Warnings: rentboy!Kurt, depression, hinted suicidal attempt, alcohol consumption.

Characters are all over 21 years of age.

"I demand my payment up front," he says coldly, holding his hand out with another on his waist.

The brawny man rolls his eyes, but hands over a stack of bills anyways. Kurt counts them carefully, his long, thin fingers flipping through each one-hundred dollar bill.

"All accounted for," he finally says, lying down on the bed. "Let's get this show on the road."

The man is a disgusting animal. He paws at Kurt's clothes and nearly rips his shirt into pieces. He gives the rest of him the same treatment. Kurt has to smack his hand away before he damages anything else.

Kurt's gotten used to this over the years. The disgusting grunts, the sticky sweat, and the way he feels afterwards, useless and disappointing. That's what he was anyways. There was no use getting around it, or pretending that he was still the same stupid naïve boy he was four years ago who thought that there was a future for him.

When the man finishes, Kurt immediately gets up and takes a shower, washing away the stench of alcohol and cigarettes from his body. He wants to get rid of everything that sticks on him, everything that could signal others to what he really is.

"Hey beautiful, we're not done yet," the man calls after a few minutes of blissful silence, and Kurt groans.

"I never go another round," he shoots back, shampooing his hair.

"Well I paid you for more than one time, so get your sweet ass over here now."

Kurt can hear a threat in his voice, and he knows what happens to some whores who go against their customers' demands. They are the ones whose dead bodies turn up in dumpsters.

Kurt turns the shower off and steps out of the bathroom, dripping wet. He gives a shiver when a breeze blows past, but the other man's eyes are greedy. Kurt knows he's done well.

He fucks him one more time before Kurt makes him leave.

When Kurt dries himself off after his second shower, his nose crinkles with distaste. The smell hasn't quite worn off yet.


"You have another customer," Cecilia drones, tapping away at her computer.

"Send him up to my other apartment then," Kurt mutters. "When's he coming?"

Cecilia taps her chin. "He goes by the name Alexander Coughlin. Probably not his real name anyways. You know how they are." Kurt chuckles knowingly, rolling the cigarette between his thin fingers. "He's scheduled for tomorrow night. He paid quite a hefty sum too. Must be a rich guy. Dress nicely."

Kurt rolls his eyes, taking another smoke. "Does it honestly matter? The clothes always end up on the floor anyways."


Kurt's wearing a fairly casual outfit, just a pair of skinny jeans and some old t-shirt from his closet. Cecilia will probably be fairly pissed that he didn't "dress up". But it's not like she's ever going to find out. Plus, he's not wearing his leather outfit for some prick that doesn't even have to balls to use his real name.

He's sipping on a cosmopolitan, and it's taking away the edge. He hates being sober when he has a client. It only makes the memories and the smell a million times worse in the morning.

Someone knocks on the door three times. Kurt groans and rests his head against the couch. "The door is open," he calls, putting the glass down on the table, and he can hear the faint "click" of the door.

"Is it…Ken?" a voice calls out in the dim lighting. The voice isn't thick with beer or deep and gravely. Actually, it's quite pleasant, soft and a little bit nervous.

Of course, he's being a little hypocritical about the name thing, but it's Cecilia's policy. Everyone gets a fake name. Kurt actually appreciates it sometimes.

"Over here," he drawls, sitting up. "Payment?"

"I gave it to the lady," he says anxiously. Kurt still can't see his face.

"Well, come closer! I won't bite you," Kurt says exasperatedly. "And turn on the lights. The switch is on the wall near the door." He hears some shuffling noises as the man makes his way towards the door.

The moment the lights turn on, Kurt isn't sure whether to scream or run away and hide for the rest of his life.

"Kurt," he whispers reverently, coming closer at an alarmingly fast pace. "Oh my god, it's you. I can't believe it, it's you."

"Don't touch me!" he shouts, backing up against the couch.

