A/N Warning: This is centred around themes of underage sex and prostitution, depression, child abuse (sexual/physical/emotional), substance abuse, crude language, assault and rape.

AU. It is inspired by and based on the Gregg Araki film "Mysterious Skin", starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt. HOWEVER, Neil, Brian and all other characters of the film will not be present, and it will not be a direct translation of the film's plot.

Contains Klainebows and Klangst in heaps. Reference to Rachel/Brody and other pairings. So, who can spot Blaine in the prologue?

Yours Is the Skin of the Mysterious

"I thought of all the grief and sadness and fucked up suffering in the world, and it made me want to escape. I wished with all my heart that we could just leave this world behind. Rise like two angels in the night and magically disappear."

~ Neil, Mysterious Skin

Prologue

Kurt had been so sure not even the bright lights of New York City itself could change his mind and morals about clubbing. And it hasn't, really. He'd still choose curled up, softly lit romance over sweat and strobes and grinding on a packed dance floor.

But life in New York really isn't life as a nineteen year old without fake IDs and speedy student hangover cures and late night stumbles home.

He bashes his shoulder into the doorway on his way out, and a hand from behind him grabs the back of his shirt to keep him (near enough) upright.

"Woah there, Tiger," Brody chuckles, slapping Kurt between the shoulder blades.

"Kurt!" Rachel shrieks, as if fearing Kurt will fall straight through the pavement in he's not careful. She's wrapped around her boyfriend like a spider monkey, clinging and pulling at him to keep him from disappearing right between her fingers. "Whoops," she giggles.

Kurt totters, drunk and ungainly, over to the nearest lamppost to lean on.

He's breathless with delight. He no longer cares about the paper deadline for Isabelle due in four days, the homesickness that's been troubling him for the past few weeks, the guilt he feels at getting along with Brody so well even as he consoles his heartbroken brother on the phone. Nothing can dampen this high of tequila sunrises and martinis galore.

"Come home with me," Rachel mumbles into Brody's ear, although in her slurred intoxication she may as well have invited the entire population of New York City back to her bed.

Kurt grimaces at the attempted seduction. Rachel's pawing at Brody's shirt and licking at his arm and Kurt sort-of-kind-of wants to vomit.

As Brody leans in to murmur something slightly more discrete in his girlfriend's ear, Kurt casts his gaze up and down the street.

A group of giggling women are teetering on stilettos, eyeing Rachel with envious glares as her boyfriend wraps a protective arm around her against the two a.m. chill. Two men are watching the oblivious group, eyes wide as one of the blondes bends down to pick up a fallen cell phone and the hem of her mini-skirt rises up to the very top of her thigh.

Before Kurt can so much as roll his eyes at such obvious signs of lust, a rowdy group of men crow and hoot as they race one another out of the club. They're eager and excited, laughing and jeering as they narrowly avoid running right into Rachel and Brody as they snuffle their noses into each others necks.

One of the men, tall with dark blond hair and soft blue eyes, pauses in front of Kurt, sparing moment enough to glance the younger man up and down. He smiles a charming, if a little inebriated smile. He mouths a friendly Hey, which Kurt returns with a shy wave and blushes.

It would seem not even alcohol can change Kurt's blushing virgin nature.

Not even losing his virginity has removed his blushing virgin nature, apparently.

And for that split second of time stopping connection there's all the potential in the world.

But it passes. The tall man with his dark blond hair and soft blue eyes turns back to his friends, and together they are distracted by something at the end of the street.

Kurt's eyes hopelessly follow them, nothing better to look at – certainly not Mr and Mrs Broadway themselves.

And then he sees him, his features shadowed in the casting of lamppost light.

He's small, with curly hair and broad shoulders, dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and an undersized wife beater. He's small, smoking a lit cigarette that glows in the dark. He's small, surrounded by tall men with their grabby hands and dilated pupils.

He's small.

Kurt watches as together the tall blond and his equally tall brunet friend take turns running their hands through the boy's hair, down his chest, cupping his ass and squeezing his crotch.

Kurt watches as the boy takes a lazy drag of his cigarette, licks his lips and responds with well rehearsed ease to their advances.

Kurt watches him slip their dollars into his back pocket and drag them around the corner, out of sight.

"Kurt!"

Suddenly there's Rachel, tugging at his elbow with one hand as the other keeps a tight clutch on Brody's fingers, insisting they get home now now now, insisting it's to get plenty of sleep for Miss July's lesson in the morning and not out of desperate teenage wantonness.

Brody laughs and shrugs, and Kurt nods, slipping only a little as he finally lets go of the lamppost. He glances back at the group of men still hanging around, their laughter echoing up to the stars. The boy and the two men have disappeared and Kurt, stomach clenching at thoughts beyond swilling alcohol and hangovers, turns away.

New York, New York, he tells himself. The same as any other city in the world, really, with secrets of its own left mostly hidden by that glaring red light.

And as his head sinks into his pillow, Kurt imagines the hungry moans of two men, and the pained cries of a curly haired boy between them.