Hey everyone! This is a Rent AU fic I'm writing as a fill for a prompt on the Glee Kink Meme. I've changed a few things, and as of now, the main roles are as follows: Roger = Blaine, Mark = Artie, Benny = Jesse, Collins = Rachel, Angel = Finn, Maureen = Brittany, Joanne = Santana, Mimi = Kurt. I will include a note at the beginning of each chapter with any new characters and their matching roles, to avoid confusion.
I truly hope you enjoy!
Blaine sat in the frozen apartment, tuning his guitar in a futile attempt to distract himself and defrost his fingers.
It wasn't working very well.
His mind kept fleeing. To last December. To Jeremiah. Jeremiah….oh god. Visions of the boy flashed through Blaine's mind. Their love, commitment, cute moments on the park benches, running away from drunk homophobes in the minutes following said cute moments, carelessness. Carelessness.
In the end, that's what happened. Jeremiah had gotten drunk. Found some hard drugs and didn't practice safe needlework. It was once. Once.
Blaine sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. The guitar was being difficult – but it gave Blaine something to think about. He was almost constantly tuning and untuning his guitar nowadays. Always tuning, never playing.
Artie sat across the room, looking out the window. A blanket was draped over his legs, gloves clothed his hands, and he was blowing warm air through the cracks of his fingers.
"I think there's another homeless fight down there," he said, craning his neck. "Oh shit, Finn's here. Looks like he's getting into the brawl." Artie wheeled himself across the room to fetch his camera. It was the only thing he owned that wasn't half broken – a present from his parents two Christmases ago when his other camera had broken.
He was beginning to wheel himself out to the balcony when the phone rang. Artie glanced at Blaine, who didn't flinch when the second ring sounded.
"Oh, don't bother. I'll get it," he said sarcastically, crossing to the phone and picking it up.
"Hello?"
"Artie! Hey! It's Rachel! I'm back from Los Angeles. Wanted you and Blaine to know – I'm at a phone on Avenue B. Unlock the door for me? I'm on my way as soon as I hang up."
"Rachel! Of course, I'll send Blaine to do that." He glanced at his roommate before lowering his voice. "He, uh…he still hasn't left the house….Yes he's still playing guitar…no, not really, just tuning…Yeah, hopefully. See you soon."
With that, Artie hung up the phone.
"Blaine. Go unlock the door for Rachel."
Blaine looked up at him, before sighing and gingerly placing the guitar on the table.
"Fine," he said huffily, exiting the apartment and going to unlock the back street door. "Not like it works all the time anyway." His comment was clipped and touchy, as if Artie was asking him to sail the seven seas in search of a specific grain of sand. Still, Artie could hear him descending the stairs slowly.
The phone rang again. Artie answered it once more, expecting Rachel again.
"Hey, he went to unlock the door. Come on up."
"What?"
It wasn't Rachel.
"Oh. Jesse. What do you want?"
"Your rent is due. Overdue, actually. If you don't pay it I have to evict you."
"You told us. You said it when you lived with us, how you'd never make us pay rent. You reiterated that fact when you married Sugar."
"Rent is due. I'm coming to collect it as soon as I get this homeless situation under control. Is Brittany still doing that…protest…thing?"
Oh. Brittany. Protest. Riiight.
"Yes she is. I think…I think it's coming along. I was her production manager, but…"
"But…?"
"She found my talents…not attuned to her liking."
"You still dating her?"
No. He wasn't. Here came the painful blow that happened in his chest every time he talked about it.
"No. She, uh…"
"Found a new man?"
"Not…necessarily."
"What do you mean?"
Lesbian.
"Her name's Santana."
Artie heard a fit of hysterical laughter on the other end of the line before he hung up.
Rachel bustled up the busy city street. She was alone, and she knew it wasn't safe but she could see Blaine and Artie's building from here. She would make it, no big deal.
But then something hit her from behind, and everything faded to black.
When she awoke, Rachel found herself on the ground in a dirty alleyway close to where she fell. Her head hurt, as if someone had sliced into it. She brought her hand to the back of her head, feeling a sticky substance seeping into her hair. Bringing her hand around to her face, Rachel saw that it was blood.
Her coat was gone, leaving her in a skirt, t-shirt, and half ripped boots. It was New York City, it was December 24th, and it was freezing. Rachel coughed loudly, tasting blood in her mouth. "Oh, great…" she thought to herself, trying to gain the strength to stand on her own.
There came a noise from the other side of the alley. Rachel turned her head to see a figure walking toward her. The person was freakishly tall, and a bit uncoordinated. He carried what looked like a bucket under his arm.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" The man looked concerned. Rachel looked into his face – it seemed genuinely kind and full of worry.
"I, um…I don't know." Rachel tried to sit up, before keeling over in pain. They must have kicked her ribs.
"They get any money?"
"No…I was pretty broke…They took my coat though. Only valuable thing I had. They probably went to pawn it or something." Rachel heaved a heavy sigh of frustration. She had loved that coat...
