This story was completed as part of the Kurt/Blaine Reverse Bang. The beautiful art for this piece was drawn by the amazing Munchingonzebras and will be linked in the final part as it contains spoilers. Huge, enormous props go to Sylvia and Kellyjo562 for their help in making this story come to fruition. They were both incredible betas, so all mistakes are exclusively my fault. I have also had the help from a few other lovely people at some point or another in the process of this story, and I will do a more complete thank you in the end! The story is completed and it will be posted in five chunks.

Day One: New York, NY 2021

"I guess this is the place," Kurt mumbled to himself, staring at the flashy storefront. The shop was small, but the trappings were ostentatious in a way that made it appear much larger than it actually was. A sign on the door read Roxxy's Closet in loopy purple lettering, the tag line underneath made Kurt chuckle: 'you're born naked, and the rest is drag!'

Not for the first time, Kurt felt a twinge of guilt at what he was about to do, but he didn't allow himself to think on it for more than a moment. He had worked too long and too hard to get where he was today to let himself go soft when he had a job to do. Working for Vogue had been a goal of his practically since his father bought him that first pair of 'sensible heels' for his third birthday. Getting an internship for when he first moved to the city was a dream come true, and his brand new position as the assistant to the Chief of Design was practically a miracle.

He had only been working there for a few weeks when he was called into his boss's office to receive his next big project.

"Mr. Hummel, please take a seat," Jane Samuels said tersely, gesturing to the high backed chair on the other side of her desk. She was a creative genius in Kurt's opinion, but she was stern in a way that most artists weren't. It was certainly a change from the motherly exuberance of Isabelle, Kurt's former supervisor, but if Kurt was serious about making a career for himself at Vogue the choice to take the promotion wasn't really a choice at all. "I heard reports that your work on the winter spread was satisfactory," she said. Kurt had quickly come to realize that this was practically a glowing compliment coming from her.

"Thank you, Ms. Samuels. I enjoyed the work," Kurt replied politely.

The woman nodded, and shuffled a few paper's on her desk, "The next project I need to you to work on is of another sort entirely," she began. "As you know, we're expanding and moving to an office complex further down town. There isn't much there now, just a few freelancers and small shops. Obviously we will pay handsomely to get them to move. The building owner is fully on board, and as most of the lease agreements are now up for renewal it will be easy to force them out by agreeing to a higher rent."

Kurt shoved down the uneasiness he felt at the woman's flippancy, calming himself with the knowledge that the small business owners that probably resided in the area now were going to be compensated with more than enough money to move their business elsewhere. "And where do I fall in all of this?" Kurt asked, almost afraid to hear the response.

"Well, we need someone to deliver the news, and to negotiate the settlement offers," Ms. Samuels replied, already seeming bored of the exchange. "Denise will give you the paperwork and the budget you need to stay within. The rest is up to you. I expect to sign a new contract with the building owner by Monday, so please make sure to have everything completed by then," and with that Kurt was dismissed.

The other people had reacted calmly enough, seemingly aware of Vogue's plan to move. Some of them fought for more money, but Kurt was still managing to stay well within his budget. The Flatiron district was full of freelance artists and designers that owned the majority of the small offices in the area, and moving wouldn't be too big of a hassle. If Kurt had to guess, however, Roxxy's would prove to be a different experience entirely.

Westerville, OH 2012

"What kind of crackpot institution are you running?" Cooper Anderson Sr. bellowed at the headmaster of his son's school, well former school. The aforementioned son was sitting in a chair by the door of the office, sitting with his knees hugged to his chest, willing away the tears that were threatening to spill. "I sent Blaine here to learn to be a man from what I thought was one of the finest institutions for boys in the country. I didn't send him here to become an even bigger fairy," he spat, turning a violent, angry shade of red.

"With all due respect, Sir," the man tried to cut in, but Mr. Anderson would have none of it.

"I come here to pick him up for dinner to celebrate his brother's latest promotion, and I find him dressed like a goddamn go go dancer and singing vulgar pop music!"

"Mr. Anderson, we do our best not to stifle the..."

"Enough!" Mr. Anderson shouted over him once again. "I've heard just about enough from you. Starting tomorrow I want Blaine un-enrolled from here, and you can be sure that Dalton Academy won't get another dime from an Anderson ever again."

The Headmaster nodded, unable to do anything else. He tried to send a comforting smile to the boy still sitting quietly behind them, the tears that he had worked so hard to hold back were now spilling freely. The Headmaster's heart ached for the boy he had grown so fond of over the years. The few times he had had the misfortune of running into the boy's father, he marveled at how Blaine Anderson, lead singer of the Dalton Academy Warblers, and showman extraordinaire—loved by his peers and the faculty, and consummately kind and generous, could have come from such rotten parents.

