A/N: Hello there everyone! It goes without saying that I'm CE Winters, and I thank you for clicking into this story! :) A few quick things about this fic before we start, feel free to skip over if you like, though it should answer some questions:

Rating: M - This is for harsh language, adult themes and scenes, and sexual material later on.

Summary: Kurt has never had a knight to save him. Blaine has never had a role-model to show him that what makes you different is the best part about you. Eight years after they should have met, Kurt and Blaine are about to turn each other's worlds upside down.

This story follows Glee canon with the huge exception of everything concerning Dalton - what might have happened if Kurt had never met Blaine Anderson? I'm a bit late to the craze, but this is an Ontario the exotic dancer fic. I hadn't even read one until yesterday. That fic, written by my lovely friend Angelica (Brilliantim on here, y'all should go check her out!), unknowingly got my male stripper-muse going! I like it so far so I hope no one is disappointed.

A few things to keep in mind: Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel have never met; if you're curious about back stories at the end of this, good! That's what I was going for. You'll find out more as the characters do, that's what makes it fun :)

Enjoy! :)

Kurt pulled his thick coat more tightly around his thin frame as he walked down the cold, slush-laden streets of New York City in the winter. He tried not to look up at anything or anyone as he passed; he was just going through the motions, as he had been for the past few years. There were some aspects of his life that remained constant after the accident – for example, he couldn't bring himself to give up his chic, expensive wardrobe – but most aspects had turned around one hundred and eighty degrees. Kurt only wished that it had been for the better.

"No way!" A voice came from Kurt's left. He didn't look up. "You're Ontario! Shit, man, you're on fire when you're on that stage. Are you dancing at The Adonis tonight?"

His stomach sinking, Kurt turned up his head. The man was exactly the kind of person The Adonis catered to: New York's young gay youth, and unfortunately, they could often be too outspoken. He was shockingly blonde, but Kurt noticed that his eyes were cruel; even his gaze objectified Kurt's being. He didn't say anything, he just nodded. He didn't want his outside world connected with his work, and right then he was still Kurt.

He turned to keep walking, but the blonde let out a sound of protest and quickened his step to catch up with Kurt. "Hey, come on! Be nice – you don't want to lose customers, do you?"

Kurt knew that he had enough customers – he could afford to lose one who insisted on bothering him when he was off the job. His manager, however, wouldn't be so happy that he was scaring clients away. Kurt looked back up and smiled at the young man. He shouldn't be going to strip clubs anyway; upon closer inspection, Kurt thought he looked even younger than he was, and that was young enough. "I'm not on duty," he said, tone flat in spite of his smile.

"Pity," the man said with a sneer. "All those layers aren't doing anything for you."

"Okay," Kurt muttered bitterly as he shook his head and began walking away again. So it was going to be like that…

He heard the man scoff. "Oh, come on! Why are you getting so offended? You're just a goddamn whore, aren't you used to it?"

Kurt's steps faltered; he was tempted to either run away while sobbing hysterically or turn back and attempt to kick the shit out of the other man. In the end, he did neither. "You don't know me," he whispered quietly. The man may or may not have heard, but Kurt hardly cared. They didn't know him…

"Ken," the curly-haired man protested as the other man slowly walked away from him. It wasn't the fact that Kenneth himself was leaving that made him mad – it was the fact that everyone left in exactly the same way. "You're being a jackass, just calm down for a couple minutes."

"Blaine," Ken whispered. He, unlike Blaine claimed, was exceedingly calm. "I am calm, and you know it. You can't tell me that you didn't see this coming."

"I didn't see this coming," Blaine lied.

Kenneth shook his head. "Why are you protesting when your heart was never invested in us in the first place?"

"Why does everyone – why are you saying that?" Blaine asked heatedly.

Kenneth shook his head in a way that made him look to Blaine like Ken pitied him. "You put on this façade so convincingly, Blaine," he said. "So much so that I thought it might have been my imagination at first. I can't…get wrapped up in someone who purposefully makes themselves lonely, and you would be so, so easy to wrap myself up in." He laid a soft hand on Blaine's cheek.

Blaine leaned into the touch, trying desperately for it to spark something in him that chased away the pit that seemed to engulf him. "I hate you," he whispered. "Why can't you make it go away?" Blaine knew that his words were supremely unfair to the other man, but he found himself feeling this way toward many people. What would it take to repair what had been broken for so long?

