Title: Trying Times and Telephone Lines

Chapter: 1/?
Summary: Au. Blaine Anderson is a struggling musician in the city that never sleeps. The very last thing he needs is a snarky telemarketer trying to sell him something useless late at night. But, there's something different about this particular telemarketer. He's quick witted and doesn't hold back. Maybe he is exactly what Blaine needs to get him out of his perpetual slump.

There's quite a bit of dialog in this, seeing as it's based of phone calls, so just for reference's sake when a character is talking it will be typed as

Kurt

Blaine

Mrs. Jenkins(She's in it for like, a blink of an eye, but she needs to feel special too)

Okay? Okay.

Pairing: Kurt/Blaine

A/N: Their history is vaguely cannon to glee, expect Kurt and Blaine never actually meet. I've implemented some of my own ideas, and exaggerated some of glee's ideas to fit to this story. So trigger warnings for bullying (of all kinds) mentions of suicide, beatings, parental abuse, and post traumatic stress. Also warnings for swearing and flirtatious French pseudo-dirty talk. This is the quick, unbeta'd version, so I'm sorry for mistakes.

Rating: Overall M, but this chapter is probably a strong PG-13

It was 11 o'clock at night, and Blaine Anderson was tucked away in his warm bed. He was safe, warm, and as happy as a clam.

"What a strange sentiment," Blaine thought to himself, "are clams really the optimum of happiness? They don't have eyes, and they're sole purpose in life is to be herded and eaten."

Wow, he really needed to get some sleep.

New York City was buzzing around outside his tiny apartment, truly the city that never sleeps. And yet, he found it soothing. At 25 years old, Blaine had been in this city for 5 years now. This was home, and everything that came with it was as well. The sounds, however constant, were his lullaby, his muse.

Blaine was just about to let sleep take him. He had finally shifted into that spot. You know the one, where your body is in just the right position. You're comfortable, you're happy, and you're ready to take that step off the ledge of the real world into the depth of unconscious slumber. Blaine was right there when he heard the single most horrible sound in all the late night world; his phone ringing.

What the actual fuck?

Groaning, Blaine slipped out of bed in search of the offending noise. Why would someone want to call him right now?

"Somebody had better be dead or dying," he thought bitterly.

Blaine had always had major issues about ignoring the phone. He'd never be able to tell you why, but when he heard the tone of a phone ringing, especially his own, he automatically went to it, without ever really questioning it.

Grabbing the phone off the hook, he looked down at the small orange screen, glaring slightly at the 800 that was glowing back at him. It just figured that would've dragged his ass out of bed for a god damned telemarketer. That really was just his luck.

Well, he was already awake. He might as well give this person a piece of his mind.

"Yello?" he said, finally pressing the answer button, and bringing the phone to press against his ear.

"Hello is there a Mr. Anderson available?" a high pitched voice asked from the other end of the line.

"This is him speaking, what can I do for you?" Blaine asked, shuddering slightly at the use of his title and surname. There was something about this voice. It was drawing him in. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he wanted to listen to this person. Too bad for this person, they had dragged Blaine out of bed to try and sell him something.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Anderson, I'm calling to offer you the deal –"the telemarketer began, but was cut off by a very irritated Blaine.

"Listen kid, whatever you're selling—I'm not buying it, alright? It is 11 o'clock at night, do you know hoe rude this is? How rude you people are? Some of us have to get up and go to real jobs in the morning," he snapped, feeling quite accomplished. It would go down as a W in his book if he could get this annoying haggler to hang up before he did. He sat back on his couch and waited for the mandatory, if not forced, politeness that was about to come.

Boy was he surprised.

"Well excuse me Mr. Anderson," the voice snipped at him, taking a turn for the bitchier, "do you honestly believe that I want to be doing this? Hmmm? No, I don't. But guess what captain high and mighty, these are trying times, and not all of us are so lucky to snag a real job, as you say. I'm so sorry for trying to make some sort of living, instead of ending up some hobo on the street! And for your information, Mr. Anderson, I am not a kid. I am a 25 year old man with a degree. So why don't you shut your judgmental mouth, and let me finish my pitch so we can hang up and I can get paid," the telemarketer huffed, waiting for some form of rebuttal.

"Wow," Blaine breathed, awe struck.

"Really? I just verbally ripped you a new asshole and all you have to say is wow?

"Hey! No I'm just—I'm so sorry. I never. Wow," Blaine said again.

"You're so articulate when you've been properly bitched out."

"I guess," Blaine giggled, "Just wow, so if I buy whatever you're selling, you'll get paid, and I won't feel like such an asshole?"

