Above All Things (1a/9+Epilogue)

Apr 28, 2013 17:13

Title: Above All Things (Chapter 1/9 + Epilogue)
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, Blaine/Sebastian (one-sided feelings), Santana/Brittany, Rachel, Sam, Sue, Burt, Puck, OC, references to others
Word Count: ~51,800 total (~8000 this chapter)
Rating: R
Summary: Kurt Hummel goes to The Moulin Rouge that night for one reason and one reason only - he’s getting his play produced if it’s the last thing he does. It isn’t long before he finds himself tangled up in a world he never wanted any part of, in over his head for a man who’s not allowed to love.
Warnings: References to dub-con and attempted non-con; prostitution; medical situations; potential geographical, medical and other inaccuracies
Spoilers: We’re in AU world, but assume through 4x20 to be safe!
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee, Moulin Rouge, or any of the music featured in this story.

Author’s Note: This is my Glee/Moulin Rouge fusion fic! I was inspired fairly equally by my deep love for Moulin Rouge, the Kurt/Blaine version of “Come What May,” and the Blaine/Sue interaction from Feud. I follow the plot of Moulin Rouge pretty closely, with one major deviation and many minor ones - feel free to message me if you would like more detail. This is completely finished and mostly edited, so I’ll be posting about one or two chapters per day through the weekend. Enjoy!


Music in this chapter: “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” “Material Girl,” “Teenage Dream,” “Blackbird”

There was a boy…

Chapter 1: Sparkling Diamonds

“Is there a reason that you neglected to inform me that the ‘theater’ we would be visiting this evening is actually a strip club?”

“I think the more appropriate term is ‘exotic entertainment facility,’ actually.”

Kurt stops short, but Rachel doesn’t break stride, eyes firmly fixed on the ornate front door. He folds his arms over his chest, settling in for what is likely to be a long and very annoying conversation, and waits for her to notice that he isn’t falling in line. She whips around, hair fanning out and catching the blue and red neon glow from the signage above.

“I don’t actually care what it’s called, Rachel, I can’t believe you thought this could be anything other than a complete and total waste of my time!”

“Look, everything I told you is true.”

“Sure, if I’d written a show about strippers.”

“It’s an amazing performance space in a completely untapped neighborhood.”

“I’m starting to think your definition of ‘performance’ is much looser than mine.”

“Just give it a chance. You’ll see!”

“Have you actually seen it?”

“Well, no, but - ”

“Rachel, you have to know how crazy this is.”

“Just listen, Kurt, please. I know someone on the inside.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper. Kurt rolls his eyes. “She says the owner is looking to change their, um, rather unsavory image. Once she finds the right piece and secures some financial backing, they’re going to close the place down and turn it into a theater. A real theater.”

“Oh, come on. Even if you’re right, this is hardly the place for us to make our debut. No one in the business would take us seriously.”

“No one is taking us seriously now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve come to the end of our options, Kurt. And, personally, I’m tired of serving coffee to tourists in Times Square.”

He could make a comment about the fact that she’s been a barista for less than two months, how it’s the first paying job she’s ever had, how these things take time and there’s nothing wrong with the life of a starving artist, but…well, she’s kind of right. There isn’t much more they can do beyond staging it at the Lima Community Playhouse, and that’s a little too off-Broadway for Kurt’s taste.

The bottom line is, he isn’t ready to give up on this. There are other things he could do with his life - he is a trained singer, after all, and the former protégé of one Isabelle Wright. The world could be at his feet, if he wanted it to be. But this is what he wants.

He just needs to find someone who will bring his words to life.

Rachel must be able to sense him faltering, because she grips his shoulder and gives him the doe eyes.

“This is your dream, Kurt. Our dream. It can’t hurt to check it out, right?”

He sighs, hating that she has a point.

“Okay. But you are paying for my drinks. And the cab ride home.”

She squeals and pulls him into a jostling hug.

“Oh, you won’t regret this, you’ll see!”

Right. The place is called The Moulin Rouge. The sign has an actual, flashing, neon, rotating windmill. He’s pretty sure he already does.

They dig out their IDs (no need for fakes anymore, thank God) and show them to the bouncer. He waves them in, remaining impassive even in the face of Rachel’s blinding smile.

Kurt holds back another sigh. He’s pretty sure he’ll be doing that all evening.

The noise of the place hits him right away. There’s music, of course, and not the cheesy, techno kind that Kurt was expecting. It’s something poppy that Kurt can’t put his finger on right away. It’s blasted fairly loudly, but not loud enough to drown out the cheering and chattering of the crowd. It’s obvious that the place is filled to the brim, even before they round the corner and see it with their own eyes.

“Are you sure we have to do this?”

“Yes. Now hush, and let’s go find a table so we can enjoy the show!”

Right now, “the show” consists of a line of scantily clad women gyrating in unison to a song that was popular five years ago. Kurt’s pretty sure that the chances of him enjoying it are slim to none.

Even so, Kurt lets Rachel drag him to an empty table near the back and order him a cosmo from the overly-waxed waiter.

The production values, at least, Kurt can admire. The lighting is tasteful, striking the right balance between seductive and soft, the costumes are actually quite beautifully-made (even if not to his particular taste), and the stripper poles appear to be operated by hydraulic lift from beneath the stage. There’s a curtain, too, in a heavy, richly-hued red velvet that wouldn’t look out of place in any theater on Broadway. Kurt’s hopes start to perk up, just a bit.

