Chapter I-

You Were Working as a Waitress in a Cocktail Bar When I Met You….

Blaine Anderson had, over the years, become a force to be reckoned with.

Perhaps not in the way you would expect a gay man who ran the theater industry of Chicago to be a force, but a force nonetheless. The entire district bowed down to him, obeyed his every request as if it were an order. This was, of course, because he was the first to be absolutely free of bitterness, which allowed him to be different. He was… good. In the way that theater people rarely were. He used the power of his position to accomplish a vision that was childlike in a lot of ways- that everyone was inherently good, and those who weren't could be cured by the community spirit that the theater brought. And so he named ex-convicts playwrights, actors, and stagehands. He allowed children to see shows for free. He gave unused costumes and props to the needy, that their sorry lives might be a bit better. One might've called him naïve, and you'd have been right. But he was smart. And he was beautiful in the rarest of ways. And with a certain suave something, he got whatever he wanted.

And what he wanted, when he pulled up to The Spark, was a drink. It had been, as he kept repeating in his head, the longest fucking day. He strolled into the lavender lighting, ignoring the modern, black leather décor. No one said that The Spark was a gay bar, but then, no one needed to. Blaine ignored the whistles blown in his direction as he walked, smiling apologetically at the men who smiled invitingly. He wasn't frigid- just tired. He got to the bar and threw himself on the stool, drumming his fingers on the polished wood.

"Someone needs a drink." He glanced up at the source of the voice, high pitched and velvety. A pale brunette stood, tall and slender, arms folded, grey eyes bright with irritation. That wasn't what caught Blaine's attention. Nor did the skin tight heather tee-shirt over the black and grey striped jeans that he must have had minions mold to his form. No, it was the lips- pink, plush, arousing. Blaine realized where his mind was going and pulled the reins sharply up, dragging his eyes up to the bartender's. They were expectant.

"Whiskey. Straight." His voice was strong. He patted himself on the back. Mentally.

The bartender waltzed away to make the drink, thinking to himself. He liked to make snap judgments about his patrons. Gave him something to do. This guy was well muscled, with hair sleeked back. He wore a cargo jacket over a black tee shirt and a skinny black tie. A quirky, hippie type. After a day of work. Trying a bit too hard to be hipster- probably "work" meant something artsy. Likely to be insecure, and therefore a total bitch. What the bartender failed to analyze was the fact that neither man was capable, it seemed, of not staring.

He walked back over and plunked down the whiskey. Blaine immediately shot it back, eyes open, hair refusing to slip. He let the glass twirl back onto the table with a signature disarming smile. The bartender had not seen anything like it. He found his night plans. As it always did, his father's voice echoed distantly in the back of his mind. Every time he heard it, it seemed more disappointed.

Don't throw yourself around. Like you don't matter. 'Cause you matter, Kurt.

But, Kurt reasoned, his father, wherever he was now, would understand. Kurt needed, more than the wholeness of his heart, a place to sleep. Besides, he didn't always sleep with them. In fact, more often than not, he stopped at kissing; telling them that sleeping on it would build up the most beautiful anticipation. And if that worked, he was gone before dawn arrived.

He wasn't a whore. Was not.

But every day, he felt perilously dizzy as he considered how thin the line he danced on was.

Blaine Anderson watched him think. Mystified, he slid off the barstool and handed Kurt the proper amount of money, turning away from him.

"Wait." Blaine turned back to Kurt. "Aren't you going to attempt to get me to go home with you?" Blaine cocked an eyebrow. "I saw the way you looked at me." And Kurt licked his lips at that, an expert of manipulation. "And I get off in 10."

"Are you asking me to hit on you?"

"You make me sound disgusting." Kurt smiled encouragingly. And Blaine, who knew all there was to know about deception and ensnaring because of his craft, knew that this smile, though convincing, was faked with sugar and indifference, attraction, and even with fear. And he was right. And, he believed, there was only one reason that a man would practically ask to be picked up if he didn't want to be.

"Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?" Kurt's expression froze and then flowed again- it was only an instant, but it was enough for Blaine to pick up on again with a tilt of his head and a knowing smile.

"I've heard that one before." Kurt mumbled weakly, shifting slightly under the weight of Blaine's eyes.

"I'm serious." Kurt could not think of anything to say to this. Blaine watched him struggle in silence until his sympathetic nature took over. "Alright, I'll wait in my car. I'm the black Lexus."

"Hey, it's not that…I'm not that easy." Blaine rolled his eyes and reached over the bar, taking his hand and bringing it to his lips, skimming them over the smooth pale skin.