"Not exactly, no. I get paid for the amount of time I keep you on the line. And you'll still feel like an asshole whether you buy anything or not. As you should."

"Is that why you didn't hang up?" Blaine questioned.

"Well that, and I never pass up an opportunity to call someone out on their shit."

Blaine hummed in response, formulating a plan.

"Tell you what – uhm, "Blaine began.

"Kurt," the voice – Kurt supplied.

"Tell you what Kurt, how about I stay on the line with you for a little while so you don't have to deal with any other assholes?"

"What makes you think I like this asshole, your asshole?" Kurt snarked, then went completely silent.

"Oh my god, you did not just say that!" Blaine managed to get out between his hysterical bubbles of laughter.

Kurt merely answered him with a groan.

"Oh my—oh my god. My abs, they hurt. Now you have to stay on the line with me."

'I don't want to keep you up Mr. Anderson," Kurt said, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Hey whatever, I don't have anything better to do."

"What about your real job you have to get to in the morning?"

Now it was Blaine's turn to be embarrassingly quiet.

"You filthy rotten liar! You flipped out on me when you don't even have a real job, do you?"

"I – well—I have – It's a job!" Blaine spluttered indignantly.

"Oh yeah hot shot? Tell me, Mr. Anderson, what is it that you do?" Kurt questioned him.

"It's Blaine."

"I've never heard of that job title. Does it stand for something?"

"No! That's my name, my name is Blaine."

"Alright Dr. Seuss."

"Would you stop? Call me Blaine. Mr. Anderson is my father," Blaine spit out the last part out like it was a bad taste in his mouth.

"I'm sensing some daddy issues here."

"He doesn't … agree with my lifestyle."

"Would it have anything to do with your taste in career, your mystery career I might add? Wink wink, nudge nudge."

"More has to do with my taste in cock. As in I like them," Blaine said flippantly. Then he realized what exactly he had said and proceeded to turn as red as a tomato. Thank god Kurt couldn't see him through the phone.

"If your dad can't appreciate a good cock, well then more for us yeah?"

"You—you're gay?"

"We can discuss our mutual love adoration for all things male genitals later. Tell me about your job."

"Later? Does that mean you're going to stay on the line with me for a while?"

"I suppose it does."

"That is just, awesomeness."

"You know what else would be pure awesomeness?"

"Hmm?"

"If you would tell what you do for a living so I can make fun of you for being a hypocrite."

"That's really encouraging Kurt, really makes me want to tell you."

"Blaine c'monnnn," Kurt whined, momentarily dropping his snarky tone.

"I'm a hooker."

Kurt was silent for a few moments.

"Wow that's uhm—"

"Oh my god did you actually believe m? Nice Kurt, real nice! I'm not actually a hooker. I feel offended that you think so little of me."

"Well I really don't know that much about you and all I do know have been lies."

"Alright sorry, I get it. I'm a musician."

There was another beat of silence from Kurt's end of the line.

"That's basically the same thing as a hooker Blaine."

'What—no its not!"

"It so is."

"Explain this to me Kurt. Explain to me how being a musician, being an artist of sound, is the same thing as being a whore?"

"Artist of sound, really?"

"Don't ignore the question Kurt."

"You ask people to pay you for what they could essentially just download on their computer for free."

'That … is a good point. Damn."

"Mhmm."

"What about you Mr. Phone Service? If this isn't your dream job, what is?"

'Mr. Phone Service, really? You're the cheap whore here, not me."

"I am anything but cheap."

"So you admit that you're a whore?"

"Would you just answer my damn question?"

'Say you're a filthy whore, and maybe I'll think about it."

"Oh, you like zee deerty talk yes?"

"No, I have just recently discovered a new found hobby of making you sound like an ass. Apparently you don't need my help. Please never say dirty talk again. Especially like that. What was the supposed to be, French?"

'Oh ho ho, I am so eempressed dat you recognize zee language of looove," Blaine slurred in a horrible French accent.

"Je parle couramment en francais, vous putain pas cher idiot." *

"Wha—"

"That's what I thought."

"What did you just say?"

"Doesn't matter."

"That was like, super hot."

"Oh my god, okay no. Just no."

"Do it again!"

"Don't make this awkward Blaine"

"Paint me like one of your French girls!" Blaine squealed out, ending with a very manly giggle.

"Good god Blaine," Kurt replied with a giggle of his own.

Laughing, Blaine made himself more comfortable on his couch.

"Now, about that job you don't like."

"I haven't forgotten the deal Blaine."

