More angsty than fluff. I was given the word, so I had to do it.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.

PROSTITUTION

On Kurt's twenty-first birthday, he decided to give up.

Life just wasn't going his way.

Sure, he had friends.

An apartment in New York City.

But he was missing one thing.

Someone to love.

He was still hopelessly in love with one Blaine Anderson, but Blaine was so oblivious.

Five years, and they were still just friends.

They lived together, but just as friends.

On Kurt's twenty-first birthday, he decided he was fed up with it. Enough was enough. He wasn't going to kill himself. He was above that.

People could argue that what he was going to do was much worse.

Kurt left his shared apartment, leaving only a note reading "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I loved you, Blaine. Don't bother looking for me. You won't find me. -Kurt".

The words that stuck with him all these years were his father's. "Don't throw yourself around, Kurt. You matter."

Kurt decided to rebel in the biggest way possible.

He sold himself into prostitution.

Blaine spent two years looking for Kurt. He loved the countertenor so much. The letter Kurt left him, the only thing left behind, was worn from the numerous amount of times it had been folded and unfolded. "I loved you, Blaine." That line killed him. The past tense, mainly. How could he have been so stupid?

Blaine was always too nervous, too afraid of losing Kurt to pursue a romantic relationship with him. He was a coward.

Courage, his ass.

Blaine was giving up.

He was losing hope.

Two years of his life devoted to finding his best friend to no avail.

His mind told him to give up, but his heart told him to push forward.

Kurt loved him. Whether he still does or not, it was still something Blaine had to hold onto.

It was cold and damp out. Rain was falling steadily, and wind was blowing through the trees.

Blaine was walking down the street, his hands shoved in the pockets of his navy peacoat. It was almost midnight.

He was looking for Kurt.

He couldn't do anything else.

He was in the run-down parts of New York City. It was a pretty sketchy area, full of old apartments and abandoned homes. Blaine had looked almost everywhere else in the city. He thought he heard a dog howling in the distance.

The streetlight above a bench flickered. It looked like a scene from a horror movie. Blaine peered into the distance and saw a figure sitting on said bench, hunched over.

Blaine came closer, and he saw the figure was shivering. Blaine walked over and sat on the other end of the bench from the person. Blaine noticed it was a man.

"Sir, um, are you alright?" Blaine asked timidly, worried about this man. The man shook his head and uttered a humorless chuckle.

"I haven't been alright in two years," the man muttered in the voice of a pure countertenor's. Blaine knew instantly who the voice belonged to.

"K-Kurt?" he said softly, scooting a little closer to him. The man's head jerked upward, looking Blaine in the eye. The light of the lamp barely outlined his face, but Blaine now knew for sure. It was Kurt, his best friend, the man he loved for five years. But the mischievous sparkle in his eyes was gone. They were dead, emotionless.

"Blaine," the man whispered, his eyes softening almost immediately.

"What happened to you?" Blaine asked after a prolonged silence. Kurt sighed.

Kurt told him everything that had happened over the past seven years. He told Blaine about what he thought was love, that turned out, in his mind, to be unrequited. He told him how he decided to give up and rebel. He told him about being sold into prostitution.

"It makes me feel so dirty and used. But most of all, it makes me feel unloved," Kurt confessed in a broken whisper, his voice raw.

"I love you," Blaine murmured, his words quiet but truer than anything he'd ever said before.

And both of them knew it was going to be okay.