Blaine swallows, halting his footsteps. "I…what's wrong?"

"What's wrong, Blaine?" Kurt shouts, moving away from Blaine. "Are you seriously asking me that question? Look at me and tell me what's right!"

Blaine makes a nervous noise and puts his hands down at his sides. "You're still as beautiful as I remember," he whispers.

"Get out!" Kurt screams, throwing the nearest magazine at Blaine's head. He ducks it and stares at Kurt with shock.

"Kurt, I want to talk—"

"GET OUT!" he shrieks, lobbing a vase towards Blaine. His eyes widen and he makes a run for the door, slamming it just as the glass vase hits the wall.

He can't breathe. Out of all the places Blaine had to be in, he chose Los Angeles.

Kurt shakes his head, trying to calm himself. It doesn't matter anyways. This is only his apartment for customers. The chances of Blaine finding his actual one are slim.

He stays that way for two hours, just sitting down on the couch and staring into nothingness. Finally, he picks up his jacket and grabs his keys off of the countertop. Kurt walks out of the door and turns off the lights.

He definitely needs a stronger drink. Cosmo won't do the job.


Blaine stumbles through the smoky streets of Los Angeles, eyes wide, unseeing.

"Can I get a drink?" he mumbles to some bulky bartender. The guy eyes him cautiously for a few seconds, and then takes out a glass from the shelves behind him.

"What can I get you?" he says gruffly.

"Scotch on rocks," Blaine replies, rubbing his forehead.

He barely notices the bartender's movements. His head is facing towards the table, studying the wood patterns like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

"Here you go," the bartender says, sliding his drink towards him and moving on to another customer farther down.

Blaine sips lightly, his nose crinkling at the slight burn of alcohol on his tongue. But the burn fades away quickly and he takes another gulp. He finishes the rest of the drink and throws a hundred dollar bill onto the table. "More," he croaks, and the bartender looks at him strangely.

"You're not going to be able to get home if you want a hundred dollars' worth of shots."

"I don't care," Blaine whispers, shaking his head. "I need it."

The man rolls his eyes but pours the drink nevertheless. "I just hope that for your sake, you have someone who can pick you up, because this bar closes at three."


Blaine is dizzy. He can't remember where he is, what he's doing, or what his last name is. All he knows that whatever he's drinking is the best-tasting thing in the world, and he has to have more of it. He tries to get out, or call the bartender over for more shots, but he can't stand up. His body feels like jelly.

"Blaine!" someone shouts in shock. He tries to open his eyes. It's blurry, and he can't see anything except for murky colors mixed in together.

His lips move, but nothing really comes out. All he wants is more of that drink… It's the best feeling in the world.

"Blaine, where do you live?" someone shouts, shaking him. It hurts him, and the voice is too loud. He groans and tries to push away whoever's doing that, but they avoid it because his arm moves at the pace of a snail.

"I'm taking you home, okay?" the person says again, the noise booming around his ears and making his head hurt so much.


Blaine is having the biggest hangover ever, but he is still in his right mind to know that this place is not where he lives.

It's a clean, white apartment, with simple furnishings and no personal touch. The place is absent of photographs or maybe a shoe on the floor or a jacket strewn on the couch. It almost looks like a completely new apartment, but Blaine knows that someone lives here.

As he stretches, he looks at a piece of pale yellow paper on the nightstand.

You were absolutely drunk out of your mind last night, and I had to take you to my place for safety or else you would have probably been dead in the morning. I didn't do anything to you, except give you a bed to sleep in. The next time you're out drinking, remember that you're in Los Angeles, please.

The note is unsigned, written in clean script. Blaine wonders who bothered to take him off the streets last night, but he doesn't want to question it. He yawns and tries to stand up. He's a bit shaky, but he makes it to the bathroom without throwing up, so Blaine supposes that it's a pretty good sign.

Taking a shower, he grabs his clothes and leaves. Before he shuts the door, he scrawls on a piece of scratch paper "Thank you" and leaves it on the kitchen counter.