"What deal? I made no deal."

"I'm not telling you a thing until you say it."

"But I don't want to."

"Then you'll never know a thing about me."

"Fiiiine," Blaine whined sucking in a deep breath, "Iamafilthywhore."

"I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that."

"Ugh. I hate you. I don't even know your last name and I hate you."

"Hummel. Now go on."

"Hummel? Like those little elf figurines, ohmygod that's so cute!"

"Blaine! Stay on task!"

"Oh yes right. Hmmmm."

"Blaine."

"I AM A FILTHY WHORE!" Blaine bellowed out into his empty apartment.

"Absolutely no one cares Blaine. Keep your role playing to yourself, "a woman's tiny voice shouted back at him from the ceiling.

"Who was that you imbecile?" Kurt wheezed out through his cackling.

'God damn it, that was Mrs. Jenkins from upstairs. SORRY MRS. JENKINS!" Blaine shouted back.

"That's quite alright dear. It's about time you got laid, just keep it to yourself."

"Oh good lord," Blaine groaned.

'So your walls are thin enough that I can hear the neighbors. Alright, you don't live in a pent house. I'm now labeling you as a struggling musician."

"Hey! You know too much about me. I've done your dirty bidding, answer my question."

"What was the question again?"

"If this, talking to assholes late into the evening, isn't your dream job, then what is?"

"Right yes well – I have a degree in fashion. I'm actually a temp for a magazine right now, but that doesn't pay very well, so I do this on the side so I can make rent, and you know, eat. It's temporary until I can get a full time job. It works out really well for me though, I get to do this from my house and sometimes meet pseudo assholes who turn out to be goobers and help me make a lot of money."

"That was a compliment. A back handed one, but a compliment none the less."

'Yeah well don't get used to it bub."

"Wait, you get to do this from your house?"

"Well yeah. Did you really think I'd get away with talking to you like this if I were in an office?"

"I suppose not. Wait so how does that even work?"

"The company I work for has a business phone installed into my home with its own number. I have to do a lot of my costuming for the magazine here with my supplies so this is all very convenient."

'So do you like, ever go outside?"

"Dear lord—yes Blaine, I am not a hermit."

"Whoa, don't get so defensive there buddy."

"I'm not!"

"Mhhhmmm."

Kurt sighed softly, "You sound like Mercedes."

"Mercedes?"

"She's my best friend, has been since high school. She's – she's amazing. She's one of the only ones who were always there for me. Her and Rachel, also a friend, now roommate."

"She sounds amazing. How do I remind you of her?"

"Your Mhmm."

"My Mhmm?"

"Mhmm."

"Care to elaborate?"

"It was sarcastic and sassy. She's a sassy black diva."

"Oh my—I thought you were being sweet, but nooo. I remind you of a sassy black diva?"

"Mhmm."

Blaine grumbled incoherently over the phone, yet continued to smile."

"Kurt?" Blaine asked tentatively after a few moments.

"Hmm?"

"You don't – I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to, but you kinda sounded, I dunno, sad when you mentioned Mercedes and Rachel always being there for you. I don't wanna assume you know? But we could – like – talk about that, if you wanted. I've never – I just – I haven't ever had anyone to talk to about, you know, life, and high school and such, as a gay guy. So we could, you know?" Blaine had never stammered over his words like this before.

"Like an Ill show—erm—tell you my scars if you tell me yours kinda deal?"

"Yeah! Unless you're uncomfortable with that. Then we can totally go back to insulting one another. I'll even call myself a filthy whore again."

"No—I—I think maybe I'd like that."

"Insulting each other?"

"No you buffoon, telling you… that stuff. The anonymity of it is, I don't know, reassuring. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah it really does," Blaine said, sighing with relief.

"Okay – well, uhm Ill go first, yeah?" Kurt asked, his voice shaking slightly.

"Kurt we don't –"

"I want to Blaine. I—I want to."

"Okay. I'm here. I'm listening."

