Being an addict is a son-of-a-bitch. Blaine knows that firsthand. He's seen what addiction can do to people. He's seen how it can devastate families.

He's sat around for years and watch, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and son, turning him from parental figure into stranger well before Blaine's formative years.

Blaine's father's addiction led directly to his mother's addiction. She drank to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she'd loved since high school, drift away, drinking herself stupid, until she didn't remember what day it was, where she lived…or that she had a son.

This illness of addiction spread through the Anderson family from generation to generation. Technically, it started with Blaine's great-grandfather, and trickled down to his grandfather, but Blaine never met either man, so he can't verify that claim. Blaine gets easily addicted, too, but to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. He can't live without it. He'll take it from anyone willing to give it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully bloom, with people who weren't worth his time to begin with.

Not that these relationships would have blossomed if given the chance, and that's part of the problem. Blaine gets so desperate for love sometimes that he doesn't necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, in spots where rain won't ever find them, away from any sun.

He tries so hard to find the tenderness that was stolen from him at too early an age.

Tonight, walking through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he's suffering the aftershock of one such break up. But this time, Blaine was prepared. Somewhat. At the very least, he saw the signs; he knew the end was coming, even if he was powerless to stop it. He let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could, and after, when he'd brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex's apartment – toothbrush, hair gel, a few shirts, some underwear, the tendrils of possession that he used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

As he walks through the door of this obscure establishment, having fooled himself that he's ready to move on even before his ex's side of the bed has gone cold, he feels both like he's doing the right thing…and that he's phenomenally stupid.

Blaine has willingly paid money for questionable things before, things that he's looked back on and grimaced at, shoving them as far behind him as he could later on so as not think about them ever again.

But paying money to feed his addiction - he's never done that.

This place he's gone to looks more like a bar than anything, and in a way, Blaine had expected that. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? He did hear about one that operated out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Blaine walks up to the counter, and clears his throat to get the attention of the man sitting behind it.

“Excuse me?” Blaine says, already so nervous that his voice sounds thin and disappointing when the words hit his ears. Not a good sign for a man who uses his voice to earn a living.

The man sitting behind the counter, pristinely dressed in a designer suit and tie; face pale as a ghost, as if he doesn't ever leave the dark confines of this place; and blatantly disinterested, ignoring Blaine standing three feet in front of him, practically on top of him if not for the counter between them, flips exaggeratedly through the pages of some sort of fashion magazine (Blaine can't tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn't move an inch to acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Blaine repeats, a little louder, but still weak.

The man sniffs the air, then shifts only his eyes to look at him.

“Yes?” he says, returning to his magazine.

“I…uh…I have an appointment,” Blaine says. Appointment. Is that the right word for it? No one he talked to about this gave him the in on the current lingo.

“An appointment, huh?” the man says, flipping another page.

“Yeah,” Blaine chuckles, eyes darting around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it's surprisingly empty. Blaine can't see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, it's so dimly lit – a darkness his eyes can't seem to get accustomed to – that someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I'm…uh…kind of new at this.” His sentence falls on a tense silence, and he chuckles again, anxiety starting to get the best of him.

If he backed out now, just walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

The man looks up at Blaine, then rolls his eyes.

“I'll tell him you're here, Mr….”

“Anderson,” Blaine says, slightly more encouraged. “Blaine Anderson.”

“Blaine Anderson,” the man repeats, giving the air another disdainful sniff. “Did you have olive loaf for lunch, Mr. Anderson?” the man asks, scrunching his nose and raising his magazine to cover it.

“Uh…” Blaine takes a step back and clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like. He did have olive loaf, but that was three days ago. There's no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listerine he uses daily.

“Did you even know where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scoffs. “I mean, have some respect.”

“That's enough, Chase.” The voice, amused but stern, comes clearly out of the shadows. “If you don't stop badgering the customers, we won't have any, and then how will you afford your condo payments?”

“Yes, Kurt,” Chase says, sitting up straight and utterly changing his tune. His voice even seems to slide up a note. He closes his magazine, shoving it hastily underneath the counter, then fusses about, tidying up his work space. This complete turnaround throws Blaine off his guard, makes him feel defensive. Whoever's just entered the scene, still under the cover of darkness, must be important for this arrogant man to turn to. Chase seems to forget all about Blaine as he pivots in his seat to watch the man who spoke step out into the only circle of light nearby, an almost dreamy look in his eyes. “I'm sorry, Kurt.”