"Two clients for you, one today, and one Saturday," Cecilia says again.

Kurt sighs and taps his fingers against the wood of the desk. "I always tell you to text me when you want to tell me stuff like this, but you insist on calling me into this dump."

"This dump is what pays for your living," she shoots back, stacking a group of manila folders. "Did you pick up your payment for that Alexander guy? It's still in your safe."

Kurt freezes, but shakes it off. "I don't want it," he says after a while, facing the cream-colored walls. "We didn't even fuck. I guess he didn't expect someone like me."

Cecilia rolls her eyes. "Bullshit. Everyone loves you. That's why you're the most popular out of everyone else. They can't get enough of your pretty face."

Kurt says nothing, and stares at the swirls on the wall.

After a few more minutes of Cecilia typing away on her computer, she finally pushes down the screen and stands up. "Come on, let's go to coffee," she sighs, and Kurt has no choice but to agree.


It's late afternoon, a week later, and Kurt's getting the daylights fucked out of him, and not in a good way. This client demands no preparation at all and only slathers lube on his cock and the condom before shoving it up Kurt's ass without warning.

He's pretty sure that he's bleeding a little because this man does not have a small penis at all, but on the inside, he welcomes the pain.

At least you don't have to focus on the way that he's grunting like a starving pig, or the way that he's giving you bruises all over your skin, or the way that you feel dirty and cheap and disgusting and worthless…

And then in a flash, he remembers Blaine.

Blaine with his stupid love songs and his over-the-top performances and those eyes that never failed to create butterflies in Kurt's stomach.

Blaine who was oblivious to everything and smiled like a stupid puppy.

Blaine who never failed to whisper sweet words into his ear every night before they fell asleep, curled up in each other's arms.

Blaine who made Kurt feel like he was special and cherished and worthwhile.

Kurt doesn't want to cry. He hates it. It makes him look weak. He's told himself that he's never allowed to show any weaknesses at all.

He hasn't shed a tear in four years. But the very thought of Blaine sends him reeling over the edge, over a precipice that he will never come back from again.


"Ira, it's so good to see you again," Kurt simpers, pressing a kiss to her cheek, tightening the grip on his glass so that it doesn't spill on her.

"Kurt, darling, you look wonderful," she replies, smoothing out her dress, dangling a wine glass between her fingers. "How have you been?"

"Oh, the same," he says airily, sipping his wine. "Not much has happened in the past few months."

Ira laughs and smiles. "We both know that's a lie. So did Cecilia force you to come?"

He's at a swanky party, where the men wear tuxedos and gold cufflinks and the woman don floor-length dresses with diamond jewelry and wear their hair in a bun. But it's also that type of party, and Cecilia is the main booker. Since every single person here is filthy rich, she never turns down the offer. She calls it "good publicity".

So she sends him to the salon, forces Kurt into a silky Italian suit, and makes him stand in vicinity of "the rooms". After eleven o' clock, he's free to go. But as of now, he's still prisoner.

Kurt sighs dramatically. "You know me too well," he smirks, downing the rest of his wine and giving it to a passing waiter. "She threatened to cut my balls off in my sleep."

Ira winced. "Oh, that sounds painful."

"I wouldn't want to experience it anyways. So are you still in the business?"

Ira makes a disapproving noise and shakes her head. She takes a gulp of her wine. "Unfortunately, I was…let go."

"But you're the best!" Kurt exclaims, eyes going wide. "Why would anyone give you up?"

She smiles ruefully. "I've broken the cardinal rule of a whore."

"You didn't," Kurt gasps, widening his eyes.

She sighs and nods, her shoulders rising up nonchalantly. "But I did. And I thought I had it good, you know? He was everything I could have ever wanted. When we first met, I thought that it would just be another client. But he was so sweet, so gentle… No one had ever treated me that way. And I fell hard, like a stupid first-grader. But he wanted me to quit my job, and I couldn't do that. It's all I know how to do. When I refused, he ended it and told my boss as revenge. He fired me, and now I'm with a new group."

