Blaine awoke, after no more than two or three hours of sleep, with sore, stiff muscles that made it impossible to repress the memories of the previous night, which he simply didn't want to think about. He sat up in the unfamiliar bed, squinting as bright light poured straight through the cheap, tattered motel curtains.

His first time was behind him. That was it. No kisses, no smiles, no "I love you"s. Nothing but regret. Blaine sat with his face in his hands, trying not to linger on the thought that he would never be lucky enough to experience that special moment – the moment that the hopeless romantic within him had so often dreamed about.

Maybe, in the future... no.
No, he wasn't going to delude himself.

The fact that he had completely thrown away what should have been such an important moment in his life hurt, a lot, but in one way, it was a good thing. When the money he had earned had been almost entirely spent, it meant that retracing his steps and making the exact same mistake was easier the second time around.

Blaine had felt completely broken after the first night. Numb, almost. What he considered to be such a significant experience had been completely wasted, but it was behind him. The first time is the biggest step, right? Surely his second time wouldn't affect him quite as much? Blaine wasn't good at anything else, or even properly qualified. He was useless in his own eyes.
He needed the money, and honestly, the only things he had been capable of feeling lately were emptiness and tiredness. He saw himself as dirt beneath everyone else's feet for going through with this idea, in the first place. What difference would once more make?

From the second time onward, less thought was involved. He was already torn to pieces, and what harm is there in toying about with something that's already tattered and worn? Nobody would genuinely want it, anyway. Not when it's so used and broken.

So disgusting.

Blaine had always taken a little bit of pride in his intelligence and his ability to learn quickly. Things were no different now that his circumstances had changed. He knew that appearing upset and disinterested during sex would make any of his customers unlikely to return, so he made sure to learn very quickly.
Faking moans always satisfied his clients, who all seemed to overestimate their abilities. He discovered the best ways to use his tongue, how to give amazing handjobs, the positions that gave each stranger the most pleasure – but he also found different ways to cope. Other than earning money, and finding out that it was actually possible for some people to consider him attractive, everything that Blaine was doing would be unbearable without some sort of escape.

So, he detached himself from reality.

If Blaine was pressed up against a wall, with unknown hands running all over him, he would distract himself by intensely kissing the stranger's neck and imagining it to be somebody else. When he was pinned down, he would always remember to fake a couple of moans and grind against the man above him. But, in his mind, he would fantasize that things were going slower. Maybe the shady-looking man above him could be someone a little younger. Somebody his age. Maybe right now, they could be making love instead of having sloppy, rough sex, while avoiding each other's eyes.

Maybe that somebody could love him.

... No. He was deluding himself again. But while the sex lasted, it was okay to do that. (More than okay. It was necessary.) Blaine needed a form of escapism, and this was what worked for him. Imagining that there were feelings involved in an intimate, beautiful scenario he constantly escaped to in his mind. "I love you," would be whispered into his ear, while in reality, the only sounds that the stranger on top of him made were desperate moans mixed with incoherent mumbles.
Blaine never seemed to conjure a face for the boy that he always dreamed was above him. That part didn't matter. The only thing that he truly wanted was somebody who wanted him for more than just his body. Someone who loved him.
But, he knew that it was just a thought to prevent him from breaking down in tears; nothing more than a fantasy.

After being approached by another man, while standing at his usual street corner one evening, Blaine was led down a long alleyway and instructed to get onto his knees. It was dark and seemed fairly secluded, so he complied.

His hair was tugged a little too hard. He struggled not to cough and splutter when the older man began to thrust forward. It was almost impossible to escape to his perfect imaginary setting during this. But Blaine wasn't going to let himself break down. Not again.

He was grateful for the darkness; it made it difficult to notice the tear that managed to escape and silently roll down his cheek.

Some money was handed to him with a mumbled "here," and then, he was alone. Blaine stood up and took a minute to try and compose himself. He wiped his lips. He wiped his eyes. He swallowed over and over again to try and get the taste out of his mouth – that disgusting taste – but it wouldn't get any weaker. Then, he took a moment to rest against the wall, but the moment was short-lived. His knees were sore from kneeling on the concrete, and he just wanted to get out of this place that already had a horrendous memory attached to it, and go somewhere nicer. Somewhere that he could be alone; where he didn't have to deal with reality.

With his head down and his knees feeling stiff, Blaine started to make his way out of the alley. Before he could reach the end, however, he heard voices coming from the main street. Then – was that... sniggering? He furrowed his eyebrows and continued walking.

As he reached the end of the alley, the dim light from a street lamp illuminated his path a little more. He could now tell where the voices had been coming from. Three men, who didn't look much older than Blaine, stood where the alley met with the street. Two were leaning against the wall; one was standing in the middle with a smirk on his face, while he looked at the other two. Blaine tried to pay no attention to them, and kept walking with his head down.

"Guys, you were right. There were two of them down there!" Blaine looked up to see three faces turned toward him, two of which were quietly laughing to themselves. "Hey, were you two doing what it looked like you were doing, homo?"

Oh. So they had been able to see.

Blaine's stomach dropped. He said nothing, lowered his head again, and tried to walk past them, but he was shoved back before he reached the street. "Oh, so you were? It's bad enough that you do that sick sort of shit in privacy, but out here, where we have to put up with it?" Blaine's eyes widened. He froze to the spot and did the only thing he could think of doing, when faced with three men who were bigger than him. "HELP! HELP! SOMEBO-"
But his shouts were muffled by a hand that pushed him up against the wall. The back of Blaine's head was the first part of his body to make contact with the bricks. He struggled to push the other man away, but it was no use. One remained at the front of the alleyway, watching the street; the other two grabbed Blaine and dragged him a little further back along the alley, where it was darker. He tried to scream again, but he knew it wouldn't be audible in the street, while his mouth was being covered. "We don't take kindly to faggots like you around here." Blaine's attempted shouts were instantly silenced when a fist forcefully hit his stomach. He was completely breathless after it, but he still tried to scream.
It was no use.
All he could do was cry and struggle, then his head was knocked against the wall again, and –

That's the last thing he can remember, before everything turned black.

Poor Blainers, right? Don't burn me just yet. Things might start to look up in the next chapter~
It'll be up tonight, too.
In the meantime, reviews are nice. :3