"Here. Let me take you back to my place."
"Wha…who are you?" Rachel asked, surprised and suspicious. It was never wise to trust strangers in the city. And this was a strange man…
"My name's Finn." He smiled and held out a hand to help Rachel stagger to her feet.
"Rachel." The girl held her stomach as she stood, wobbling, afraid of falling over.
"Pretty name." Finn smiled as he supported Rachel's weight with his own.
Rachel didn't know what possessed her to do it. Maybe it was because Finn was quite attractive. Maybe it was because the sincerity in his gentle tones and facial expressions could be matched to that of an angel.
For one reason or another, Rachel trusted Finn.
As they walked slowly down the alley, Finn spoke again.
"After we get you cleaned up, um, would you mind stopping at a life support meeting with me?"
Rachel gaped, wide-eyed, at him.
"Yeah…I do…I mean, I have AIDS. If that's what you were wondering," said Finn in quick response.
Rachel paused for a moment, then, "…me too."
"Rachel should have been here by now." Artie wheeled his chair impatiently around the flat. "What if something happened."
Blaine rolled his eyes. "Rachel is perfectly self-sufficient. Or have you forgotten that time she was almost mugged in central park?"
Artie remembered. It had been violent for the man. Rachel was small, but oh so fierce.
"Right. Well. Brittany called. Santana can't figure out the microphone hookups. And Brittany can't help herself because she barely knows what a microphone is." He wheeled over to the elevator – one of the more useful things Jesse had installed before he decided to give himself over to greed. "So I have to go help her. By the way, the power's out again – it went out right after Brittany's call. So light a candle or something. Get the stove running. It's freezing in here."
The boy stared at Blaine, who was once again tuning his guitar.
"Blaine, please come to the protest tonight. It would really mean a lot to Brit and you really need to get out of the house. It's been a year, Blaine. It's time to move on." With that, he was gone, leaving Blaine to his thoughts.
A year. Exactly a year, since…
"Blaine. Blaine I want you so bad." Hot. Red. Heat. Fuck.
They were both flying high. Jeremiah rocked on top of Blaine, pressing his erection into his leg. "Fuck. Blaine. Need you."
They were kissing. Their tongues collided, teeth meeting and mouths meshing with a force they might have cared about if the two of them weren't so intoxicated.
Blaine moaned into Jeremiah's mouth as he reached down to undo his pants. He pushed them off, along with his underwear, then began on the other boy's clothing.
Suddenly, the pair of them were naked. Jeremiah held Blaine's wrists tightly above his head as he slid their cocks together. It felt spectacular. Precum was already leaking from Blaine's aching cock as Jeremiah detached himself from Blaine's mouth to quickly prep him.
"God, Blaine. So tight. Always so tight." He slid two fingers in and out, using his spit as lube.
Normally, Blaine would demand to be stretched more. Normally, they would have used normal lube and a condom. But not tonight. Tonight, nothing else mattered. Nothing but Blaine, Jeremiah, and the huge pleasure that would come when Jeremiah finally shoved his huge cock into Blaine's ass.
"Jeremiah…J..just do it. I need you inside me. Now." Blaine panted.
Jeremiah pulled his fingers out, and Blaine grunted at the loss before feeling something much bigger press at his entrance. Jeremiah spit plentifully on his cock and spread it around, slicking himself up, and moaning at the touch, before thrusting slowly deep into Blaine.
"Uhhgn, so…tight…f..fuck." Jeremiah stilled himself for a moment, trying to regain composure before pulling out and thrusting back in until he had a moderate rhythm going.
"Fuck. Harder. Faster. Jeremiah, please!" Blaine moaned.
"Yeah, moan. Scream my name. Just like a whore. Mine. All mine." Jeremiah set himself at a punishing pace, pounding his cock hard and fast into Blaine. The bed shook from the violence of it.
"Yes. YES. I'm gonna…uhhhh!"
"Come for me, Blaine."
Blaine erupted as Jeremiah thrust hard into his prostate. He clenched around Jeremiah's cock, which kept thrusting hard, in and out, through Blaine's orgasm.
Three more thrusts and Jeremiah was stilling himself, spilling his cum deep inside Blaine.
They stayed like that – wrapped inside each other – until the next morning.
Then Jeremiah started acting funny. He seemed almost sick sometimes, though he hid it well.
December 24, 1988 was an evening Blaine would remember forever. He had come home from playing a gig with his band at a local venue – had stopped to get some smack on the way home. He was a little concerned, because Jeremiah hadn't shown up. Jeremiah never missed his shows.
Blaine carried his guitar case into the flat and set it beside the door. He pulled the white powder packets from his back pocket and put them on the table. "Jeremiah? Hey? Are you here?"
The bathroom door was closed, but the light was on.
"Jeremiah, are you…?" Blaine walked to the door, turned the knob, and pushed it open.
He then screamed and fell to the ground.
Jeremiah was lying in a puddle of blood.
There was a note on the counter.
