Hi there! Camunki here, and this is for anyone who wasn't following the Kurtofsky Big Bang! This fic is already written, so I'll be uploading a chapter or two every day. I'd do it all at once but I'm lazy.

Title: Bright Lights and Paying Customers

Pairing: Kurtofsky

Rating: M for Mature. Very, VERY mature. There's graphic sex here, as well as mature themes such as drug addiction and attempted suicide

Genre(s): Future, AU (follows canon up to Theatricality) Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance.

Warnings: Drug use and abuse, attempted suicide, violence, graphic sex, prostitution.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, or any of the characters involved. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction, now would I?

Summary: It's the six-year anniversary of Kurt Hummel's apparent suicide, and Dave is drowning his sorrow in alcohol and rent boys. But when he comes across a drug-addicted prostitute that looks eerily like his high school crush, he just can't let it go, even if it leads to his ruin. Because that's what addiction is, isn't it?

Notes: Thanks to Shake-ure-kitty for being an awesome beta :D

Bright Lights and Paying Customers


There's shouting and screaming about privacy partitions and underwear. There's yelling and throwing lampshades and words.

Their dad isn't home to interrupt them, and so they fight on. The yelling stops, but now Kurt's quieter, angry in a seething way. Finn is rambling in a fit of rage about why Kurt has to be different, why he can't just fit in, like the rest of us do.

And then he says it.

It's funny, how one little word can mean so much. Back then Dave never really understood the immense power words can have, because he never knew how to use them like Kurt did. Words like Neanderthal and hamhock were things he directed at Dave the way the jock said fag and homo, but Dave had never been able to figure out which one of them was hurting more.

But this is different. Wait, no. It's kind of the same: it's because Kurt loves Finn that it hurts so much. He's been saying faggy for the better part of fifteen minutes now, insulting all of Kurt's hard work. But he hasn't gone full out and said it yet, actually said it about Kurt.

And then, crunch time.

"Why do you have to be such a…" he trails off, and Kurt is staring at him. Not in a shocked kind of way; now his eyes are fixed, firm, furious.

"Go on and say it." He whispers, low and angry. His shoulders are shaking and he's almost crying, but without tears. "Just say it, Finn." It's a demand, and even though he doesn't want to hear it, he knows he has to. He knows that Finn means it, even if he stopped before the word came out.

"…such a fag." Finn says, and Kurt is convinced he can feel his heart breaking. Finn can see it in his eyes almost immediately, but he doesn't piece it together. He knows Kurt loved him, loves him, will always love him, maybe not in the way he should, but always. But he thinks that maybe this has to happen, maybe he needs to confront Kurt, let him know that it…they are never going to be.

The silence is thick and heavy. It suffocates Kurt. He can barely breathe; it's as if all the air has been sucked out of the room, but Finn's standing there just fine, just fucking perfect as always.

And it hurts so badly. That he's so perfect, so normal. He asks why Kurt has to be like this, why he has to stick out but Kurt wants to scream at him that it's not his choice! He would give anything to be like Finn, to be able to fit in.

Kurt wants him; he wants to be him. When did those two merge into one?

But he knows that he's different. Heck, it's the best thing about him. He's proud of it, proud of his girly voice and feminine features. Proud that he's lithe because he works hard for it, maybe not in the same way the others do, but he tries. Proud because his hair is always immaculate in the way that the average heterosexual guy would never bother achieving.

Proud. Loud. Out.

"I'll get rid of it," he says, quietly, almost incoherent because of his choked sobbing. "All of it…all of the…" he pauses for a gulp of air, "faggy decorations."

If Finn happened to be a little smarter, he might be able to realize the unsaid words at the end of his sentence:

"Including me."


The 21st of February, 2016.

The six-year anniversary of Kurt Hummel's death.

No, not death. Suicide. It's better to think of it that way, more honest. Because that's what it was, not murder nor an accident: suicide. At least, that's what the cops called it and who's Dave to question them?

Only, asking questions is his job now and he can't help but wonder. So, he takes another swig of whatever the hell is in his glass and tries to avoid the whole thinking thing in general.