Blaine had started Dalton in the beginning of his high school career, as his brother, father, and grandfather had before him. Back when the older generation of Anderson's had attended the school, it was known as a bastion of tradition and formality. Since then, however, the school had become a haven for the best liberal educators and administration Ohio, and possibly the country, had to offer. They still kept an air of tradition and formality, but a strictly enforced no bullying policy and a notoriously aggressive approach to tolerance education had made it what it was today: a safe space for students of all kinds.

In a lot of ways, it was the perfect place for Blaine. It had all the prestige, pomp, and circumstance that a blue blood family like the Anderson's required, and the right atmosphere to keep an openly gay teen in the middle of Ohio feeling safe and comfortable. Timing, however, had not been on Blaine's side that day.

Mr. Anderson rarely made occasion to come visit his son at school. The fact that it was a boarding school fit rather nicely with both father and son's desire to spend as little time together as possible. He did pop in once in awhile, though, usually to make a show of checking in on some over the top donation he had made, or to rub it in Blaine's face when his older brother had done yet another thing right.

It was for the latter reason that he had dropped in unannounced right in the middle of the junior Showcase, an annual fundraiser where the junior class raised money for the seniors to use for Prom and Senior Week. It was meant to be fun and silly, and students from Dalton and their sister school paid the admission fee mostly to see their friends make idiots out of themselves. It usually involved long skits that made fun of some of the students and popular faculty (always with permission, and in a good natured way), ridiculous costumes, and silly songs, and every year without fail, the Warblers had the show stopping performance.

Blaine had counted on stealing the show with his impressive vocals and diva dance moves. He had not counted on his father wandering into the auditorium and seeing him belting out Beyonce in leather pants and a pink feathered jacket.

Before Blaine or the principal could respond verbally to Mr. Anderson's declaration, he was pulling Blaine out of the office by his wrist, "w-where are you taking me? What are you doing?" Blaine yelped, following helplessly behind his domineering father.

"I'm doing what I should have done years ago," Mr. Anderson snapped back. "Starting Monday, you're going to go somewhere they can really teach you to be a man: military school."

And with those two words, Blaine ran.

New York, NY 2021

Kurt wasn't sure what he was expecting to find when he walked into Roxxy's, but frankly the sign on the outside should have tipped him off to the fact that it was a store for drag queens...scratch that, a thrift store for drag queens.

Every rack, shelf, and surface was covered in bold outfits of every color and fabric. There were enough feathers and sequins to keep Cirque Du Soleil in costume for an entire year, and the walls were plastered with photographs of queens that had come through the store. If Kurt hadn't been on official business, it's the kind of place he would have loved to spend some time looking through, but as it was, the almost magical feel of the place made him more than a little uneasy at what he had to do.

"Can I help you?" a voice from behind him asked. Kurt whipped around to find a young boy (he couldn't have been older than seventeen), wearing a tank top that said "Roxxy's" in bold, glittery, red letters, and a nameplate that said "Janice" in loopy cursive. Kurt did a double take at the boy's face before realizing that the employees here probably went by drag names while on duty. "You look a little lost," he said popping his hip, and giving Kurt a once over.

"Oh...um...no," Kurt replied, cursing his awkwardness when he saw the teen raise his eyebrows in amusement, "I was just coming in to see if..."

"Devon, we have a first timer," the boy shouted gleefully towards the door in the back that was marked 'manager' in the same loopy script that was on Janice's name tag. The boy was smiling widely, but there was a teasing glint in his eye that made him a little nervous.

"No, I'm not a drag..." Kurt tried, but he was cut off by the manager who had emerged from the office.

"Yeah that's what I said my first time, but don't worry, we'll help you let your freak flag fly."

New York, NY 2012

"I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies, like a tiger defying the laws of gravity. I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva, I'm gonna go go go. There's no stopping me," Blaine sang his heart out, sending a wink to a woman that had dropped a whole dollar in his guitar case. He'd only been out here for a few days, but it had taken less than an hour for him to learn how far a little bit of charm could go in the art of busking.

It was all he had really: the guitar he had managed to grab from his room, his wallet, his now dead cell phone, the clothes on his back, and the Anderson charm that had catapulted him to the height of Dalton fame. His wallet and cellphone were useless now that he was spending his days busking in Central Park and his nights sleeping on the subway for warmth. It was april in New York City, and though he was grateful that he hadn't seen any of the month's famous 'showers' yet, it got cold.