"It was back in high school. Lima, the most closed minded hick town the world may ever see. I was... the only out kid at my school. I had, I just had nothing. Nothing, except glee. It was the only enjoyable thing about my day. I would go to school, and just brace myself. The locker slams, the bruises, being thrown into dumpster after dumpster. That was – it just got to the point where it didn't bother me. Well, that's a lie, of course it bothered me, I just—I didn't have the energy to fight back anymore. So I didn't. I let them throw me around like a rag doll. I let them abuse me. The teachers, they saw – and they were sympathetic, but they never did anything. You're gay? Whelp sorry, your life is gonna suck. And I, I didn't even fight it. I accepted that I was useless, unwanted. It was never the physical violence that got to me. I never screamed after a slushy to the face. No, it was the horrible slurs. The awful things they all said, whether it to my face, or in hushed tones behind my back. Lady, Princess, faggot. They wounded far worse than any punch ever did. That's what people just don't understand. Bruises, cuts, wounds? They all heal. Time takes it all away and makes it like it never happened. But words, god, words never leave. Once you put it out there in the universe, it stays there. Nothing—no amount of time or money can ever make it go away. Those words, that hate, it still haunts me. There was this one Neanderthal who mad it his mission to make my life a living hell. It was like he stalked me. One day he shoved me to the ground and yelled a more colorful slur at me as he walked away. I was done. I had heard one slur too many and I was fucking done. I got up, and I stormed after him, following him into the locker room. I remember it like it was yesterday. He told me that the girls' locker room was across the hall, Clever right? I lost it. I screamed and call him a scared little boy. I was wild. He came at me with fists raised, but I just didn't care anymore. I told him to do it, I told him to hit me, because he couldn't punch gay out of me anymore than I could punch the ignoramus out of him. His eyes were on fire, and I was so sure he was about to rearrange my face. I wasn't prepared for what he did. He, "Kurt paused, taking a shuddering breath. Blaine stayed silent, somehow knowing that Kurt would go on when he was ready, "he—he grabbed my face, and he kissed me. My first kiss was stolen from me by some meathead closet case. When he swooped in for more, I barely managed to push him off, and I ran. I ran as fast as I possibly could, out the doors and into my car. I just – I drove. I drove until I couldn't anymore. I parked my car in some abandoned parking lot, and just cried. Losing my first real kiss was a big deal to 16 year old me. When I had finally calmed myself down, I turned around and I drove back. I had to go to glee, if not for some semblance of comfort, to make sure no one suspected anything. I got back and I was so jumpy. More so than usual. Nobody noticed. Nobody ever noticed. I didn't sing one note that meeting. After rehearsal, the Neanderthal Karofsky, he found me again. Cornered me. I—god—I was so scared. I was so unprepared for the next thing he did. He leaned down so that he as eye level and told me that if I ever told anyone, he would kill me. He threatened my life, and that moment was when I felt the entire world fall in around me. I just—I wasn't the same anymore. Every day it got worse, II got more and more scared. He would be constantly following me with his eyes, just waiting for me to screw up. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. The fear was paralyzing. It got to the point where I thought anything had to be better. I don't believe in Heaven, and I was already in Hell. I had made up my mind. I wasn't going to sit around and wait for David Karofsky to kill me; I was just going to do it myself. My dad, he knew something was up, he was worried. But he was finally just starting to recover from a heart attack and being in a coma. He couldn't catch all the signs. My step brother, he's so kind, so sweet. I love him dearly, but sometimes he's just, so unobservant. I waited. I waited until my dad went back to work, Carole, my step mother was a nurse, so she was always busy, and I waited for Finn to leave for school. When I was finally alone, I wrote my goodbyes, cried my tears, and locked myself in the bathroom. The pills were white. I swallowed the whole damn bottle. At least, I thought I did. Feeling your life slip away from your body is a strange, yet oddly peaceful feeling. I vaguely remember a crash and people screaming, but other than that I was gone. When I finally woke up it was so bright, I could hardly stand it. I really thought I was dead, and I instantly regretted it. I cried so hard that day. It took the doctors and my own father hours to convince me that I was alive. Turns out when I didn't show up for school that day, Mercedes and Rachel got worried. Thank goodness they did. They came to my house and when my car was there, but I didn't come to the door, they know something was up. They found my letter and immediately went to the bathroom. Mercy had to kick down the door while Rachel called 9-1-1. They got to me in time. The hospital pumped my stomach and I had to get a blood transfusion, but I was alive. I owe those girls my life. They never left. They were by my side the whole time. They were there during my recovery, and when I went back to school to finish up and graduate. They were always there, and I'm going to be spending the rest of my life thanking them," Kurt finally finished, his voice thick with emotion.

Blaine, for the first time in his life, was speechless.

"Blaine…?"

Blaine let out a harsh breath to let Kurt know he was still there.

"Kurt. Kurt you're so – so strong," he finally whispered.

"No Blaine, I'm –"

"Yes, god, yes you are. Just you are. You kept fighting. Even when you thought you gave up, you hadn't."

"I'm not some hero Blaine."

"You are to me."

"I—How so?"

"I—I ran Kurt."

"Blaine?"

