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

"I'm here about the help wanted sign in the window."

The manager turned around, looked him up and down, and smirked. "Get outta here, kiddo," he said. "Get back to school."

He stood up a little taller, bristling. No one could call him kiddo. Not anymore.

"I can do it," he said, pressing his lips together. His empty stomach churned; he forced the feeling away. "I can. I have a three-octave range. I have cheerleading experience. I'll do whatever you ask me."

The manager gave another thorough searching look. He tried not to shiver. "Anything, huh?" the manager said. He held out his hand, beckoning. "Show me some ID. You twenty-one?"

"Uh-huh," he said, handing over the fake driver's license. It had been a gag gift for his last birthday- for getting beer, or cigarettes, or into a club. No one would ever expect he'd use it to get a job like this.

And no one was going to know.

The manager handed back the driver's license without batting an eyelash. "Get up on the pole and show me what you can do, kid," he said.

"Don't be so uptight," Sebastian laughed, elbowing Blaine playfully in the ribs.

"I'm not," Blaine stammered, nearly upending his too-strong rum and coke. "I mean, I'm just…I've never been to…one of these places before."

"It's a strip club," Sebastian said as he leaned back and draped an arm casually around Blaine's shoulders. "Go on, little angel face. You can say it. Strip…club."

"Fine, strip club," Blaine said irritably. He shifted in his seat. "When I told you we could go out tonight, this isn't what I meant."

"I know," Sebastian shrugged. "But this is what I meant."

Blaine opened his mouth to argue, to counter that we always do what you want or you never listen to me, but the emcee was announcing the next performance. He slunk in his seat miserably through the big muscled guy with the cowboy hat and the lanky…well hung guy with the fireman's coat, flushing red as Sebastian whistled and tossed dollar bills on the stage. He also fervently hoped that his mother would never find out where he'd been.

"And now, for the highlight of the evening…"

Blaine never caught the name, because the crowd began to shriek. Apparently the regulars recognized the performer. He slunk back in his seat, angrily jabbing his straw into his drink as Sebastian plunged his fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle of approval.

The curtains parted with a dramatic flourish and Blaine choked. He'd been prepared for another generic, seedy stripper- rippling pecs, tanned and oiled skin, slick hair, a gimmicky scrap of a costume. Not this. This was a boy who looked closer to his own age, young and fair and so blue-eyed that he could see the color all the way from the stage. He was beautiful.

The boy on the stage posed, preening for his screaming fans. He raised his slender white arms above his head, bending his knees with a slow easy glide. Unlike the strippers that preceded him, he was dressed almost normally in a white button down shirt and pants so tight it was almost obscene just to look at him.

And then the boy snapped up, popping his hips, and swung onto the stripper pole. Blaine spluttered on his rum and coke, some of the drink dribbling down his chin. "God, that kid is so damn attractive," Sebastian sighed, eyes glued to the boy on the stage even though his arm was still wrapped around Blaine's shoulders.

"Uh…yeah," Blaine stammered. "Yeah, uh, I guess…"

He was lying. He knew the kid was gorgeous. He was pale and slim and absolutely beautiful, his body contorting around the shining brass pole to the pulsing beat of the music. Blaine wiped his suddenly damp palms on his thighs.

The boy slipped a little, catching himself on his toes, and Blaine barely caught his expression before he turned around sharply. For a second the glossy performer's veneer slipped, and he saw the boy bite his lip. Blaine shifted in his seat.

The boy whipped back around, sly smile firmly in place, and he slid languidly out of his shirt before tossing it into the audience and leaping back onto the pole.

Blaine suddenly found himself with an armful of shirt.

Sebastian laughed, his mouth slack. "Oh, god, Blaine, you're gonna be fighting guys off for that," he slurred, squeezing his shoulders.

Blaine clenched his fingers. The fabric was still warm from the boy's body. Hints of makeup and glitter were rubbed off on the inside of the collar. Surreptitiously he ducked his head and breathed deeply- old fabric, cheap detergent, and something clean and crisp and soothing, like mint and rosemary.

He looked up and stared, slack-jawed, his heart pounding against his ribs in a staccato rhythm. The boy gripped the pole and arched back, his spine curving in a gravity-defying arc. Blaine swallowed hard, his mouth gone dry.

And then the boy stepped aside, thrusting his hips forward as he unfastened the front of his pants, mouth pursed in a naughty little O, and Blaine forgot entirely how to breathe.