Ira gives a little sniffle and looks down. Kurt pats her gently, pressing a kiss onto her cheek. "I hope you kick that guy's ass for treating you like this."

Ira laughs dryly, an empty sound with no emotion. She shakes her head and her caramel curls glinting in the candlelight. She looks at him sadly, as if begging him to listen. "No, Kurt. He only treated me as a whore should be treated."


"Are you sure it was him?" Mercedes presses for the millionth time.

"I'm absolutely sure," Blaine replies, rubbing his temples. "He looked just like he did four years ago, except not as thin."

Mercedes doesn't speak, just breathes raggedly and sits down. "I haven't seen him since the day of the funeral."

"Because that's the day he ran away," Blaine reminds her.

"I have to see him," she says after a moment, as if just those words meant that finding Kurt would be so simple. "I have to. I need to know that he's okay. I thought…I thought that he d-died—"

The rest of her sentence was drowned in tears, and she sobbed as Blaine hugged her close and whispered comforting words.

"We're going to find him," Blaine assures her as she sniffles. "We're going to show him how to love again."


It had been a sunny, beautiful day. A few birds were chirping, and a gentle breeze ruffled the grass. The image was the perfect vision of springtime.

Nothing should have looked this beautiful. Everything should have been gray and black and dead, just like his father was.

Kurt didn't cry that day. He couldn't cry. All of the tears had dried up. He didn't know what to feel anymore. Blaine was standing next to him, holding his hand, watching as they lowered Burt's casket into the ground. He knew that Blaine wasn't sure what to say either.

But he had made his choice. No one could change his mind.

Carole had died a few months ago. Burt was barely holding on after that. It was only a matter of time. Finn had everything planned out and set for him. He was Mr. Popular. He would survive. Everyone would want to provide for him.

But not Kurt. He couldn't stay here. He wouldn't make it past a month.

So that night after Blaine had fallen asleep in their bed, he packed up his things, grabbed his dad's banking card, and left Ohio.


"I hate your car."

"Well, your GPS sucks, so this is the only way left."

Blaine groans. "Save me from this metal beast."

"Shut up and stop whining, white boy," Mercedes retorts, making a right turn. "We're almost at the apartment complex."

"Good, because I think I'm going to hurl. Your car has horrible suspension for the tires."

"You know, for a gay boy, you know way too much about cars," she teases, and Blaine glares at her.

She parks smoothly into a parking space and Blaine gets out eagerly.

"I'm free!" he shouts, doing a victory dance.

Mercedes rolls her eyes. "Boy, we better hurry the hell up. I have a job interview in Santa Monica in two hours."

"Gosh, keep your skinny jeans on," Blaine says, and they walk in to the building. "We'll be done with this in time. Santa Monica is like half an hour from here."

Blaine still remembers the room number. It's burned into his mind forever. Room 254.

When they're standing in front of the door, neither of them moves at all.

"You first," Blaine says nervously.

"Coward," Mercedes shoots back. "What if he's not home?"

"Well, in that case, you can still knock."

Mercedes snorts angrily and mutters, "And they say that men are the one with balls."

She raps on the door loudly three times, but even after knocking about fifteen times, there's no answer. She pushes against the door, not knowing that it was actually open.

The door creaks open slightly.

Blaine freezes in shock, and Mercedes is stammering. "Should we…?"

"Yes," Blaine says, and walks in.

They look around the room. It's kept clean and organized, free of any messes. It kind of reminds Blaine of that other apartment he woke up in when he was…

Oh fuck no.

There's no way. Kurt would rather see him dead than help him when he was too drunk to even speak.

He clears the thought out of his head and walks into the bedroom. The pungent smell of sex hits him like a freight train, and Blaine wrinkles his nose.

