Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING. I do not own glee, its characters, or the allusions to Aladdin and Moulin Rouge.

AN: So this is where it all started. I just had this little idea for a story that might or might not work and I decided to write it out. Little did I know it would take off and become so much more than I ever thought it could.

The light sound of a sitar's gentle tune strummed through the streets as a young man made his way through the crowded bazaar. Dressed as a desert merchant, a hood covered his head and the lower half of his face was concealed by the same scarf that protected the neck from harsh desert winds. He eyed the various booths of trinkets, tools, jewels, and exotic foods with great interest but refrained from making any purchases. He had to practice caution with his money to avoid drawing unwanted attention. The people of the streets were quite poor and would make quick work of a man who carried a whole pouch of gold coins.

His steady pace brought him in view of the sitar player who sat on a tattered, woven mat. The music man was clearly as poor as the rest of the crowd, or poorer, given that his clothing that may have once been white now matched the sandy ground of the bazaar. He wore no shoes, and his feet were so dirty they would camouflage with the ground if not for the mat separating them. There was even sand in the man's thick hair which unlike most of the crowd, was not hidden under any sort of head cover. Although, the curls on his head were so thick, he probably didn't need it. Most notably about the man however, was the music he played. The old, worn sitar did not look to be anything of special worth, but the sounds produced by it were worthy to be played at a royal wedding in the palace itself.

The sitar player looked up at his audience, as a small crowd had gathered. In addition to the curious merchant man, there was a group of three women who were presumably sisters, a man who looked to be a traveler since he carried a large pack on his back, and a few small children with dirty feet, big eyes, and bright smiles. The children eyed the clay bowl that sat in front of the sitar man with sad eyes. One of them spoke to him in a dialect that was unknown to the curious stranger. The music man gave the child a smile and responded in the same tongue. The child seemed pleased but searched the folds of his clothes for something to give the man. His search produced only a small pebble, which to the man dressed as a merchant seemed entirely ordinary. The child placed the stone into the clay dish, and it clinked with the few small coins that occupied the space. The sitar player said something to the boy that could only mean "thank you" in whatever dialect the child spoke.

The man's kindness, in combination with his musical ability, caused the other onlookers to produce spare change of their own. The coins were small, nothing like the gold the merchant man had hidden away in a pouch, but to the donors, giving this man a tip meant giving up a decent meal later in the day. The crowd dissipated and only the man dressed as a merchant remained. The two men locked eyes, and they shared a wordless moment in which they somehow knew would transpire to be more than either of them expected. Slowly and discretely, the merchant man produced his pouch of coins and dropped a large, gold medallion in the sitar player's dish. Their eyes met a final time before he disappeared into the bazaar once more.

His eyes. That was what the sitar player noticed about the merchant. The rest of his face was concealed behind a protective scarf, but his eyes remained visible. They were the purest blue the man had ever seen, something quite rare when most people on the streets had brown, black, or other dark colored irises. He felt himself subconsciously drawn to the mysterious man through his beautiful eyes and as the stranger placed a large gold coin into the tip dish, he thought if there was ever a reason to play his sitar in the same place twice, this was it.

Every day the sitar player sat in the exact spot where he had encountered the merchant with the captivating eyes, but every day he found himself disappointed. He even tried to make himself more presentable, but without a proper place to bathe, it was not an easy task. Even if he did manage to bathe, sitting on the dusty ground of the bazaar all day would certainly undo any grooming he accomplished. Today, perhaps there was little less sand in his hair than usual, but that was probably being optimistic.

As the notes of the sitar's music strummed through the bazaar, the played found his mind wandering. He dreamed of what it would be like to live a different life, one of luxury like the royal family in the palace. He reminisced on his own life, remembering fondly the day his father had given him his sitar. But the thoughts that dominated his mind were those of the bright-eyed merchant. From where had his travels brought him? Was it far? Had he left behind a family? He seemed to enjoy music, could he play? Did he have a favorite song?

"I love this song," said a voice, waking the musician from his trance. "It's the same one from the other day, is it not?" The merchant had returned to the bazaar at last! He could still only see the enchanting eyes from under his coverings, but it was definitely him.

"It is," the sitar player confirmed. It was indeed the very same song that had stopped the merchant last time. He made a mental note to thank the local deities for what looked to be a Sign. The merchant was already fishing for his coin pouch, and this time he dropped several of the large coins into the bowl. The sitar player looked around quickly so make sure no scavengers were nearby ready to take them. Seeing none, he finished the song before emptying the dish and pocketing its contents.

"If I come back regularly, would you play it for me as a request?" the man asked. His voice was almost as enchanting as his eyes. It made the musician wonder if the stranger could sing.