"Dearest Blaine, I am so sorry I had to leave you this way.
Believe me when I say, I didn't intend this to happen.
I got tested for HIV. The results came back today.
They were positive.
I didn't want to die from disease.
I was a coward, Blaine.
Don't be a coward. Fight it. Fight it all you can.
Because I'm almost certain you'll be positive too…
I am so sorry."
Blaine held the note in his hand as he shook with loud sobs. Jeremiah was dead. He had AIDS. He was going to die too.
Blaine felt a tear slip down his face at the memory. After Jeremiah's funeral, Rachel had left for Los Angeles – presumably to avoid the problems in New York – Artie had shut himself out emotionally, filming everything he came into contact with instead of connecting with it. Blaine assumed that's why Brittany had broken up with him.
And Blaine? Blaine had become a hermit in his apartment.
Just him and his guitar.
And no song ideas.
It was like this on a nightly basis. Blaine would tune his guitar for three hours, then play endless chords, trying to find the right melody for the perfect song. It never came.
I'm writing one great song before I…
A knock on the door tore Blaine from his thoughts. Maybe Rachel was finally here. Blaine got up, sat his guitar down, and went to let her in.
It wasn't Rachel at the door.
When Blaine opened it, he stood in the wooden doorframe and stared.
In front of him was the most gorgeous boy he had ever seen in his life. Perfectly styled hair, piercing blue eyes. Oh god they looked so much like Jeremiah's eyes…
"Staring at something?" The boy spoke in a gentle voice that could have melted wax by itself. It was the most beautiful sound Blaine had ever heard.
"I…uh…no. No…um…did you need something?"
Kurt took this as an invitation to come inside, and he pushed past Blaine into the apartment. He took in the poster-laden walls, thick extension cord, and trashed wood stove.
"Classy. Quaint." Blaine thought he heard a bit of a grimace in the boy's words.
"Um…excuse me, but what do you want?" The boy was shivering. Was he cold or…?
"Oh. Right." The boy held out his right hand. In his palm sat a tiny candle. "Do you have any matches? The power's out again and I can't see a goddamned thing in my own apartment. Plus it's cold as Jack Frost's heart."
Blaine stared for a moment, captivated once again by those perfect eyes.
"What are you staring at?"
Blaine shook himself out of the trance without response before opening a drawer to his right and producing a pack of matches.
"Here." He lit the candle and jumped back as the unused wick sparked at the sudden introduction to flame. "So, uh…that's all you needed?"
Kurt gave Blaine a once-over. "…yes." His response was drawn out, as if to say, "not bad."
He stepped closer to Blaine, just enough to be suggestive, before turning on his heel and swaying his hips as he made his way toward the door.
He left the apartment, sending a fleeting glace backwards at Blaine before closing the door behind him. Blaine stood flabbergasted for a moment before reaching once more for his guitar.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Fuck," Blaine said as he went to open the door a second time.
It was the boy once more.
"It blew out?"
"No…I think I dropped my stash…" Kurt's eyes were scanning the ground.
Blaine felt a pang in his heart. After the Jeremiah incident, he'd withdrawn himself from using any substance more harmful than a cigarette and a beer.
Kurt made his way further into the apartment. "Here. Hold this." He handed his candle to Blaine as he dropped to the ground. Blaine stared again. This boy's figure was quite lovely…
"Staring again, I see? What is your problem?" Kurt seemed a bit flustered as he looked for the small plastic bag.
"Oh…no it's just, you…remind me of someone…"
"Who?"
"Not important…"
"Whatever you say…but you're still staring at my ass."
"I…"
"That's okay. They say I have the best ass below fourteenth street." The boy turned his head and grinned. He was kneeling on the ground in an animal-like stance. He did have an amazing ass. It was covered in sinfully tight pants, leaving nearly nothing to the imagination. Blaine let his eyes linger a little more until the boy noticed again, sending a flirty eye roll in his direction.
Blaine spotted a packet of white powder near the doorway. He waited until the boy was crawling in the opposite direction, and snatched the packet from the floor.
"What's that?" The boy had just been turning around as Blaine was shoving the bag into his pocket.
"Wh…oh…nothing. It's nothing." He blushed.
"Well. I don't see it. I must have dropped it in the hallway…" the boy crossed back to Blaine. "Would you mind re-lighting my candle?" He was standing obnoxiously close to Blaine now. "And by light my candle, I mean…" He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Blaine's. He reached his hands around to grope Blaine's ass and pull him close. Blaine could feel a familiar arousal spring up in his stomach.
"Whoa…whoa, what are you doing?" Blaine said confrontationally as he pushed the boy away.
"Getting my smack back." He winked as he skipped happily to the door and turned. "I'm Kurt, by the way."
"Blaine."
And Kurt was shutting the door and skipping away.
"Wait! You forgot your…" But Kurt was gone. "…candle."
Blaine stood in the center of his flat, holding Kurt's candle. He had to admit. For the first time in a year, he was intrigued.