"Smells like a brothel in here," Mercedes groans, fanning herself.

"And how would you know?" Blaine teases, going back into the living room.

"I have people!" she cries, and sits on the couch.

"So I guess he's not here," Blaine sighs, looking at the ceiling. "I thought I could see him again."

Mercedes pulls him down and gives him a big hug. "It wasn't your fault," she whispers. "We all miss Kurt. You don't think that Rachel isn't still paying for people to search for him? You don't think that Finn sits at home all day with a blank look on his face? You don't think that every single old Glee clubber blames themselves in some way for him leaving?"

"I just… He was my boyfriend," Blaine croaks. "If it was anyone's fault, it's mine."

"Kurt doesn't know how much we all love him," Mercedes relents, wiping away a tear from Blaine's cheek.

Blaine shakes his head. "He knows how much I love him."

"Do you still? Love him, I mean."

He looks Mercedes right in the eyes. "I could never stop loving Kurt," he says firmly. "I will never stop loving Kurt Hummel, even if he doesn't want me."

Mercedes laughs and they hug for a while. "You have passed all forms of the best friend test I have to give," she says solemnly.


"So what's your name, beautiful?" a man leers, leaning from across the counter.

Kurt gives him a look and sips on his drink elegantly. "It's none of your business."

The man makes a disapproving noise and walks over to him. "Oh, why be like that? Just tell me what your name is, so I know what name to scream when you're sucking me off."

Kurt huffs and stands up. "I am not a toy. Leave me alone."

The man grabs Kurt's waist and pulls him against his chest. Kurt yelps and wriggles in his grasp, trying to pull away.

"I heard from a little bird that you take money," the man breathed, the acrid stench of smoke burning issuing from his lips. Kurt tried his best not to gag. "How about we go into the back room then?"

Kurt shoved him away, sending the man stumbling back a few steps. "Sorry," Kurt retorts, brushing off his clothes. "I only take clients that I choose. And I most definitely do not choose you."

He can hear some swear words being directed towards him, but he doesn't care. He only came here for a drink, and at least seven men have hit on him. Kurt assumes that they're descended from rocks because obviously none of them knew that the death glare he was giving them meant "fuck off" instead of "come closer".

Kurt walks out of the bar and calls for a cab. He pays for it with the money that Cecilia got from "Alexander". She had forced him to take it after the party, because she didn't know who to give it back to. He didn't leave a phone number or address, so Kurt had to take it.

He reluctantly pocketed the money, but it felt tainted. He was taking Blaine's money, and he wanted nothing to do with him anymore. So he decides to spend it as quickly as he can to get it away from him as soon as possible.

He's erased Blaine from his mind now for four years. He can do it again in a heartbeat.


He's walking through this dirty street, lined with bars and clubs. Blaine's not really interested in any of them. They're not exactly his scene, and he's never really been comfortable going into places like that. He just hopes to maybe see Kurt among the crowd of people. But he knows that it's probably not going to happen.

Blaine sighs and sits down on a bench, his breath visible in the cold air. He thought that California was supposed to be sunny and all, but damn, their winter is cold for the Golden State. He rubs his sides quickly to get some warmth running through his body.

Closing his eyes, he tries to remember Kurt. It's not hard to conjure up images of his smiling, angelic face. But he tries to match that vision with the Kurt he saw a week ago. They don't match at all. It's like trying to shove a puzzle piece into a spot where it just doesn't fit, but you keep trying different ways because you think that's the correct piece.

He's trying to think of why Kurt would leave Lima. He could understand maybe getting out of town for a few days to think or whatever. But what Blaine doesn't understand it why Kurt never bothered to call, or send an email or a letter, or why he never came back.

Six months after Kurt left, they held another funeral. He was presumed dead after all this time. Everyone had exhausted all of their resources trying to find it. Newspapers posted ads, and they put up signs and posters and even on the Internet too. Everyone put in everything they had to try to find Kurt.

