Blaine sits up with his back resting against his pillows and watches as the young man at the foot of his bed starts to get dressed. Blaine's eyes sweep down the man's torso – pale, flawless skin, so smooth to the touch. He smiles at the play of muscles that stretch up this man's back – dancer's muscles, long and lean, well-developed, strong. This man uses them well, too.

He has some incredible endurance.

This man looks young – much younger than Blaine had bargained for - and Blaine feels a bit like a pedophile watching him, which disturbingly enough doesn't keep Blaine's weary cock from bobbing with desire. The wild glam make-up the man had been wearing when he first arrived at Blaine's place – black liquid eyeliner, smoky eye makeup, ruby red lips, the whole bit - made him look at least twenty-four, but now that he's fresh faced (from the shower they had taken together) his appearance has changed.

The service that sent him to Blaine's house guaranteed that he was at least eighteen.  

If this man is more than a year out of high school, Blaine would be amazed, but Blaine isn't about to judge. He's hit some tough times in his life trying to get by, trying to prove that he could survive in the big city without his parents' money to bail him out (though they did bail him out, more times than he could possibly remember), but never had Blaine considered going into the escort business. He always said that his body was not for sale.

“So, is this escort thing a lifetime career for you?” Blaine asks, hoping that's not too offensive a question to break the ice with.

“Personal questions cost extra,” the young man teases – or at least Blaine thinks he's teasing.

“Then charge my card,” Blaine says. If he's not teasing, it will still be worth it to get this man's backstory.

The man chuckles, shaking his head of highlighted chestnut hair, back still turned to Blaine as he pulls up his pants.

“Not a career,” the man admits. “More like a means to an end. It's not too bad. At least I'm not out in the cold on a corner. Plus, it meshes with my school schedule.”

Blaine's eyebrows shoot up with interest at the mention of school.

“Where do you go to school?”

“Nope,” Kurt says, throwing a sly glance over his shoulder at the man reclining against the pillows. “I refuse to give out that information on the grounds that you might be some kind of weirdo stalker…or married with an insane spouse that's going to try and hunt me down.”

“I'm not a stalker, and I don't have a spouse or a boyfriend,” Blaine assures him, “but I see your point. Fair enough. So, doing this pays for tuition, I suppose?”

“No,” Kurt says, tugging his shirt over his head. “I do this to pay the rent. Being a barista pays my tuition.”

“Ooo, you're a barista,” Blaine says, folding his hands in his lap, excited at revealing another piece of the puzzle that is this intriguing young man. “Do you work any place I know?”

The man chuckles.

“Not telling,” he says, “but nice try.”

The man turns to look at Blaine - playful blue eyes meeting Blaine's more intense amber gaze. Blaine smiles and shrugs.

“You can't blame a guy for trying,” Blaine says.

The man climbs up the bed - fully dressed to Blaine's dismay - to lie beside Blaine's naked, shrouded body. He lies on his side, elbow propped on the mattress, leaning his head in the palm of his hand.

“Why try?” the man asks, his eyes wide and nearly innocent, even after everything they had just done together – and for money, too.

“What do you mean?” Blaine asks, sliding down the bed to talk face-to-face with him.

“I mean, why would a fancy suit like you be interested in me, or my life? Or are you making polite conversation?”

“I'm not one for polite conversation. It's too exhausting,” Blaine says with a suggestive and raw quality to his voice - a quality that hints at the idea that one-night stands and paid relationships might be more Blaine's thing than commitment. “But I happen to find you very interesting.”

The man laughs out loud, and Blaine frowns, feeling slighted.

“What?” he asks in a petulant tone not befitting a thirty-two-year-old man.

“It's just that…how can I interest you?” The young man ducks his eyes bashfully. “We said three sentences to each other and then you spent the better part of two hours riding my ass into the mattress.” He picks at the blanket beneath him with his free hand, tracing the lines of stitching with a carefully manicured nail. “How do I interest you?”