Blaine took a deep breath began in a trembling voice, "I was 15 when I came out. Well actually, I was forced out. A boy in my class found my journal where I had accidently left it at lunch. The latest entry was about a boy that I had a massive crush o. I'll never know what possessed him to do it, but he took the journal and made what had to have been thousands of copies of the entry, which had my signature, loud and proud. He broke into the school one night and plastered them everywhere. I went to school the next day, and god I was mortified. I don't think I've ever cried that hard in my life, and I'm not sure I ever will again. I broke down, and they all just—laughed. People who I had called friends literally pointed and laughed at me while I slid to the floor, failing at keeping it together. The principal found me and took me to her office. I could tell she felt bad. Her eyes. You can really see who a person is through their eyes. They were so sad for me. She called my parent, not realizing that that was the least helpful thing she could've done. They came, surprisingly. My mom, she held me, trying to protect her baby boy. My father, he paced. The only words he spoke about the entire matter were to ask me if it was true. So, right there in front of the entire administration, I came out to my parents. I looked into my father's eyes, and I knew that that was the moment that he stopped loving me. He didn't say another word. They took me home. My mother offered to have my transferred, but I said no. I was tired of hiding. I told her I was going back, and I did. It was awful. Just like you said. The slurs, the bruises, everything. Only I wasn't alone. There was one other out boy at my school. He didn't get as much shit because he played football. He asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance, as friends. He told me it was time that we took a stand. Of course I said yes. I was ecstatic. Tommy was cute. I know my mom didn't think I noticed that my dad made sure not to be around the night of the dance, but I did. Tommy's parents picked us up and took us to the school. I was so sure I was in for the night of my life. It ended up being alright. We danced a little. Sure, the rest of the student body treated us like we had the plague, but we were there, together, two boys, and that was all that mattered. After the dance, as we waited outside for Tommy's parents to get there, there 3 guys – they came up and they beat the living shutout of us. We tried to get away, tried to fight back, but these guys were big. They just beat us and beat us until I couldn't hear Tommy's screams anymore, and I finally just blacked out. I had no fight left. I woke up, a week later, screaming. Cooper, my older brother, held my hand as the doctor sedated me. The doctor told me that he never left my side. He called my parent to tell them that I had woken up. God my mom had never been good at doing her makeup. I could still the black eye she was sporting under her foundation. My dad didn't even blink at the tubes running out of my body. He simply stared at the wall behind me and told me I was going to Dalton. I remember sobbing and asking about Tommy. Apparently, one of the guys had had some sort of metal pipe and had used it to literally break Tommy's back. He would never walk again. Tommy never spoke again either. I—I was so scared, so sad, and I ran. I ran all the way to Dalton Academy for Boys and their zero tolerance bullying policy, right along with their unspoken zero personal identity policy. So yes Kurt, you are brave. You are a hero. I ran, you—you had courage," Blaine finished, on the verge of tears.

"Sometimes courage isn't going back into battle, sometimes it is merely saying I will try again tomorrow," Kurt whispered to him.

'You're amazing," Blaine whispered back.

They were silent for a few minutes, contemplating, absorbing.

"Holy Hell!" Kurt exclaimed, breaking the silence," Its 3 am!"

"Would you look at that?"

"I have to go Blaine; I have a lot of things I have to do for the magazine tomorrow."

"I—oh—okay."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't—I don't want to say goodbye just yet," Blaine whispered.

"I'm not saying goodbye."

"You're not?"

"I do have your number."

"Are you going to call me?"

"You'll have to wait and see, wont you?"

Blaine was silent, unable to fight off the nervous clench in his throat that made no sense at all. Except it so totally did.

"When the time is right, I'll call you again Blaine."

"So when your next rent check is due?"

"I mean you are a filthy whore, you said so yourself. I'll need your services again."

Blaine hummed, trying to play everything off as a joke, even though he was dreading hanging up.

"I promise Blaine, I'll call you."

"You could give me your number?"

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"Kuuurt—"

"You'll just have to trust me Blaine."

Blaine was silent for a moment.

"Oddly enough I do."

"Good."

"Well, until you pander again my cyber shop-keep."

Kurt chuckled, "Good night Blaine, and thank you. For everything."

"Anytime,' Blaine said with as much conviction as he could possible muster, "Thank you, so much. Good night Kurt."

With a final sigh, Kurt hung up the phone.

As Blaine tumbled into bed finally in the wee hours of the morning he did so with a smile. God had it been awhile since he had had a reason to.

*Roughly translates to "I am fluent in French, you filthy whore."