David Karofsky is on the wrong side of twenty-two and drinking his way to oblivion in commemoration of Kurt Hummel's dea– suicide. This is a tradition he's kept for the last six years, despite only being legally able to drink for the last two. It took him a couple of years to even figure why he does it, why Kurt's death means so much to him that he has to get pissed out of his mind.

This tradition has always included a copious amount of alcohol and a hangover so bad that suicide nearly seems a viable solution. However, Dave has, in the more recent years, added another custom: to fuck the brains out of the best Kurt look-a-like he can possibly hire. A slightly more complex task, sure, but with the amount of alcohol coursing through his system on these particular evenings, most skinny rent boys resemble Kurt at least a little. Brown hair and green eyes: that's all he asks for; it isn't much. Mark said there were three to choose from so he looked at the blurry pictures and picked the middle one – a "Lee", no surname, just Lee. He looked so much like Kurt it was almost scary but Dave knows that's just his mind playing tricks on him. Besides, he hasn't seen Kurt in six years; he barely remembers that face. Even the yearbook photo he has of him in Glee Club is faded and, of course, vandalized. It's impossible to look at it without feeling guilty for so many reasons.

Dave wonders how old this particular rent boy is. He's not exactly proud of it, but he's been to Mark before. Only once or twice, when he's really desperate, because he's heard rumors of some nasty business of underage 'employees' and on more than one occasion people have said that almost every one of them is an addict. Not that it's surprising, Dave is perfectly aware that people don't generally choose that lifestyle without a damn good reason for it. Or, really, most of them don't choose it at all. Of course, he's always really fucking careful, so it's not a big deal.

Honestly, he tries not to think about it too much. The alcohol helps.

Dave is nearly too drunk to think by the time Mark's boy turns up to let him fuck away his pains for the night. Nearly.

"Mr. Adams?" Heh, he'd forgotten that he'd used Azimio's last name for this. Oops. Dave turns to see the man he's going to fuck all night and his breath catches in his throat.

He looks even more like Kurt than he did in the photo. Sure, the guy is slimmer than Kurt was, maybe even gaunt , and his hair is longer, darker, rougher, and his jaw is much more defined and Kurt's voice was slightly higher and more squeaky than this man's, but there's something there, something…

…It's the eyes, Dave realizes. Those blue-green- what was the word- glass? No, glasz. Those eyes that Dave always scolded himself for noticing. After all, it's so gay to notice a guy's eyes.

But there they are. And Dave lets out a choked noise because he's pretty much positive he'll be screaming Kurt's name as this boy makes him come.

Who was he kidding? He always screams Kurt's name.

"Yeah, I'm your guy." Dave says; groans. A low, mournful delivery to a line that sounds like it comes from the start of a very cliché porno.

"Well, aren't you a cheery one?" The whore quips dryly. "Well, come on then Chuckles, unless you intend to wine and dine me first."

Dave murmurs a reply and stands, already feeling unsteady on his feet. The boy raises his eyebrows and Dave briefly wonders if Lee is secretly hoping he doesn't make it back to the motel conscious.

"What do I call you?" Lee asks, apparently ignoring his less than sober state and seizing him by the arm. Dave gives a brief smirk at the question – he hadn't asked his name, but rather invited him to share his fake name. What is his fake name again? Shit. He's forgotten.

"Uh." A pause. "Simon. Call me Simon."

"I'm Lee." is the response he receives, in a voice almost as fake as the smile that crosses his face. "But you can call me whatever you want, big boy." It's painfully rehearsed but Dave can't bring himself to care. He lets the guy carry on with his act.

"I'll call a cab." Dave murmurs, and he does so. The whore – God, it feels rude to think of him like that, but that's what he is – regards him coolly as he makes the call. They sit in silence as they wait, after Lee tries to make small-talk and Dave answers curtly and practically orders him to shut up.

The drive back to the hotel is slightly less awkward. Dave lets Lee make his small-talk and answers politely but not generously. He can tell that Lee is trying his best, and he doesn't want to seem rude, but the alcohol makes it difficult to resist spilling his guts out, which is something he really wants to avoid.

They reach the hotel… or is it a motel? Dave never did know the difference. The place is half-decent, considering its location. This isn't exactly a red-light district but it might as well be, since they rent rooms by the hour. Dave has his room booked until noon tomorrow; he's paid for Lee all night and whilst he expects the prostitute to leave as soon as dawn hits, Dave intends to sleep in so as to delay the effects of the inevitable hangover.