“Well…” Blaine finds himself stymied for a moment. He thought the man would simply take his word for it. He didn't expect to have to explain himself, “you're attractive for one. Extremely attractive.” The man rolls his eyes as Blaine continues to explain. “You take care of yourself – your skin, your nails, your physique, the way you dress…” Blaine runs his eyes down the man's designer black Henley and True Religion jeans. “It makes me wonder why it is you do what you do. How you got into this profession?”

The man chews his lower lip, deciding whether or not he owes Blaine an answer. He doesn't want to give him one – and not because of some policy of his service or personal mantra of his own. It's because he likes Blaine. Asinine and ridiculous and completely unadvisable, he knows. But Blaine met him at the door dressed to the nines, with a warm, seductive smile, like he was greeting a lover and not with the nervous edge of a man ashamed of what he was doing. They were at Blaine's house, which meant he either had nothing to hide, or he had a tremendous pair of steel cojones and couldn't care less who knew that he rented sex for the night. Beside all that, Blaine also happens to be his type – muscular build, tan skin, dark hair, a voice like velvet, and big hands, pianist's hands, hands that can touch and stroke and fondle everywhere at once.

The man had a thing for hands.

“How about this,” he says, none too coy, reaching into his pocket for a business card and handing it over to Blaine, “the next time you call the service for some company, request me personally. If you're really interested in me, and this isn't all a line, I'll answer two questions every time I come over. Does that sound fair?”

Blaine looks down with a half-smirk at the card in his hand.

“Porcelain?” Blaine asks with a chuckle. “Is that your given name?”

“That can be question number one next time I come here,” the man says, leaning in close to kiss Blaine goodbye. Blaine has never been big on kissing – a lot of people attach too much importance to kisses, too much emotion - but this man could kiss like no one else. One too many times during their encounter, Blaine felt himself get caught entirely off his guard by this man's kisses. His lips are soft and his kisses gentle – not an excess of sloppy tongue and sharp teeth. His lips caress Blaine's mouth when he kisses him. Blaine sneaks a hand up into the man's damp hair to keep him close, not eager for this kiss to end.

“I had a really good time with you,” Blaine whispers against the man's lips.

“As did I,” he replies, pulling reluctantly away. “I'll let myself out.” He tugs the blanket up to Blaine's chin. “You look too comfortable to get out of bed.”

“Is this going to turn into a thing for us?” Blaine asks, snuggling into his pillow. “You tucking me in before you go?”

“If you want it to be,” the man says, kissing Blaine once on the forehead.

“I do,” Blaine admits, yawning. “I could definitely get used to this.”

“Goodnight,” he says, running his long fingers through Blaine's curls, “sleep tight, and remember what I said.” The man slips on his shoes and coat, and leaves Blaine with a last kiss on the lips, this one chaste and sweet. He leaves Blaine's house, locking the doorknob lock before pulling the door shut tight and heading out into the night.

***

It's September 8th – a date that's been circled in red on Kurt's calendar for most of the year - and it's the first day of school.

Kurt sits in his seat in his first ever NYADA class – Intro to Theater – tapping his toes beneath his desk, excited and giddy. He feels a bit woozy, punch-drunk with an exhilaration that nothing else could compare to. It's the same gut-wrenching, heart-stopping feeling he had when he found out he had been accepted. He never thought he would actually make it here, though - not with his father's health problems, their moderate means, and all the other barriers to him attending his dream school in New York. He can't convince himself that this isn't a dream as he sets his books down on his desk and arranges his pencils and pens. He takes a deep breath in and exhales slowly, a smile taking over his face.

Intro to Theater is a freshman class. Kurt looks from student to student, at the faces that would most likely accompany him to many of his classes this year. Not having had a good track record with friends in high school, he's not too hung up on making any – but finding one or two other kindred spirits might be nice. A lot of the students already seem to know one another, and he wonders if they came from the same schools or if there was a freshman orientation that he didn't know about and missed. He looks up at the clock on the wall. It's already 8:15. Their professor is 15 minutes late. It almost makes Kurt annoyed. He made it a point to be there half an hour early and he was coming by subway from Brooklyn. As far as he's concerned, the professor has no excuse.