"I wish I could." Blaine's eyes were closed, but he felt Ken kiss him softly. At this point, it was just a motion to go through; Ken was leaving, and Blaine wasn't even upset that he'd soon be by himself. At least when he really was alone, he had an excuse to feel that way. "Someday Blaine, you'll find some lucky guy who is everything you need him to be. I envy him…but he isn't me. Maybe I'll see you again…"

Blaine hoped not. He didn't think he could look Kenneth in the face after making such a pathetic fool of himself in front of him. He didn't say anything else, and he didn't get up even long after Kenneth left. He would find someone? Blaine doubted it. It had been the same since high school – his father had pounded it into him enough that his preferences were wrong. He had waited for someone to come along, someone who was strong and confident, someone who could show him how to be, someone who could be his personal superhero…but he had never come, and now Blaine doubted that he ever would.

Slowly, he walked to the door and cracked it open. He peered outside, as if Kenneth might still be lurking by the doorway. He was long gone; the only person in the hall was Blaine's crazy neighbor, Mr. Hillard, but Blaine stared down the hallway anyway. He'd met countless people, all equally enraptured by him, but Blaine still felt alone. How was that even possible? He shook his head at the empty hallway. "You don't know me," he whispered.

"Blaine Anderson, struggling musician, twenty-three, homosexual yet never keeps a boyfriend, strangely doesn't own a cat…yet," Mr. Hillard rattled off facts about Blaine, ending his rant with a cackle.

Blaine rolled his eyes, used to his neighbor's antics. "Go to bed, Mr. Hillard, it's getting dark."

"Oh Blaine," Mr. Hillard said with a tsk. "Don't you know that nighttime is when the fun begins?"

Blaine didn't grace him with an answer, but he walked back into his apartment contemplatively. Fine – Kenneth thought he made himself purposefully lonely? He'd see about that.

Kurt slipped in through the side of the building. He could hear music pumping from the main room. It was almost dusk, the time of night when the real customers started showing up. He knew he should be thankful for many things, but the only one he managed was that he hadn't been hired as a daytime exotic dancer. No one wanted that job.

"You're late," said the familiar voice of his manager.

Kurt attempted an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Dave, I got…held up," he said.

Dave Karofsky surveyed him for several moments before sighing. "You look horrible. I hope you can get your act together before you go on tonight. Then again," he added ruefully, with a smile that almost pitied, "you always do."

"Shut up, David," Kurt muttered, pushing past him.

"Don't you think it's time you let it go?" The question was soft and hesitant, most unlike Dave, even after he dropped his bullying façade and owned up to his true self. "It's been three years, and you haven't been the same since…since it happened. You know that I'm always more than willing to help you, Kurt – after what I used to put you through, it's only fair – but we both know that this isn't the kind of thing you're meant for."

"We also both know that everything I was 'meant for' came catastrophically crashing down around me when I tried to collect myself," Kurt said in a monotone.

"You weren't trying to collect yourself, you were letting yourself wallow and dwell on it," Dave protested hotly. Now that was the man Kurt knew.

"David," Kurt hissed sharply. "Enough. We aren't talking about this. It was my fault, so why shouldn't I wallow in it?" Without another word, he marched backstage to get changed. It was his fault, and now they were dead. They wouldn't ever come back, and it was his fault.

No tears escaped. Kurt had gone through enough tears on their behalves. Once upon a time, he was living his dream. In high school, Dave had apologized and even requested assistance on helping him come out. Senior year, Kurt had gotten a scholarship to Julliard – step one on the path to achieving his biggest dreams. Two years later, he'd haggled with the Dean to allow him to be a part-time student. He'd booked a gig on Broadway – he had been approached and requested personally. Everything was perfect. He'd called Carole, Finn, and his father and bought plane tickets for them to come see his debut show. They never arrived…and it was entirely his fault.

Blaine was having the stupidest problem in the universe: he didn't know what to wear. It was absolutely ridiculous, because the place would be dark and no one would even be looking at him, but he was fretting all the same. He supposed that it might be because he was nervous overall. This was one thing that he had always told himself he would never do, and here he was getting ready to do it.

He tried to tell himself that it wasn't too far of a leap in imagination. He had a few gay friends who bothered him over and over to go out to this place but he'd never taken them up on the offer. He had never thought he would need the information, but it was now proving semi-useful – as useful as the location of a gay strip bar could be.