The receptionist is a peroxide blond woman who has tits faker than Barbie's and looks more like a whore than Lee does. The nameplate on her left monstrosity of a breast reads 'Michella', Dave quickly decides isn't a real name and if it is, it's stupid. She's chewing gum and Dave can smell the Juicy Fruit from where he's standing. She glances up as they walk in – from Dave to Lee, who offers a charming smile. Dave gets the feeling he's been here before.

"I have a room booked under Adams." Dave says, not bothering with chatter. The woman presses three buttons on the computer and hands Dave a key without saying a word. Dave wonders if it's because she's incapable of chewing gum and talking at the same time – she probably lacks higher brain function, after all.

Lee follows Dave down the hall like a puppy, he's also quiet. Then, just as Dave realizes he's gone in the wrong direction (Thank you, Michella.), he raises a hand and points silently towards another corridor. Dave glares at him, blaming the alcohol.

Stumbling slightly, he finally finds the door and manages not to embarrass himself opening it. He holds open the door for Lee and he strolls in, Dave shuts the door behind him and puts on the safety latch with a hint of paranoia. Lee is standing in the dark, until Dave presses all the switches and they're both blinded by a surge of light.

Dave's heart threatens to stop entirely as he sees Lee clearly for the first time. It's been too long, he tells himself, you're going crazy…but he's Kurt. Well, obviously he's not Kurt, but he looks so much like the warped mental image he has of Kurt, that it might as well be him.

"Are you okay?" Lee asks, and Dave does a reality check. This isn't Kurt; Kurt is dead and he didn't have a twin, this is just someone who happens to look a lot like him. Hell, he probably doesn't, Dave thinks, but he's just too drunk to tell.

"How do you want to do this?" Lee seems unfazed that Dave isn't answering him. Dave shakes himself out of his daze and focuses on Lee. This isn't about getting lost in memories, it's about... Well, it is about getting lost in memories, really. But he's here to get off when it comes down to it and he's not about to get distracted by the fact that this prostitute looks more like Kurt than he expected.

"Come here." Dave walks over to the bed, beckoning Lee over. Lee drops his bag at the end of the bed and sits down. "Kiss me." Dave commands, and then pauses, "You do kissing, right?" Lee gives a strained smile at that, and nods.

He leans in, only to feel Lee's lips on his, soft but prying. It feels, fuck, it feels fantastic. Lee's hand cups his cheek as he kisses Dave slowly with the occasional increase in pressure that makes his stomach twist. Pulling away, he gives Dave just enough time to get his breath back before he goes for a deeper kiss, his saliva mixing with Dave's, sucking on Dave's tongue, and running his along Dave's teeth.

Dave realizes his eyes are closed tightly, and opens them as he pulls back again, staring into Kurt's big blue-green ones.

Shit. Not Kurt, Lee. Even if this is about Kurt, he can't get too invested in the fantasy too much – it'll just make things so much harder when he wakes up alone tomorrow.

Another soft kiss. This is getting too hard. And not in the literal sense, though that too is becoming a problem. "Shit." Dave whispers, and then says it again, and again, and again.

"Is that a expletive or an order?" He asks, and Dave has to stop and wonder whether he's joking or not. Apparently he is, judging by the way he begins to kiss Dave's shoulders.

"I'm sorry. I can't do this." He says, pushing Lee away gently. "You…Fuck, you look too much like him."

"Like who?" There's a look of curiosity in his eye, but also something more. Maybe a hint of panic.

"Like a boy I used to know. He…" Dave doesn't want to say it; never does.


Dave swallows back a choke, "He died. This night…I do this every year, on the day he died to…I don't know, to try and forget him…I don't know."

Now Lee looks more confused than ever. "Mark said you saw my photo-"

"Yeah. I chose you because you look like him."He shakes his head to try and clear it. This isn't how this is supposed to go. Lee was supposed to just leave it at that and let Dave leave or something, before he says too much.

"Then why-"

"Because you look identical to him. It's…Shit, I can't do this." Dave hunches over and rubs his temples. He doesn't want to look at Lee anymore, doesn't want to see Kurt there, doesn't want to remember anymore because it hurts too much.

