Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

Kurt stumbled off the stage and crouched down, hiding his face in his bent knees. His whole body shook, his bare skin marked all over in goosebumps. The dark shadows around him spun and suffocated him. He couldn't breathe.

It felt like an hour went by. He could hear the music for the finale starting, blaring in his aching ears, tinny and sharp. They weren't going to be happy that he was missing it, but oh god, he couldn't stand up.

He covered his eyes with his shaking hands. A faint high whine escaped from the back of his throat, but he couldn't help it.

He shouldn't have made himself go to work. He'd felt sick- sicker than usual- all through school, and the nap he took in the back parking lot of the Home Depot hadn't helped. But he'd dragged himself to work anyway, piling on the makeup and forcing himself into his costume. He'd been off for his whole number, he knew it, but they didn't care. They never did. They just wanted to see him strip. That's all anyone cared about.

"Price! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He glanced up between his fingers to see the club manager glaring above him. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I was just-"

"Just nothing, it's in your contract that you have to do the finale every night whether you like it or not," he said. He grabbed Kurt by the wrist and yanked to his feet. "You wanna get fired? Is that it?"

"No!" he said. "No, I'm sorry, I just…I don't feel well. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you're damn right you're sorry," the manager said. "You've been sucking ass lately, Price. What's got into you?"

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing, I-"

Another dancer bumped into him on his way into the wings and he stumbled, swaying on his feet. "Hey, man, what's the problem?"

"Reading Price the riot act, that's the problem."

Kurt felt a big hand close on his shoulder. "Aw, c'mon, cut him some slack," Beck said.

"I'll cut him some slack, all right. You know what, Price? Don't bother coming in tomorrow."

"But I-"

Beck squeezed his shoulder and dragged him out of the wings before the club manager could tear into him again. Kurt tripped over his own feet as he stumbled down the spiral stairs. "I didn't mean it," he said, his lips numb. "I didn't. I didn't."

"I know, kid, calm down," Beck said. He forced Kurt into a seat at the makeup table. "God, you're shaking like a leaf. You all right?"

Kurt curled up tighter. "I don't feel well," he mumbled.

Beck picked up a jacket from the rack behind him and draped over Kurt's shoulders, then sat down across from him. "Listen, Padgett, I don't mean to pry, but…" He cleared his throat. "You doing all right?"

"I'm fine," Kurt said, chewing on his thumbnail.

Beck sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "Whatever, man," he said. "I know you keep to yourself and all, but…you look awful."

"Thanks," Kurt muttered.

"Don't get pissed," Beck said. "I was just…you know what? Never mind. I got stuff to do."

He reached for his clothes and started changing. Kurt huddled under the jacket, breathing in the scent of stale cigarette smoke and spilled cheap cologne. The other dancers filed past, bantering back and forth. One of them nudged him as he passed; Kurt ducked down further.

"Hey, Beck, heading out to your second job?" one of them called. Beck made a lewd gesture in response and the others laughed. Kurt felt the back of his neck heat in secondhand embarrassment.

"You're just jealous 'cause a little side-action is what gives me the big bucks," Beck shouted, and the others hollered back their responses.

Kurt pulled the jacket tight around his shoulders and leaned in a little closer. "Hey, Beck?" he ventured.

"Yeah, kid?"

"You…uh…how…how much money do you make?" Kurt whispered.

"Make huh?"

"You know, from…from hooking," he said, fidgeting anxiously.

Beck laughed. "You're not thinking about it, are you?" he said. He looked at Kurt and his smiled faded. "Oh god. You are, aren't you?"

Kurt shifted uncomfortably. "I need the money," he said numbly.

Beck sat down across from him, folding his arms across his chest. "Listen, kid, you're too young to get into this kind of stuff," he said gently. "You'll make more money, yeah, but you're just…you're too young. You're gonna get hurt."

Kurt laughed, the sound cracked in his own ears. "I'm already hurt," he said, the words coming out more bitter than he intended.

Beck balanced his elbows on his bent knees and leaned forward. "Don't do it," he said quietly. "It's not worth it. Me, I'm stuck. I'm not going to get out of here. You're still young. You can leave this."

"I can't," Kurt said, shaking his head. It only made him feel more dizzy. "I can't, I just…I can't. I need money. I just need the money, and then I can leave. I can leave, I can go to New York, I can just…just get the hell out of this place and…then…then things will be all right, and I…"

Beck shook him lightly by the shoulders. "Come on, kiddo, snap out of it," he said. "You sure you're all right? You're scaring me a little."

"I'm fine," Kurt said, tearing away from Beck's grip and letting the jacket slide off his shoulders. "I'm fine, I'll just…I'll be here tomorrow, okay? I'll be here tomorrow."

"Padgett, they already said not to come, you can't…"

He stumbled away to his makeup station in the corner, fumbling for his clothes. His fingers shook as he stripped out of his tiny costume and pulled on his own clothes; his skinny jeans nearly slid down his hips and his tee shirt hung on his thin ribcage. He shrugged clumsily into his father's oversized plaid shirt- it had long since lost the comforting smell of soap and motor oil and home, but the flannel was thick and soft against his stinging skin. The other dancers laughed and called back and forth to each other; he jammed his feet into his sneakers, pulled on his coat, and grabbed his things.

Outside it was still wickedly cold for March, the wind cutting him sharply and the freezing rain dripping down his neck. He dug around in his pockets for his hat and pulled it on over his disheveled hair. A pair of gloves tumbled out and fell on the ground.

He bent to pick them up and recoiled sharply. Blaine's gloves.

For a second he hesitated, then he snatched them up and stumbled down the alleyway. Two weeks ago Blaine would have waited for him in this alley. Two weeks ago he would have stood under the streetlight, eager and expectant as a puppy. Kurt's stomach ached, and he hid a cough behind the back of his hand as he headed blindly towards his car.

He climbed into the driver's seat and jammed the key in the ignition. The gas tank was barely hovering above empty, but he had no desire to spend his hard earned money at a gas station.

You'd make more money if you sold yourself, a wicked voice whispered in the back of his head.

He pulled into a CVS parking lot and cut the engine. His hands shook. Slowly he lowered his head until his forehead touched the steering wheel. He huddled there for what felt like hours, his shoulders heaving with silent aching sobs, but his eyes were bone dry.

Authoor's Notes:

WHY AM I DOING THIS?! WHY?! KURT, I'M SO SORRY. I LOVE YOU, BB. I WILL CUDDLE YOU AND FIX EVERYTHING AND I'M SO SORRY.

If it's any consolation, I do promise that this story has a happy ending- and only has a few chapters left. Five, maybe? Five and an epilogue? Something like that.

But in order to make the happy ending as absolutely satisfying as possible, I'm making everybody suffer. You get to see Blaine in the next chapter and he's pretty stinkin' miserable too.

BUT HE'S GOING TO FIND OUT ALL SORTS OF THINGS ABOUT KURT. AND MAYBE HE'LL CHANGE HIS MIND. PLEASE, BLAINE, CHANGE YOUR MIND.