There was no response.

Blaine had never cried harder in his life than he did that day.


"Mercedes."

She stands up in an instant, eyes flashing. Kurt's heart is hammering against his chest, and he feels slightly dizzy. Kurt tries to pull his client away from her clutches, but she gets to him before he can kick him out.

"Who is this?" she snarls, shaking the wide-eyed man roughly. He's around six feet, and Mercedes is roughly five foot four. Yet the look on the other man's face is so funny that Kurt can't help but laugh a little on the inside.

"He's a…person," he says lamely. "What are you doing in my apartment? How'd you find it? And what are you doing in L.A.?"

"For your fucking information, I came here with Blaine two months ago."

Kurt froze. "Don't say his name."

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want!" Mercedes screams, flinging the man away, stepping way into Kurt's personal space. "How can you still look me in the eye? How can you still hold yourself all proud and arrogant? Do you know just how much pain you've caused by leaving? By not even contacting any of us just once? We held a fucking funeral for you because we all thought that you were dead!"

"What I did is none of your business!" Kurt shouts. He turns at his client and screams, "Get out!"

"But what about my money—"

"FUCKING GET OUT!" Kurt screams, and the man scrambles away, slamming the door shut.

"What was that?" Mercedes asks angrily. "I don't want to believe it, but if what Blaine said was true—"

"I told you," Kurt snarls, "to not say his name."

"It wouldn't bother you if you weren't still in love with him," said Mercedes stiffly.

Kurt screams in frustration and slams his hand down against the table. "I want you to get out. I want you to never come back here again. I want you to leave the fucking city and most of all, I want you to leave me alone."

"Kurt, I just—"

"Forget it Mercedes!" he shouts. He turns to see his old best friend with tears in her eyes, and it kills him inside. "Do you think you still know me? Do you think I'm still the same Kurt Hummel you knew four years ago? I've changed. Everything has changed!"

"You can still come back," she pleads, cradling his face. He looks away pointedly. "We still love you Kurt, please, just come back. All of us—"

"You would rather fawn over Finn than me," Kurt sneers. "Don't lie. All of you loved him more. What am I compared to fucking Finn Hudson, the goddamn quarterback?"

"That's not true! We all love you," she cries, tears streaming down her face. "Kurt, I can't lose you again—"

"Then don't," he retorts. "Don't lose me. Go back and forget about me. This is my life now. And it doesn't involve you or him."

Mercedes is sobbing now, except no sound comes out. The tears pour down her face and down her cheeks.

"I hope you know how much he misses you. He's never stopped loving you. He still loves you so much."

"Out," he orders shakily, his body trembling. She tearfully closes the door, but not before giving Kurt one last desperate look.

The click of the door being shut is probably one of the most depressing sounds Kurt has ever heard.


The monsters of the past always seem to catch up with you somehow. He doesn't know how, or why, but it happens. And now it's happening to him.

First he stumbles across Blaine, and now Mercedes is waiting for him at his whore apartment. Stuff like this is either just really bad luck, or karma. Kurt is pretty sure that karma is coming after him, making him pay for the crap that he caused before.

They say that moments like these are the ones where you have to come clean and embrace the future or whatever.

Well, Kurt's never been really good at acceptance. So he supposes that if he just goes on his normal business, the monsters will leave him alone.

He doesn't even know how wrong he is.

The high feels amazing.

The room is a bit blurry, and all of the colors are meshed together, but Kurt has never felt more alive.

No one loves me, he thinks tearfully. No one loves me at all. I'm all alone.

But he shakes himself off.

I don't need them. I don't need love. It's for idiots who think that they need someone to be happy. I don't. I don't need anyone.

But even as he says it, a head of curly hair appears in his vision.

And then he sees blinding darkness.


It's Cecilia who finds him, lying unconscious on the floor of his apartment. She makes him check into a hospital and see the shrinks there "for your sanity". Who knew that behind her no-nonsense demeanor she actually had a heart?