"I want you for your body and your mind." He released him, turned around, and walked away, hands in pockets. Seeming to have forgotten something, he half turned back to Kurt. "And if you aren't there in ten minutes, I will come find you." He said this gently, winking- and left. But Kurt didn't doubt him for a minute.

xXxXx

The car ride was quiet- Blaine played music. Showtune after showtune was followed by indie stuff Kurt recognized as the car pulled carefully but swiftly into a spot in the parking garage. Kurt must've misjudged him- this guy wasn't as loaded as he seemed. That was until they got to the elevator, which opened immediately. Inside was all red and gold. Except for a small, elderly man in white gloves and what looked like a marching band uniform. He, upon seeing them, immediately pushed the top button.

"Hey Julius." Blaine shook the man's gloved hand. "This is Kurt." Kurt did not remember mentioning his name to this man, but then again., he didn't remember where they'd just parked. But the old man grinned at him as the lift ascended.

"Long day, Blaine?" Julius asked, turning his attention back to the darker haired man. Kurt arched an eyebrow. Blaine. It was a great name.

"The longest."

"Sleep well, then. " Julius and Blaine laughed as if sharing a private joke. Kurt wondered quickly if he should be offended. The door slid open, and they vacated with a 'g'night'. Kurt gasped.

He had expected a hallway.

What he found was sparsely decorated but a huge and cozy apartment- the penthouse. Everything was mahogany warm, practical, comfortable.

"Nice Place."

"Thank you." Silence. "Hungry?"

"No." Blaine nodded and wrapped his hand around Kurt's, pulling him away from the sitting room, past a kitchen, into a bedroom.

"So, this is where you'll be staying, and th-" But Blaine could not finish his sentence, being as he had just been pushed back onto his bed, and his lips were otherwise occupied. Kurt moved so quickly that Blaine had only the tiniest inkling how he'd gotten flat on his back, Kurt bearing down on him, kissing him hard and not silently either. Blaine's mouth was finally free as Kurt lowered himself to his neck, licking delicate and random patterns over goosefleshed skin. "So… what're you doing?" Kurt barely heard, nosing his way up until he could pull on his ear lobe with his teeth.

"You need an explanation?" he asked, satisfied as Blaine let out a small moan, unable to keep complete control.

"As good as that feels, lovely, that's not what this was about." Kurt ignored that for the moment, tracing his fingers from Blaine's knee up, up, up, until- Blaine spasmed, sucking in a deep breath. Kurt stroked his length through his jeans, chuckling.

"Oh, isn't it?"

"I want something bigger for you, Kurt."

"You really don't give yourself enough credit, Blaine." Kurt's stroking got more persistent, and Blaine's eyes slipped closed. "And you really don't have to be self-deprecating. It's cute, but I've seen it before, and we were going to fuck anyway." Blaine exhaled, and took Kurt's hands, pinning them above his head as he deftly switched their positions- and now, he hovered over Kurt, eyes sparking with something that Kurt identified as… frustration. Clouded by lust, but frustration still.

"Listen." His voice dropped to a whisper that quivered with danger, and other emotions. "I didn't bring you here to fuck you. I'd like to. Believe me. But I'm not the kind of guy who takes advantage of helpless cocktail waiters. I brought you here so you would have a bed to sleep in and breakfast in the morning. Safety." He kissed Kurt then, tenderly and kindly and comfortingly. "I won't use you. I want to help you." He got up off of the bed, and pointed to a set of double doors. "That's the closet. Help yourself. And that door leads to the Balcony. Goodnight, lovely." with that, he turned around and left, loosening his tie as he went.

Kurt had to take several minutes to process. Then he got up stiffly, and entered the closet- entered!- and found a pair of pajama pants, which he put on after sliding his jeans off. He took off his tee shirt and slipped back into the bedroom. His eyes were wide, and they shone with tears as he slipped under the covers. His thoughts were confused but the tears were not that of sadness. Someone had seen him. As a person. A person, who…needed. And the impact of it was huge as it was vast, comforting as it was frightening. And though conflict folded itself over in his heart, his sleep was dreamless and deep.

xXxXx

So hey!

I'm coming back from the fanfiction dead as a whole new writer- who I was previously… you don't want to know. But leave a review, and tell me watchoo think of my take on our favorite couple.

Be aware that this is not beta'd, so excuse my blindness to typos. If you'd like to beta, you can drop me a line about that one as well.

Thanks for reading.

P.S. I do not own Glee, or any characters thereof. I do not own the song "Don't You Want Me." I acknowledge this now and for all works/chapters to come.