Kurt's eyes dart toward the open door when an impressive-looking man – tall and blond with a BoHo knit cap on his head, dressed in a flannel shirt and corduroy pants – saunters in and takes the professor's spot at the head of the class. He waves at a cluster of students, who wave enthusiastically back, and the rest of the class starts to quiet down.

“Good morning, class,” he says, a delicious English accent coiling around every syllable he speaks, capturing Kurt's undivided attention. “My name is Adam Crawford. I am not your professor. I am a third year student in the Musical Theater and Performance Program here at NYADA, and I will be your substitute this morning while your real professor tries to get his sorry ass out of bed.”

The class laughs, and so does Kurt, captivated by this attractive man but mostly happy to be back in school. He feels like he's diverted away from his goal in this past year, but now his life is back on track. Everything else he has to do that doesn't directly pertain to his attempt at becoming a Broadway star can sit on the backburner from 8 A.M. to 5 P.M.

This is where Kurt truly belongs.

Kurt chews on his pencil, looking Adam up and down.

If the other upperclassmen here are anything like Adam, Kurt will be earning every award NYADA might have for perfect attendance.

“So, why don't we get started by handing out the syllabus and going over the requirements for…”

“Hold up, hold up,” a voice interrupts as another man rushes in. He's a blur of black peacoat and brown leather messenger bag, with an armful of books and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. Kurt stares at the chaotic figure, suddenly petrified.

How? he asks himself. How in a city of eight million people…

Kurt doesn't see his face when the man races up to the desk, but the voice…Kurt would know that voice anywhere.

Kurt knows what that voice sounds like when this man cums.

Kurt slides down his seat and puts his hand over his face, shielding his eyes from view. It's easy for him to hide since the moment the man turns to face the class, the girls surrounding Kurt sit up straight and take notice.

“Thank you, Adam, I'll take it from here,” the man says, dropping all of his belongings loudly on his desk. “And in the future, please remember that my ass is not a viable topic of conversation in the classroom.” The man claps Adam on the shoulder and Adam chuckles. “Adam Crawford, ladies and gentleman,” the professor says, gesturing to Adam as if he was the special guest on a TV talk show. Adam waves and smiles as he walks out, playing the ham and blowing kisses to the crowd. The room settles down as soon as Adam leaves, and the real professor takes a seat on the edge of his desk at the front of the room. “Let's start this over again. Good morning, class. My name is Blaine Anderson, and welcome to Intro to Theater.”

“Oops,” a man sitting beside Kurt says, gathering his books and standing from his seat, “I thought this was Intro to Music Theory. My bad.”

“That's alright,” Blaine says, smile trained on the student attempting to make an inconspicuous exit. “Intro to Music Theory is one room over…”

Blaine's sentence seems to cut off abruptly. Kurt knows he shouldn't look to see why. Just stay hidden, keep your head down… but curiosity gets to him and he does look up, moving his hand and lifting his eyes an inch.

Maybe he's looking through his paperwork, or writing something on the blackboard…

But no. When Kurt glances up, the amber eyes of Blaine Anderson are staring right at him, a slow burning smile growing wide on his handsome face.

Fuck, Kurt thinks, trying to sink down lower, but there's no room left for him to hide.

“Let's go ahead and get started,” Blaine says, his eyes barely leaving Kurt's face as he addresses the classroom. “We're going to take attendance…” That statement seems to make Blaine's smile impossibly wider, “we're going to go through the syllabus, and then we're going to get to know one another a little bit better.” Blaine can't help himself chuckling, especially when Kurt hides his face back behind his hand. “But from the look of all the eager faces we've got gathered here, I think this should turn out to be a very interesting year.”