In the end, he just chose a muted cardigan, a heavy winter coat, and a beanie he could pull low over his forehead. After all, it was the dead of winter, and hopefully no one would recognize him if he was bundled up. The distant winter sun had set when Blaine finally hailed a cab and hopped in, giving it an address a few numbers away from his destination – he was a little bit ashamed, and he didn't think that the cab driver needed to know where he was going.

Blaine knew that now, he was just being stubborn. Even though Kenneth was no longer a factor, he wanted to spite his memory by proving that if he wanted to, he didn't have to be alone. There was no way he could back out now, when he was walking up to The Adonis. The fact that he didn't want to be there – was almost ashamed to be there, because who in the hell was desperate and lonely enough to go to a gay strip bar? – aside, he was just stubborn enough to ignore it and go anyways.

He was almost shocked by the entry fee – a measly fifteen dollars. Wasn't this place supposed to be all the rage? But, for all he knew that could be the average amount. There was also a sign hanging right inside that read:

NO ALCOHOL

Was this place for real? He really hoped that meant that this was a classy joint and not some fun-sucking shameful puddle where losers pooled and felt sorry for themselves and even sorrier for the poor creep next to them.

Blaine took a table in the back – he didn't have a ton of cash, and he didn't want to be shelling out all night for sitting in the front, near the stage. There were a few men, obviously dancers, making their way through the tables, dancing personally for those who were interested, and a stage for a more central performance. Blaine figured that they must cycle through being on stage and walking around on the floor.

He sunk back against the wall. His coat was off, but he still had his beanie pulled low, and he leaned back into the shadows. Blaine knew how creepy he must look, but he hardly thought salivating in the front row was any less. He would wait out one or two stage dancers, and then leave.

Dave smirked when he saw Kurt's ensemble. "Gee, that looks familiar," he mused, walking up to the other man. "Sticking with an old favorite tonight, are we?"

"We both know that it's my best song," Kurt answered. He straightened out his sequined vest as he looked into a backlit mirror.

"Only because you've been dancing it since you were fifteen," Dave said with a chuckle.

"With some added embellishments now, obviously." Kurt couldn't help it when he smirked slightly. He knew that Dave liked it when he decided to dance Single Ladies – he'd been doing it for so long that even half-asleep, he could perform it better than all the other dancers in The Adonis combined. At least a dozen times a week, people came asking for him to perform it privately, in one of the backrooms, and that was where the real money came pouring in.

Being an exotic dancer wasn't what he'd had in mind – ever – but now that he was one, Kurt knew that he would never give it up for some menial office job. He made enough money to support his expensive habits, and when he was on stage, people wanted him. Kurt had never had that experience during the day before – at least, not when he was Kurt Hummel. On stage, people revered him, and even though it was only for a matter of hours, it was something that he could hold onto. The knowledge that he wasn't actually completely repulsive to those attracted to men was a reassurance, no matter what.

"You're next," Dave said to him. He reached out and loosened the tie Kurt had around his neck before patting him on the shoulder. "Kill it out there, and if you're lucky, we'll have half a dozen requests pour in for private performances before the night is over."

"Kill it," Kurt repeated. "Right…"

Dave paused. It was obvious to Kurt that he knew what he had said, but wasn't about to apologize for it. Dave had gotten him back on his feet after his life fell apart post-accident, but his patience only extended so far. "Go get them, Ontario," Dave muttered as Kurt walked past the curtain and out onto the stage amid a new wave of catcalls.

Once on the stage, Kurt adopted his onstage persona: Ontario, the exotic dancer. David liked to call him The Adonis's 8 Ball, because he could try on moods and personalities like they were sweaters. Kurt had a sneaking suspicion that it was for a second reason as well, but he never had any curiosity to find out what that reason was. On the stage, he didn't have to be Kurt Hummel. He didn't have to have not only a dead mother, but also a dead father, a dead stepmom, and a dead stepbrother. He didn't have to feel like the person who had ruined everything. He was Ontario, and they loved him.

He was on his last chorus – and what little clothes still remained on him were lined with bills – when he felt a touch on his leg. Kurt ignored it; sometimes in their excitement, patrons slipped up – even the young crowd at The Adonis. Without looking at where it had come from – a fluctuation in attention could potentially cost him money – he backed up a fraction of an inch and continued dancing.

