Blaine's heart raced. His tongue had suddenly gotten too big for his mouth, and he was incredibly hard.

"Fine," Blaine said, though it sounded more like a croak then an actual word.

Kurt's face didn't betray his shock.

And then Blaine shocked him again.

"Can I have you for the whole evening?"

Kurt resisted the urge to moan out loud at the thoughts flooding his mind, thoughts of Blaine's muscles bulging against leather restraints, his curls matted to his head, sweat rolling down his back from strain, standing spread eagle, with Kurt's hand prints painting his ass. Kurt allowed the silence to stretch on too long while he mused over that image. He returned to himself when he realized that he had the chance, here and now, to make that image a reality. 

"Are you sure?" Kurt tried to sound more amused than aroused. "I must warn you, I'm not cheap."

"I can pay," Blaine said smugly, though his voice sounded thin, unrecognizable to his own ears, wanton even. 'Oh, God,' he thought. 'He won't need a whip. He's already won.'

"Just so you know," Kurt said, letting his bitch flag fly, "your money doesn't impress me. Your stamina will." Kurt found himself moving, sliding up to Blaine like a cat, slinking along, ready to pounce on its new play thing. With every sway of his hips beneath his robe, Kurt watched Blaine's eyes grow wider, traveling down the length of his body and then back up again. By the time Blaine's eyes locked on Kurt's, Blaine’s hazel irises had nearly gone, his pupils utterly lust blown.

"Name your price."

Kurt tried to think of the highest amount he could possibly get away with. “$5,000," he said, conjuring the number up quickly as if it were his usual fee when, in fact, it was more than triple what he’d normally fetch. "And I get paid in advance." 

'That’ll do the trick. Your move, Blaine Anderson. Time to see if you’re ready to put your money where your mouth is.'

"Done," Blaine said, and reached into his pocket to get his wallet.