Lee just stares at him, seemingly unaware of his internal conflict. "You do know Mark doesn't give refunds, right?" he says nonchalantly, like he's trying to ignore the whole outburst.

"I know." Dave still doesn't look up. Lee continues to study him with curiosity, and then moves from the middle of the bed to join Dave in perching on the edge. He leans in close, pressing his side against Dave's. Neither of them move.

"What was his name?" Lee asks, softly. "The boy who died. What was his name?"

"Kurt." Dave whispers, and even the name feels sour on his lips. "Kurt Hummel." He can't help but whimper slightly as he says it.

The other man tenses up almost immediately. For a second he says nothing, but when he glances to the side, Dave can see his eyes narrowed, surveying him. Eventually, he speaks. "He must have meant a lot to you."

"Actually, I barely knew him."

"Then why-"

"He was the only out gay guy in our school. He was the only other gay guy I knew. And he…God, he was so beautiful. He was like a model or something, the way he dressed and moved. The other guys used to say he looked weird but…I think I was in love with him." He's really drunk; he must be really drunk, to be saying so much. Fuck, why is he such a blabby drunk?

"You were sixteen." Lee's tone shows he's cynical, and Dave doesn't blame him; it sounds laughable to him too.

"You didn't know him. I was straight before I met him." Lee's eyes widen in surprise. "I'm kidding. But it wasn't until I met him that I really knew, you know? I'd wondered about it before but I'd never really thought of a guy that way until…'', he trails off, and then clears his throat. "And then he killed himself."

"How tragic." Lee says, dryly. Dave ignores him.

"He was my Ophelia." Dave sounds far too wistful and Lee chokes back a laugh. "Okay, not a perfect comparison, but you know what I mean."

"Ophelia loved Hamlet." Lee points out, and leans back on his hands. Dave doesn't need to look at him to know that he's gorgeous, despite the obvious marks of malnutrition and…something else he can't put his finger on.

"Yeah, well, he hated me. Not that I blame him…I mean, I bullied him, for fuck's sake. I was probably one of the reasons he…" A cough. "I shouldn't be talking about this. Tonight's supposed to be about forgetting him."

"And yet, here you are with me, the lookalike." Dave doesn't reply so Lee flips over and straddles his lap. Then, he cups his face with a soft hand. "Close your eyes." Dave's eyebrows furrow. "Dave, close your eyes." He lays a gentle kiss on his forehead and drops his voice down to a whisper. "Tonight, I'll be Kurt. Just for you, I'm Kurt."

Dexterous fingers work his shirt buttons as Lee kisses down his neck. "Say my name." Lee orders with a breathy voice.

"Kurt." Dave groans as Lee rolls his hips down into his lap. "Kurt." Then the whore's fingers are at his jean button and he's muttering something about needing him to stand up, so he hops off the bed and Lee follows, tugging down his jeans. He knows that clients prefer not to be fully undressed when he's still wearing clothes, so he stands in front of Dave and wiggles his shoulders slightly. Dave's hands are on him before he can even react, and Lee wants to tell him to watch the buttons but he keeps his mouth shut other than to moan softly as Dave works his hands over his chest and nipples.

"God, you're beautiful." Dave's voice is soft and appreciative, but laced with something sadder – yearning for something lost. He hasn't quite bought into the illusion yet. So, Lee kisses him on the lips, gently, not the way he usually kisses clients, if he actually lets them kiss him. He kisses him tenderly and whispers in his ear and touches him with light fingers.

Then: rougher, harder, hotter. Kisses turn to bites and pecks turn to tongues. Lee can't help but moan as Dave rolls his hips and for a moment he lets himself get lost in the feelings. The moment passes quickly, and he remembers that he's supposed to be pleasuring the client: this isn't just sex, this is his fucking job and he can't let himself get carried away because of...well, anything.