"Of course," replied the musician. He was unsure if it was the gold answering or the strange curiosity in his heart that bordered on desire. The other man smiled. It was hidden, of course, under the wrappings of desert travel, but the sitar played could tell by the way his cheeks raised and how his eyes seemed to sparkle even more with happiness. The man did not stay long, but the sitar player had an optimistic feeling that he would see the man again soon, and much sooner than last time.

After that conversation, the merchant began making regular visits to the bazaar, as promised. And the sitar player played his requested song, as promised. Eventually, the man began to request other songs. They always seemed to match his mood on any given day and often fueled more conversations between the two men. The man still left a large tip for every visit, but the sitar player found himself noticing the generous money less. He now enjoyed the man's company more than anything else about him, even his delightful eyes and voice. The sitar player had never considered his existence a lonely one until the merchant man left for the day. He felt a hole in his heart where the man's friendship had been, and the noisy bazaar suddenly seemed far too quiet.

One day, the man came rather close to sundown and the sitar player found himself plagued with sadness of how short his visit would be for the day.

"I should go," he said regretfully.

"Why?" asked the man.

"It's getting dark."

"Oh."

A heavy silence hung between them.

"Would you like to see where I live?" the sitar playing man asked suddenly. He almost regretted asking his rather forward question before the other man answered kindly.

"I'd love to," was his gentle, even excited reply. The sitar player stashed away his tips and dish, rolled up the colorful mat and slung it over his back with an attached rope, picked up his sitar and led the merchant man through a maze of backstreets. They came to what looked like an abandoned building that looked severely weathered. Chunks of stone left gaping holes in the walls, and there were probably more missing from the ceiling as well. The sitar player and his friend entered the broken building and climbed several wooden ladders to reach the top floor. Well, what was left of the top floor anyway. There were several holes in the floor, walls, and ceiling but it still had enough coverage to protect its occupants from the winds that rolled in from the desert and the rain that fell during the wet season.

"It's not much," the sitar player admitted as he placed the sitar and mat in the most protected corner, "but it's home. And it's got a great view." He drew back an old curtain to reveal a grand, panoramic view of the royal palace. "It's beautiful. I wonder what it would be like to live there?"

"Oh, I don't think it would be everything it's made out to be," said the other man.

"What do you mean?" asked the musician.

"I mean that while it's nice to live in luxury, think about all the baggage it comes with," the merchant man explained. "There's tons of responsibility, the politics are a mess, and you hardly have any freedom."

"You sound like you know what you're talking about," commented the sitar player.

The other man's eyes widened before he said quickly, "I've just seen and heard a lot in my travels, that's all."

"I didn't mean to pry. I was just making a comment," he apologized quickly.

"No, it's okay. I just need to be a little less suspicious, that's all. It's a habit, sorry," the other man apologized, too. "What are you doing?"

The sitar player had begun to shake off the somewhat tattered blankets and cushions in preparation for the night. "Shaking the settled dust off the bedding so we can sleep," he explained.

"Wait we?" his companion asked nervously.

"What?" the musician asked, confused. "Oh! No! Not like that!" he began, hoping his guest was not under the wrong impression. Although he himself had inclinations in that way, he doubted his friend did, and he did not want anything to jeopardize his only true friendship.

"N-n-n-no," his friend stuttered. "You don't understand. I have to get back tonight."

"In the dark?" he questioned as if the other man had lost his mind. "You can't go now!"

"I have to!" the man insisted.

"No, now you don't understand," said the sitar player. "It's way too dangerous to go out on the streets at night. There are a lot of dangerous people out at night, and there aren't nearly enough guards to enforce any kind of justice. You'll just have to spend the night here."

His friend's distress only continued to rise as he pulled on his head cover in frustration. "They'll come looking for me, though," he said quietly, barely more than a whisper.

"Who will?" the musician wondered. "I can promise you that if whoever is looking for you doesn't know the streets, there's no way they'll find you."

"It won't matter they'll search everywhere," he said helplessly. The sitar player began to worry now. What sort of heinous crime did he commit that the authorities would search for him with such vigor? But as soon as it had come on, the worry vanished. He trusted his friend, he realized. He sighed.

"Do you trust me?" he asked his friend.

"What?" said his friend.

"Do you trust me?" the sitar player repeated. His friend gave him a long, studying look.

"Yes, Blaine, I trust you," said the merchant-dressed man, using his given name for the first time. Blaine told him his name weeks ago, but his friend had never said aloud until today. It was a wonderful sound, but he had no time to relish in it before his friend continued speaking. "I suppose there's no use in hiding it anymore." Slowly, he pulled off the wrappings of fabric that covered his head and face. The skin on his face was smooth and pale, and his hair seemed to shine it was so clean. There was no way that this man was a travelling merchant. "My name is Kurt," the man admitted.

"You—" Blaine began as he struggled for words. "You're the prince?"