He would be the first to admit that this wasn't a sustainable lifestyle. Regardless of his well honed boxing skills and heightened ability to let petty insults roll off his back (thanks to his brief stint in the public school system for Junior High), Blaine was not what anyone would call 'street smart'. He needed to get himself a job and a place to live, and fast.

"I don't wanna stop at all," Blaine finished out strong. He had been performing on autopilot for the majority of the song, but he checked back in just in time to notice a perfectly manicured hand drop a twenty dollar bill into his case. Blaine's eyes followed the hand in shack as it reached up to give him a light smattering of applause.

"You've got some pipes, kid," came an impressed voice, and it was only at that moment that Blaine found himself face to face with the owner of that hand. Standing in front of the, now dissipating, cluster of listeners Blaine had managed to earn was the most intimidatingly fabulous human being that Blaine had ever seen in person. "Can you talk with those pouty lips of yours or can you just sing?" the person asked sassily raising an eyebrow in a way that demanded an answer.

"I...oh...um...thank you!" Blaine finally choked out. He was still in the process of taking in his onlooker's appearance. He (?) was dressed boldly in a pair of stark white skinny jeans, a knee length black cardigan, and colorful printed scarf. His arms were adorned with a mess of gold bangles, and his face was fully made up, complete with an impressive pair of false eyelashes. "And thank you for your generosity. You have no idea how much it means to me."

The man gave Blaine another appraising once over before responding, "what's your name," he asked, daintily folding his arms across his chest.

Blaine started to panic slightly. This was the most anyone had spoken to him in days, heck he's barely made eye contact with anyone since the day he ran away from Dalton to escape military school. He felt shaky and unsure, and before he could think much about it he decided not to give this person his real first name, "Devon," he blurted out, "Devon Anderson." Okay, maybe his middle name wasn't the best cover in the universe, but Anderson was a common enough surname, right?

"Okay, I meant your real name, not your drag name, but I get it. You don't know me yet," the man replied with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Jesus Christ, this guy thought he was a drag queen. Blaine couldn't blame him really. He was still dressed in his costume from the Diva performance, and he was almost definitely still sporting some, albeit thoroughly smudged, guy-liner. "You don't understand, I'm not a..."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say," the man cut Blaine off. "Look it doesn't much matter to me what you are. What matters is that you've got a great set of pipes, and a killer look, and I'm a person that believes in second chances. And you, Devon," he said his name with a slight tease, but their was no malice behind it, "really look like you could use a second chance."

"Who...who are you?" Blaine finally managed to get out.

"Well I'm not telling you my real name unless you tell me yours," the man said. "but for now, you can call me Unique. Everyone else does."

0000000000

New York, NY 2021

"No, no, I mean I'm not here for pleasure," Kurt said, finally getting his bearings after taking in the startling appearance of Devon. His uniform was technically the same as Janet's (minus the fact that his name tag had the word 'manager' etched on it with his name), but he wore it with a sort of larger than life grace that Kurt rarely saw in real life. He was good looking for sure, lots of compact muscles bulging out of the tank top and the painted on jeans he was wearing. The smudge of eyeliner he wore and the electric blue thong Kurt could see peeking out the top of his pants added just a hint of perfect contrast and androgyny. "I'm here for business."

"What kind of business brings a cutie like you to our humble establishment," Janet asked with a bat of his eyelashes and an over exaggerated wink."

"Cool it, Jan," Devon said with a chuckle, pulling him backwards like a lioness might tug back her young pup. The sparkle in his wide, caramel colored eyes betrayed a familiarity that Kurt couldn't help but admire. There was clearly a kinship there. "Why don't you come with me into the office and we can discuss what business you have here," Devon said, gesturing for Kurt to follow him.

"See ya later, Sugar," Janet called after him, and Kurt didn't even to both suppressing his laughter.

"Is he always like that?" Kurt asked, taking a seat at the small desk across from Devon, once again trying to take in his colorful surroundings.

"He's always like that when a cute guy comes into the shop," he said matter of factly. There was no flirtation in his voice. He said it like Kurt's attractiveness was just an objective truth.

Kurt averted his eyes. Devon might have no problem telling a total stranger that he's cute without so much as a blush, but Kurt wasn't so lucky. His gaze fell on the largest of a cluster of framed pictures. "Is that you?" Kurt asked, partly in disbelief, and partly to distract from his embarrassment. He was pointing towards a photo of an older african American queen holding a younger one bridal style, both of them have their heads thrown back in laughter.