He kneels, not wanting to look at Dave's face any more. Then, he pulls down his boxers; Dave is bulging and leaking and a fine specimen, Lee would know. He reaches for his bag and pulls out a condom and a tube, setting the latter aside for the moment, and then watching Dave roll the condom onto himself. Lee takes him in one hand and lowers his head. "Oh God," he hears from above him – the usual response. This is Lee's specialty. He kisses the head softly, as Dave's hands tangle in his hair, and then takes him whole in his mouth, ignoring the minor reaction from his almost trained away gag-reflex. His tongue slides along the head, then flattens against the length of it as he sucks and hums and groans, daring to risk very softly grasping his balls. He works his mouth around Dave's cock, hollowing out his cheeks in an obscene manner, before a sharp tug to his hair makes him draw back with a lewd pop. Spit drips down his chin but he licks it away with a dart of the tongue.

"I want to fuck you." Dave says, bluntly. Lee knows he's still a little drunk; he hopes so, at least. He fumbles for the tube, and then squeezes some of the liquid onto his fingers. Dave is staring at him, too, barely paying attention to himself. Lee reaches around and begins to slide in a finger, but Dave stops him. 'Let me.' He murmurs, and Lee stops, passing him the lube with a hint of hesitation. Lee usually does this bit himself, half because he doesn't always trust the clients to do it properly, and if he gets hurt, he can't work for a few days. Also, customers don't usually care if they do this part, unless they're into dry fingering and want to see him react.

Dave coats his fingers in lube – all of his fingers, Lee notes – and starts prepping him. He doesn't bother with a single finger, opting to push in his forefinger and middle finger immediately, twisting and wriggling as he does. Lee shudders; Dave's fingers are long, big and rough. He presses back into him as Dave pushes another finger in, trying not to pay attention to how Dave eyes are fixed on him. At the fourth finger, Lee wants to tell him he doesn't need this much prep, but then Dave is pulling away, leaving Lee wanting more. It's unusual; he doesn't often get so into it.

Lee thought that Dave would have wilted a little but as he spreads more lube over his cock, he's harder than ever. Lee stares at him with wide, lusty eyes, his face a perfect picture of lechery. He waits, as Dave groans how much he wants him and tells him to lie on his back so he can see his face. Kurt's face. He kneels between Lee's legs and Lee's feet wrap around his back with the flexibility of a dancer…or a whore.

He presses in slowly, feeling Lee's feet flex, the familiar heat engulfing him. Lee tenses for a second and then relaxes, allowing Dave to push in the whole way. Fuck, it's hot. Lee's eyes are closed in what Dave assumes is pain, so Dave wraps his hands around his softening dick. Lee's eyes open and he jerks in surprise; apparently he hadn't been expecting that. Dave works Lee's member for a few seconds until he's fully hard again, and pulls back, watching as Lee's eyes close again, this time in pleasure.

He quickly thrusts in again, beginning to lose himself to the heat. He leans all the way forward so that their chests press against each other, and Lee easily stretches to the difficult position. They form a rhythm of movement, speeding up until Lee's hips are no longer moving on their own, but being pushed by Dave's.

It seems like the both of them lose track of time in the hot, sweaty thrusting. To call it passionate might not be entirely inaccurate; there's an urgency that neither of them can explain, the kind of urgency that accompanies a quick fuck, but not the kind you pay good money for. There's a fervor that doesn't make sense, like they're releasing some sort of tension that's been building for years, like the sharp twang of an elastic band snapping.

Lee doesn't mean to scream; screaming is so cliché and porny and he only does it when he thinks the clients will like it. But Dave thrusts in harder and harder until Lee is shuddering, the heat in his stomach is burning and Dave's hand is so tight around him. The scream is torn out of him and before he knows it he's a mess of cursing and moaning and he's coming hard onto his and Dave's stomachs.

It only takes another few thrusts before Dave's own release catches him and Lee watches, eyes wide, as Dave tenses and bites down on his lip. Dave thrusts hard into Lee, ripping another moan out of him as he brushes against his oversensitive prostate. He feels the heat of Dave's orgasm inside him, even through the latex. Dave pulls out, carefully, gripping and tying off the condom, throwing it aside before rolling over and collapsing on his back.

Lee sits up and waits for orders, but Dave is asleep within minutes. He studies the face of the man who just fucked him, sated and serene. Then, he lies back and feels his muscles relax. Usually, if a client passed out like this, he'd leave him right there and then. But Dave is out for the count and he did pay for Lee until morning. For now, maybe a little sleeping company isn't so bad. Said company is lovely and warm, after all, and familiar in the most twisted way. He curls against Dave's body and lets sleep take him.