But a second touch – more of a grab – on his calf stopped Kurt in his tracks. That was in no way accidental, the man had to lean across the stage to reach him. The golden rule in any exotic dancing club was that you did not touch the dancers unless tipping or prompted. The most common misconception people had about strip clubs was that the dancers were also gigolos, which couldn't be more untrue. Though David enforced all his rules, this was one that he stuck by extremely strictly. In light of his past, Kurt knew why. Dave had seen firsthand what being unwillingly assaulted did to a person.

Kurt could see security looming, waiting to see what both he and the man would do. He yanked his ankle out of the man's grasp, set on getting back to work and finishing his set. "Don't be like that, Ontario," said the man. His speech was slurred – though the sign said no alcohol, they didn't stop people from coming in drunk unless they were aggressive. He looked up, and Kurt recognized him; despite their drunken glaze, the cruel eyes remained the same. "Don't you recognize me? I thought what we had was special."

Before Kurt knew what was happening, he'd regained his grip and pulled Kurt's leg out from under him. He came crashing to the ground, bills coming lose and fluttering down around him. Kurt cast a startled glance at security, who stared shocked and dumbfounded. Kurt's silent plea sent them into action: they quickly moved forward to restrain Kurt's assailant.

Though they were running, security hadn't even gotten halfway when Kurt saw a blur fly through his vision and collide with his attacker, who had begun to climb onto the stage and was hovering half over Kurt's body. That, more than anything else, made his heart pound in his chest. He watched in shock as the blur rolled to the ground with the blonde attacker, and quickly pinned him down. The music was still pumping but every person was silent, making Kurt's ears ring. A moment later, the security men had taken over control of the struggling man.

His champion was panting slightly from the adrenaline. Kurt watched as the man slowly turned toward him. He looked slightly unsettled, as if he didn't know exactly what he'd just done, but Kurt couldn't tear his gaze away from the man's large amber eyes.

The man kept his gaze looked on Kurt's, never venturing downward. When his mouth opened in what Kurt could only guess was concern, Kurt scrambled to his feet. Without looking back, and feeling more exposed than he ever had in his life, he scrambled to collect his discarded clothing and as many bills as he could get his hands on before walking briskly offstage.

Dave was there immediately. "Kurt, are you okay? Did he hurt you? I swear, he'll never be allowed to set foot on this premises again, and if he does, I'll kill him. I can't believe he did that. No one is allowed to touch you like that – no one." He paused in mid-rant, his breathing heavy. Altogether, Kurt thought Dave was more shaken than he was. All at once, the big man's expression softened. "Kurt…you're okay?"

"You're asking me if I'm okay now?" Kurt asked sarcastically. He walked to his rack of clothes and begun to change into his floor clothes. "That's rich."

"Kurt," Dave protested, laying a hand on his arm as it reached for a strap-and-bowtie piece reminiscent of that of Emcee in Cabaret. "You don't have to go back out there, not tonight."

"I want to go out there, I need the money," Kurt said, shaking off his grasp and grabbing the strappy ensemble.

"You don't."

"David," Kurt said sharply. For being a man who supposedly understood him, Dave just didn't get some things. "I want to go out there, okay? Fine, I won't go back on stage, but this is my damn job and I'm not going to run away just because some bully pushed me into a locker."

It was a low blow, Kurt knew that, but Dave wasn't ruffled. He merely held up his hands in surrender, and let Kurt stomp away.

Blaine had watched the exotic dancer walk away with a sick feeling in his gut. He knew he shouldn't have come here. That man – he looked more like a boy – had just been attacked. Blaine didn't know why he was the only one who had taken action.

Balling his fists so his hands wouldn't shake, Blaine turned and went back to his table, where his things still sat. That was it. This was a stupid idea, and he was leaving. Obviously, this wasn't the place for him. He fumbled with his things for a few minutes – what on Earth was wrong with him? – and finally stepped toward the door.

Only a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Ready to yell at whoever had prevented his swift escape, Blaine was shocked to see that it was the dancer who he'd tackled the man off of. He'd changed outfits, but it was definitely him. The man's hand dropped to his side. He didn't say anything, but he didn't move away either. He just stared, and it was beginning to unnerve Blaine.

Blaine almost said something numerous times, but he couldn't think of proper words. The man had shockingly blue eyes and smooth pale skin that you couldn't appreciate when he was up on the stage. He was leaving Blaine rather illiterate, which was stupid because he'd never seen the man before in his entire life.