"Yeah, that's me and my drag mom after the first show that I headlined," Devon replied. "It was a crazy night. It's a good thing that I work, live, and perform in the same place, or I would never have made it home or to work the next day after that one," Blaine said, looking fondly over at the picture.

"Are you saying that you guys have more than just the shop? How much space do you guys have here," Kurt asked.

"This first floor is the shop, upstairs is the club, and the top floor is where a lot of us live. It's like a fashion house, but for drag queens," Devon said, with a laugh. "We put on a show every night but Monday, and then we take turns running the shop. It can get a bit crazy and dysfunctional, but we're a family so we make it work."

"You guys have your own show here" Kurt asked in disbelief. The task his boss had set out for him was seeming more and more difficult the more Devon spoke. "That's pretty impressive," Kurt had been to small drag shows before, mostly in college before work had completely taken over his life. That kind of performance had never appealed to him personally, but he certainly enjoyed watching it, and he could appreciate it as an art form. He firmly believed that fashion had no gender, and he liked mixing the masculine and feminine in his wardrobe, but dressing in drag had never been something he wanted to do. Devon made it sound like a lifestyle.

Devon nodded, amusement clear on his face, "it's taken about thirty years of building, but we've really managed to make a name for ourselves. I mean Roxxy's is still a little more 'Cleveland is Toasted' than 'Paris is Burning', but we definitely have a following here in the city, and the store is one of the most popular places to buy drag clothes. Queens hate repeating outfits, but closet space is scarce in Manhattan," he said. Kurt nodded his head in hearty agreement, "but enough about us, how much longer are you going to stay the cute mystery man, Mr. Business," Blaine teased.

"I...um...my name's Kurt, Kurt Hummel," he said, sticking out his hand and firmly shaking Devon's. "I'm a senior assistant for Vogue," he said, wondering how long he could put off his true motives. He's only known the man for a few minutes, but already the thought of turning those warm honey eyes cold made his stomach hurt.

"Well, well, well, color me impressed!" Devon said, a wide goofy grin on his face. "You can call me Devon, Devon Anderson. And what did we do to earn the honor of a visit by fashion royalty?" he asked.

Kurt thought it was a bit odd that he said 'you can call me' as opposed to 'my name is', but he laughed it off nervously anyway. Devon really wasn't going to make this easy for him. It was like he was charming the pants off of Kurt intentionally, "well you see, my boss...she sent me out on a project for the week," Kurt started to explain, the smile never faltering from Devon's face. "She's the Chief of Design, so when she gives you a job, you sort of have to do it...no questions asked," Kurt explained hoping that he could help soften the blow of what he had to do.

"I can totally relate. My drag mom is the same way," Devon divulged encouragingly, gesturing towards the photo they had talked about before. Kurt could agree that she looked like a formidable person, someone who wasn't to be messed with. "She's totally saved my life and whooped my butt into shape, though, so she's earned the right!"

Damn it. Kurt didn't know much about drag culture, but he knew what the word 'mom' meant, and there was really no way to use it in association with his boss. Kurt felt a little like he was going to throw up, "well you see...the thing is," Kurt said, fidgeting in his seat.

"What's got you so nervous, hon," Devon asked, sitting back in his chair and giving Kurt a once over. "I promise I don't bite...unless you ask me to," he said with a wink. Shit, that really didn't help. "What do you need from us? Photo shoot space, background models, trend spotting, day in the life..."

"Yes, that!" Kurt heard himself blurting out. He was really stepping in it now...

"Um...which one?" Devon asked, leaning forward on the desk, and cocking an eyebrow in questions.

Kurt gulped. This was the moment of truth. He could either confess his mission and never learn more about the bold man in front of him, or he could lie and possibly risk turning everything into a mess of epic proportions.

His mouth decided to make the decision before his brain did, or maybe it was his heart, "the uh...the last one...day in the life," Kurt said. He didn't know what to do, and committing to the lie seemed like the only option at this point. Roxxy's was obviously an institution. How could he bring himself to tear it apart? "I was sent to the area to try and do an article about drag fashion, but once I got here I thought it would be better to do a full profile, you know? Especially now that I know what an institution you guys are." Kurt could spend the day with Devon, get to know him, and then maybe if he got to know Kurt he might be more likely to take the generous sum of money to rebuild Roxxy's elsewhere.

"That...that would be amazing actually," Devon said. "My drag family means the world to me, and that kind of PR boost would mean the world to us. When would you like to start?"

Kurt would find out very quickly just how flawed his logic was.