But it's the most torturous two weeks he's ever gone through. They poke at him like some kind of science experiment. They ask him questions so personal that he even has a hard time answering some of them. It's like they're digging up his innermost parts and putting it on print. He hopes to get out of here as soon as possible.

Eventually, they come to the conclusion that he's extremely depressed and has been holding a lot of stuff in all this time.

Oh wow. They're amazing. Best shrinks in the world. A shrub could have done the exact same thing.

When Cecilia informs him that he unfortunately has to pay the hospital for the treatment and everything, he reluctantly agrees. But when he receives the bill, he nearly faints. Kurt honestly can't believe that the obvious costs so much.

He just pays it and pushes the whole experience out of his memory. It's better to just forget everything.


When Blaine finds him again, he's drunk out of his mind in some little club in the city. He's lonely and sad and every single repressed emotion comes out into the light.

Blaine takes Kurt home to his actual apartment with the mumbled directions that Kurt whispers to him in the car. He makes Kurt a hangover remedy when he wakes up, and it eases the headache.

They don't speak. It's heavy silence until Kurt whispers hoarsely, "Why are you here?"

Blaine opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He sits there blinking for a few minutes, surprised that Kurt didn't throw him out yet. "I'm here because I care about you."

"I don't need your caring," Kurt replies scathingly, looking the other way.

"Well you need something," Blaine says. "You need something to fill up the emptiness. You need something instead of trying to be happy with drugs and alcohol."

"You are not my mother," Kurt sneers, trying to stand up. He falls back down onto the bed. "I don't need you."

Blaine shakes his head. "You need someone," he says softly.

"Not you," Kurt says shakily. "Anyone but you."

"Who else?" he asks, and Kurt can say nothing in return. Instead, he gives him silence.


From then on, Blaine makes frequent visits to Kurt's apartment. It's a shaky alliance, and if Blaine tries to ever bring up the topic of the past, Kurt kicks him out immediately. Whether Kurt lets him in or not is usually dependent on his mood. If Kurt has also had a client for that day, he refuses to let Blaine.

So Blaine took hours to make this soup, brewing it just right and letting the flavor of the beef to come out into the soup. It smells great and tastes amazing. He worked his ass off making it just for Kurt, but he refuses to see Blaine at all, keeping the door locked.

Blaine feels a little foolish standing outside with a pot in his hands, so he keeps knocking with his free elbow.

"Let me in," Blaine says exasperatedly.

"Go away," the voice calls through the door, the sound slightly muffled.

Blaine sighs and knocks on the door. His arms are getting sore, so he puts the pot down next to his feet and knocks again. "Come on!"

"I hate you!"

"You don't mean that."

"I still want you to go away."

Blaine smiles as he realized that Kurt never denies that he doesn't hate him. "Well I have something that'll get me in, so…"

There's no sound from the other end of the door.

Then: "You didn't."

Blaine jangles his copy of Kurt's apartment keys, loud enough so that Kurt can hear it from the other side of the door. "I made it yesterday when you were sleeping," he says happily.

The door suddenly opens with a whoosh of air, and Kurt's face is visible, bright red and angry. "How dare you!" he shrieks. "Give it to me!"

Blaine laughs and keeps it just out of Kurt's reach. "Let me in then."

Kurt crosses his arms and glares at him for a few moments before stomping back into the apartment and shutting the bedroom door. Blaine sighs and drops his set of keys onto the kitchen counter. He goes back outside to pick up the pot and sets it on the table. He promptly collapses onto the couch with a groan.


"Both hands in front of you," Kurt says fiercely. "No crossing your fingers or anything."

"I would never!" Blaine says in mock outrage.

"Repeat after me: I, Blaine Anderson, promise to never take Kurt Hummel's belongings and make copies of it without his permission."

Blaine smiles affectionately and repeats after Kurt with the straightest face that he can pull. "Good. Now, where'd you put the keys?"