“Yes,” the man purrs, running a hand along Chase's shoulders, but with his eyes locked solely on Blaine, “I bet you are.”

Quickly – inconceivably quick, as a matter of fact – the man stands before Blaine, and instantly he can understand the dreamy look in Chase's eyes. Blaine has never seen such a man. He's never even imagined a man like him could exist. He's pretty sure he could spend his entire life trying to think of him, and still never come up with him. He doesn't seem to fit his current surroundings – this night club motif with its tenebrous atmosphere. But this man and this place are equal in one particular aspect – they are both keeping secrets they don't seem too willing to tell.

His appeal, the way he has captivated Blaine so absolutely in a matter of seconds, mystifies Blaine. He's not the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome type that Blaine usually finds himself going after. He is tall, though. But he's also lithe and fair. He reminds Blaine of a prince from an old world fairy tale. And his eyes. Even in the absence of light, they're piercing. They glow with a light all their own.

He doesn't walk up to Blaine, he stalks, and he carries himself in a way that makes Blaine believe he can take anything he wants without even having to pinpoint it.

At the moment, he's stolen Blaine's voice, his breath, and practically every thought in his head.

“I believe,” the man says, stalking another step forward when Blaine takes one back, “that you are my ten o'clock.”

Blaine nods, not sure if he's expected to speak...or if he's allowed.

“Are…are you…Kurt?” Blaine stumbles.

“Yes,” the man says, extending a hand, and it strikes Blaine as the stupidest question he could have asked considering Chase's previous gushing. “You must be Blaine.”

“Yes,” Blaine says. “Yes, I am. Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt smiles, his teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights overhead. His dress shirt is also a startling white, as are the whites of his eyes. But those teeth, that smile, it makes him look predatory, dangerous, and for a split second Blaine wonders if coming here was the smartest idea. He didn't tell anyone close to him where he was going. What if he simply…disappears? No one in his life would dream of looking for him here.

But regardless of numerous warning bells going off in his head, new ones sounding with each step, he follows Kurt down several narrow hallways. The club was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black, with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illumination doing nothing more than throwing deeper shadows on the walls. Kurt walks swiftly - Blaine almost loses him twice - but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with rows of rooms. Blaine hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart stutters, speeding in his chest, then slamming to a stop when a man screams. Kurt throws a smile at Blaine over his shoulder, as if he just read his mind, chuckling when Blaine points to the door tries to speak.

“Um…is he going to be alri---”

“Right this way, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt interrupts, unlocking the door to the last room and holding it open. Blaine stands for a second with his mouth agape, then closes it, hurrying to walk inside, not because he's feeling any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn't, he might run. Kurt waits until Blaine is well inside the room before he speaks. “Now, what can I help you with today, Mr. Anderson?”

Blaine takes a turn around the room, examining the differences between here and out front. This room isn't lit much better than the outer area of the club, but it's definitely more inviting, the sort of place created specifically for people to spend time in, get to know one another – violet painted walls, black-and-white artistic photographs mounted in plain glass frames, a round wooden table holding a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne, chilling in a bucket of ice. Lit candles cover every hard surface, some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, scenting the air with the sweet smell of vanilla. Against one wall is a sofa – plush and red - and against another, a four-poster bed.

“I…I have a problem,” Blaine says, bypassing the bed (though it wasn't an immediate decision) and heading for the sofa. “An addiction, really.”

“Go on,” Kurt says, locking the door before strolling over to join Blaine on the couch.

“Well, I…” Blaine watches Kurt drop down on the sofa at the far end, sitting catty-corner to keep his eyes on Blaine. That predatory look is still there, but it's moved from his smile to his eyes, tracking Blaine with an unnerving precision. “I'm addicted to affection,” Blaine continues. “To touch. To anyone who wants me, and I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha. So, tell me” - Kurt pauses to cross his legs, as if he's trying to draw Blaine's attention to them - “why you think I can help you.”

“Because” – Blaine swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Kurt moves, with an unearthly fluidity, his eyes focused on Blaine's face – “even though I need it, nobody seems to need me.” Blaine sighs. “Not really. But from the things I hear, you guys…you kind of do.”