Blaine grumbled something and turned away, but the immobile dancer in the ridiculous costume caught his wrist. Blaine's eyes went to where their skin was touching first before rising to his eyes again. "What?" he asked finally. It came out more impatiently than he'd intended, and Blaine immediately felt guilty. The dancer opened his mouth several times, but no words came out. What was wrong with him? Was he a mute?

Feeling impatient and more than a little foolish, Blaine rolled his eyes. The dancer still held onto his wrist; there was nothing to do but either tear away and possibly get tackled by security, which was now on high alert, keep standing there like a moron, or say something. "He had you pinned to the stage, okay? What was I supposed to do, stand there and watch? I mean…you're just a person." Blaine sighed, surprised at the flow of words which had poured forth. "What's your name?" He was even more surprised by the unforeseen, probably stupid question.

"Ontario," the dancer whispered. His voice was breathy and high-pitched, but it fit him. "I just wanted to thank you."

"I mean, what's your real name?" He should just walk away, Blaine knew it. But a voice in the back of his head told him not to. That's all he'd done his entire life: run away. He'd run away from his old public school to Dalton, and he'd run away from Westerville and his parents after graduation, in favor of New York. Was he really going to run away now, from someone who was just trying to be polite?

"Have you been here before?" Ontario asked, ignoring his question.

"No," said Blaine with a scoff. "I don't make stuff like this a habit; I'm not some weirdo creeper who – oh shit, I mean…uh…" His eyes slid closed and he mentally berated himself for saying something so stupid. When he opened them again, Ontario had the smallest of smiles on his lips.

"Well, I don't make it a habit to go out of my way like this, either," the dancer said.

"What's your name?" Blaine repeated, feeling with every moment that it was more and more urgent to not keep mentally calling this man 'Ontario'.

"Are you coming back?" Once again, his question was ignored.

"No," Blaine answered, beginning to feel annoyed. If he hadn't known better, he would have ventured to say that Ontario looked the tiniest bit distressed by his answer. "That obviously isn't your name. What is it?"

The dancer dropped his hand – up until then, Blaine hadn't realized that it had still been on his arm. "It's Ontario," he said flatly, "and I just wanted to thank you." As quickly as he'd appeared, Ontario turned around and walked away, leaving Blaine standing there gaping.

"I quit," Kurt said to Dave as soon as he got backstage.

"Kurt, you can't just quit. What will you do?"

"Starve," he answered dryly.

"What's wrong now?" Dave asked as Kurt ripped off his Emcee costume and hastily began putting on his own layers. "Jesus, you're emotional. Just go sleep it off."

"I have a name," Kurt said suddenly, scarf whirling around as he turned to face David. He was surprised at the stinging sensation at the corners of his eyes, and he knew that Dave was equally shocked to see it. "I have a name, and it isn't Ontario. I fucking quit."

Dave didn't protest when Kurt swept up his bag and left through the side door. Kurt glared at the other dancers backstage as they dispersed and pretended they hadn't been listening to everything he had said. He slammed the door in his wake, to reinforce his point.

In reality, both he and David knew the truth: Kurt would be back tomorrow, at the same time. Dave was right, he couldn't just quit. As dangerous as it was, Kurt ignored a cab in favor of walking through the cold winter air to his apartment – he could use the crisp air to clear his head.

In two years, he'd never once had a problem like this during his dancing. Grabby people were one thing – it happened often enough, especially in private rooms, but it was usually quelled with a sharp look. Even if it had only been the blonde assailant, Kurt could have taken it. But it was that amber-eyed man that undid him, the one that looked straight into his eyes and asked him his real name, the only one who'd gone to help him, the one who had called him a person.

Kurt couldn't decide if he was happy or disappointed that he wouldn't be seeing the man again. He half-hoped that he'd never see anyone who'd been in that club again, because he'd been made such a fool of. However, a guilty, selfish side of him wanted to see those amber eyes crinkle in amusement at a joke Kurt had told, and he wanted to tell the man his real name.

As soon as he could manage it, Kurt banished those treasonous thoughts. That was the kind of thing that could unhinge a dancer. He had started to bring his work home with him, and that was the ultimate mistake. The reason why he was so successful at The Adonis was because he was able to disconnect his mind and body for those few hours. At the moment, Kurt didn't think he was doing a very good job of it.