I don't even know his name, he thought helplessly, shifting against the pressure pushing against the zipper of his pants. Oh, god, I would do anything right now to know his name.

Kurt picked up his pants and ducked backstage into the instant chaos. "They're gonna be pissed that you threw your shirt out again," the stage manager warned.

Kurt shrugged as he made his way back to the dressing room. "But they love it when I do that," he said.

He pushed his way into the shared dressing room, dodging his fellow performers in various states of undress, and sat down at his station. Thankfully, the encore hadn't gone on too long, so two more solo slots, the finale, and then home.

Granted, home was his Navigator in the back of the Walmart parking lot, but eh, semantics.

He spritzed his hair with AquaNet and combed it carefully into place. The fluorescent lights above his makeup station highlighted the sallow pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes, but at least heavy makeup and the warm stage lighting could help with that.

He dabbed concealer under one eye and started to rub it into his skin with the pad of his index finger. "Hey, Price, someone's here to see you," one of the techs called. "Want me to kick him out?"

Kurt sighed. "Is he a creeper?" he called back.

"Nah, he's just bringing your shirt back up."

Kurt sat up, frowning. "Let him in, I guess," he said.

Usually when he tossed his shirt into the audience, it never came back. Probably became some creepy old man's souvenir. He tried not to think about it too much.

He leaned back in his seat, lifting his chin as he prepared himself for an overardent admirer. That happened a few times- an overzealous businessman with thinning hair and an expensive-but-wrinkled suit waxing poetic over his performance and offering to be his sugar daddy. He'd turned them all down. It wasn't worth it.

"Well, I'm surprised you didn't keep my shirt, handsome," Kurt said airily as his admirer approached. "Don't you want a souvenir?"

He paused. This wasn't a middle-aged fan, so deep in the closet he was finding Christmas presents, eager to set up him up in style in exchange for silence. Kurt frowned and threw his concealer down on the counter. "You're just a kid," he scoffed. "What are you doing here? Didn't they check your ID?"

"It was fake," the boy admitted. He looked around seventeen or eighteen, dark haired and hazel eyed, his tanned skin flushed with illicit booze and the promise of sex. The top button of his cardigan had popped loose and his gray slacks were wrinkled. His fingers clutched the white button-up shirt too tightly. "I just…my friends got me in here, as kind of a joke, but-"

"You think what I'm doing is a joke?" Kurt snapped. "I'm a performer. A good one, I might add."

"No, no, I didn't mean it like that," he said hurriedly. "I mean, you're fantastic. You really are. I just…I've never been to a…a…"

"A strip club," Kurt said flatly. He coughed lightly behind his hand. "Spit it out, baby."

The boy flushed red. "Look, I just wanted to give your shirt back," he said, tossing it down on the counter. "And to tell you…you're amazing." He took a deep breath. "Absolutely amazing."

"Thank you," Kurt said dryly, draping the shirt over the back of his chair. "You're so poetic, aren't you? You ought to be a songwriter." He tilted his head. "Now, can you leave? I have another performance to do."

The boy stuck his hand out. "My name's Blaine," he said. Kurt raised an eyebrow. Blaine extended his hand further. "Blaine Anderson."

"Padgett Price," Kurt said, squeezing his fingers gingerly. Blaine's hand was warm and strong, lightly callused on the palm. "Pleasure. Now can you go?"

"Sure," Blaine said. "It was…it was great to meet you, Padgett."

Kurt grimaced at the sound of his stage name and shooed Blaine away. Blaine smiled one last time, one side of his mouth quirking up more than the other, slid his hands in his pockets, and backed away.

"Five minutes to finale, gentlemen," the tech called as he passed through the dressing room. "Five minutes to finale."

Kurt grabbed up his concealer stick, trying to shake the memory of Blaine's warm grip from his mind. It wouldn't do to go onstage rattled. It wouldn't do it all.

Author's Notes:

OH YAY STRIPPER!KURT.

I came across the most glorious gif set ever on Tumblr- it made it look like Kurt was pole dancing and Blaine was practically jizzing in his Dalton slacks over it. And I thought "oh! I could write a drabble!"

The drabble turned into a oneshot.

The oneshot turned into a three-parter.

And now it's a multichapter fic.

Oops. I'm sorry.

Nope. Wait. Not sorry.

I started posting in on Tumblr, just to see what the reaction was like, and people seemed to really like it! So here it is, in all its glory! It's nearly complete- just two chapters to go. So it should be finished in short order.

I know, I know. Famous last words. But still.

And once this is finished...I'm going to finish Goodnight!