"On the counter, over there," Blaine says. "I made you something, too."

Kurt pockets the keys, turns around, and raises an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Um, soup. Kind of like stew, but, well, I cooked it myself," he says sheepishly.

Kurt smiles, the kind of smile that someone makes when they're trying not to laugh. He sees the pot on the dining table and takes off the lid. "This smells amazing," Kurt sighs happily, his eyes fluttering shut and breathing in the smell of the spicy warm soup. "I haven't had a home-cooked meal since…"

An uncomfortable silence fell into the room; it crawls under Blaine's skin and makes him itch. He's unsure of what to say, and just watches as Kurt stands there with his head bowed, looking utterly defeated.

"I'll leave it for you here," Blaine muttered, staring at the ground. "If you want to eat it for dinner or—"

"Stay," Kurt said bluntly. "I mean…I want you to stay," he said breathily.

"Only if you're—"

"Yes."

Even after those four years, they could still read each other, still know what the other was about to say. It's like an elegant dance, falling right in step with one another.

But the dance has to end sometime. Everything always has to end sometime.


Dinner is relaxing. Kurt helps Blaine make a few dishes from the limited resources in his cupboards and his refrigerator. Together, they make a pretty decent meal. Kurt's cooking skills have regressed quite a bit. He admits to always eating takeout, or rarely eating at all.

The big pot of soup that Blaine brought over is almost empty by ten o' clock. They're sprawled across the couch afterwards, and Kurt's long legs are hitched up on the table, clicking through channels mindlessly. Blaine feels comfortable, but he doesn't yet have the courage to get closer to Kurt.

"So why'd you come here?" Kurt finally asks, picking up the last bowl of the soup and sipping it daintily.

Blaine scratches his forehead. "Well, it was all because of Mercedes. She really wanted to move here and we've been good friends for a while. I've had a lot of job offers from Los Angeles before, but I never really wanted to come until just recently."

"Has she, you know, dated anyone?" Kurt asks breathily. Blaine knows that he cares. He just tries his best to hide it.

He smiles at him and nods. "She's had two boyfriends, both of them quite serious. But they weren't…they weren't just for her. I guess she's still looking, but the breakups were difficult on her. She really liked them."

"What about you?"

"Me?" Blaine asks, shocked. "W-what about me?"

"I mean, what were you doing, looking for a prostitute?"

"I, I'm not that type—"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "You don't have to be so freaked out by it. I am what I am."

"I just…I wasn't desperate or anything like that," Blaine says sheepishly.

"But to hire a whore?" Kurt asks teasingly, with a bit of sneer in his smile. "Has your sex life been that horrible?"

Blaine sucks in a breath. "I wouldn't know, actually," Blaine admits, twiddling his fingers. "I'm still a virgin. It was Mercedes's idea."

Another silence falls. It seems to do that a lot between them, and Blaine can feel Kurt trying to search for something to say.

"You've never…"

Blaine shakes his head.

"But haven't you had other boyfriends?" Kurt asks desperately, trying not to look at Blaine when he says the word "boyfriends". He knows that he won't like the answer.

He laughs and shakes his head again. "I never dated anyone, not after…"

Kurt lets out a breathy sigh and stands up. "Thanks for the dinner."

Blaine takes it as his cue to leave and picks up his jacket from the chair. "Thanks for asking me to stay." Kurt gives him a little smile as he closes the door, and Blaine does this little victory dance all the way to his car.

Bittersweet, you're gonna be the death of me

I don't want you, but I need you,

I love you and I hate you at the very same time


A/N: This is the end of part one. There's going to be only one more part to this story. I hope that you guys like it so far, because I've worked really hard writing this story. This is my first time writing any kind of Klaine angst too.

The lyrics at the end are "Bittersweet" by Kanye West feat. John Mayer (I think). I am not a fan of him. I just searched up bittersweet song lyrics on Google and found this.