“We're not desperate, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, no,” Blaine says, quick to cover, “that's not what I…”

“We service a very, how shall I say, exclusive clientele,” Kurt cuts back in. “We have certain requirements.”

“I understand that,” Blaine says with a bob of his head. Kurt nods, giving Blaine a once over with those eyes that seem to burn through him, as if every move Blaine makes tells Kurt more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Anderson?” Something about the way Kurt repeatedly calls Blaine ‘Mr. Anderson' shoots right to his gut, and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel on edge, compliant, hot, confused...

“I'm a musician,” Blaine replies. “A song writer. I currently write for a few popular recording artists. You may have heard of some of them.”

“And…where do you currently live?”

Blaine idly reaches for the top button of his shirt, toying with it, undoing it, feeling constricted and uncomfortable as long as it's closed.

“I live on the Upper East Side.”

Kurt sits up and slides an inch closer.

“With a roommate or…”

“A-alone,” Blaine says, moving on to the second button. “I live” – Blaine clears his throat – “I live alone.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow.

“Impressive,” he says, moving closer still. “Alright” - Kurt holds out a hand - “let's give you a shot.”

Blaine doesn't take the man's hand right away. There's still a second of doubt, a moment of Are you nuts? that stays his hand. But it's been so long since Blaine's felt wanted, truly wanted, and this man wants what he has to offer. Blaine can see it in his eyes. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came all this way for.

“If you're nervous,” Kurt says, licking his lips, “I could always…” His long finger makes a gesture toward Blaine's face and neck and he smiles – an alluring, toothy grin that's charismatic and excited, and hard to resist.

But Blaine might not be ready for that. It seems a little too intimate.

“Oh,” Blaine says, rolling up his sleeve, “no, I was just…thinking.”

“Oh,” Kurt remarks, sounding disappointed. “Whatever you're comfortable with, of course. Just so you know, it's always an option, and it doesn't cost extra.”

Blaine suddenly gets an image in his head – an image of Kurt lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his long fingers undoing the rest of his buttons, reaching beneath his shirt, his nails scratching lightly down his skin. It feels like it's been planted, a subliminal suggestion, though he's not sure how, but it stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Blaine says, looking into the man's attentive blue eyes, “that does sound like it could be…nice.”

“It will be,” Kurt says, Blaine scooting closer as Kurt does until they're sitting right beside one another, legs touching, Kurt turning his torso to lean into him. “I promise.” Kurt wastes no time kissing Blaine's neck, cool lips pressing to his sensitive skin, and Blaine moans too easily. God, it's been so long. And whatever Kurt is doing with his tongue, circling around the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Blaine's thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing and nibbling and sucking becomes too much.

Too much until Kurt wraps an arm around Blaine's shoulder and bites, fangs lengthening, piercing his skin, searching for a place to sink in and drink.

“Oh…God,” Blaine moans, becoming rigid, then melting in Kurt's arms. “Oh…oh God…”

“This isn't really the place to be praying,” Kurt chuckles, retracting his fangs and licking them clean. Kurt breathes in Blaine's scent – the fresh fragrance of rich, healthy, untainted blood, the blood that all vampires crave, not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind the club, or filled with preservatives, like the bags they buy from the blood bank. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Blaine is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He'll make Kurt rich…if he can bear to share him.

Kurt might decide to keep Blaine to himself.

“I'm sorry?” Blaine says, following Kurt's mouth with a whine when it seems like Kurt won't return to what he was doing.

It's not that. Kurt has every intention of taking his time with Blaine. He just wants to see him beg.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” Kurt asks, murmuring into Blaine's skin, emphasizing his question by taking a quick nip around Blaine's jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Blaine whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Kurt's on his knee and squeezing – a silent beg. “Yes, please.”

“Hmmm,” Kurt hums, lips pressed to Blaine's neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. “You know” - Kurt licks over the pinprick marks, searching with his tongue for a spot to take another bite - “I think we can help each other out.”

“You…you do?” Blaine asks, rising from the sofa in a trance and following Kurt when Kurt moves their soiree over to the bed, preparing to make Blaine his own private nightcap.

“Oh, yes,” Kurt says, laying Blaine down on the mattress and crawling over him, “I could become very addicted to you.”