The next number starts, boys and girls mixed this time. It features surprisingly interesting choreography, more burlesque than grotesque, but it’s still not enough to hold Kurt’s attention. He leans in close to Rachel’s ear, to be heard.

“How long are we planning to stay, exactly?”

Rachel won’t meet his eyes. She pretends to be riveted to the stage, but Kurt knows better.

“Rachel. What did you do?”

She looks at him, scandalized.

“Nothing!”

“Come on, Rachel, just say it.”

“Okay, fine. I was going to tell you soon, anyway.” She leans in, the gleam in her eye back and brighter than ever. “Santana told me that things are moving pretty quickly. Sue, the owner, she’s almost got enough investors to give the project the green light. We’ve got to get our hats in the ring now, or we’ll miss our chance.”

“What does that have to do with tonight?”

“I may have set up a meeting.”

“For a Friday night?”

“Well. Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to tell you!”

“What, five minutes beforehand? I don’t even have a copy of the script.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry, I sent one ahead.”

“You need to tell me about these kinds of things, Rachel. We’re partners.”

“I know, okay? I’m sorry. I just knew you wouldn’t be very…taken with the idea.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

“Come on, would you stop being so negative? This place is great! It’s charming, don’t you think? And aren’t the dancers talented? If you could stop being so judgmental for a few seconds and just imagine what this place would look like with some nice, cushy theater seats and a splash of paint, you’d see just how much potential it has. I found us an opportunity, Kurt, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little grateful.”

Her nose is turned slightly up in that haughty way that Kurt hates, but he has to admit she’s maybe a little right. The place is much less disgusting than he imagined when he saw the marquee. And he definitely wouldn’t have come at all if she’d told him about the plan before they left the apartment.

“Okay. Fine. What time is this meeting with what’s-her-name?”

“It’s Sue. Sue Sylvester. But we’re actually not meeting with her.”

“But you just said - ”

“We’re meeting with someone else. Santana told me, she said that Sue’s tastes are very…particular. She suggested that we get someone on our side that Sue will listen to.”

“What about Santana?”

“They’ve had something of a…falling out, apparently. She was recently demoted to the chorus line. She wouldn’t tell me why.”

Kurt blinks. The idea of a strip club chorus line is a little…unusual. He decides to let it go.

“Well then, who - ”

He’s drowned out, suddenly, by the roar of the crowd. The curtain is closed, the lights dimmed, and there’s a low, female voice coming through the speakers.

“I think it’s time for some real entertainment, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen? Without further ado, club Moulin Rouge presents…our sparkling diamonds.”

The cheers and catcalls from the audience are overwhelming. Kurt raises his eyebrows at Rachel, but she seems equally baffled. Just as Kurt has convinced himself that this can’t mean anything good, the curtain opens once more.

There must be 15 women up on that stage, all of them dressed in corsets and fishnet stockings, evoking the decadent yet understated sexiness of the 1940s pin-up girl. They are, all of them, dripping in what Kurt knows can’t actually be diamonds, catching the light and throwing out sparkles so bright Kurt thinks he might go momentarily blind.

The music starts, and it, too, is not what Kurt would have expected. A leggy blonde, gorgeous with loose curls and a brilliant red lip, steps forward and, to Kurt’s surprise, starts to sing.

“A kiss on the hand may be quite continental…”

Her voice isn’t amazing, but her moves certainly are. Kurt understands, without a doubt, why so many men in the crowd are visibly drooling over her, even if he isn’t one of them.

“Look!” says Rachel in the closest thing to a whisper she can manage above the noise. “That’s Santana, the one on the end?”

Kurt looks. She, like all of the girls, is beautiful, alluring, sexy. She also looks incredibly bored. Kurt can sympathize - it sucks being stuck in the background when you’re meant to shine.

“How do you know her, anyway?”

“We’ve run into each other on a few auditions. She’s not the nicest person, but I let her borrow my shoes once when her heel broke, so she owed me.”

The song ends with a flourish and a roar of applause, and the dancers blow kisses to the crowd before the curtain closes. Kurt applauds, too, because no matter the purpose or the setting, that was a fine performance that deserves to be recognized. The dancers filter out, after the noise has begun to die down, and disperse themselves throughout the audience, batting their eyes and draping themselves over laps, bending over to show off what Kurt is sure is impressive cleavage. Collecting tips, no doubt, or maybe reservations for lap dances. Kurt doesn’t really know how those things work. There is a mysterious doorway by the stage, lit neon red and watched over by a burly bodyguard, that Kurt suspects may lead to rooms meant for more…private dances.

He shudders, and turns his attention back to Rachel.

“So, wait, you never told me who we’re meeting.”

She bites her lip.

“Well, it won’t exactly be the both of us.”

“What are you - ?”

“I think it might be easier to convince him if you’re alone.”

“Wha - him?”

“Yes. Apparently, he’s Sue’s favorite - Santana was very bitter about that - but she said he’s the one we should talk to if we want to have any kind of chance at this.”

“Rachel, if you don’t tell me who it is, I swear - ”

The voice is back. The room hushes so quickly Kurt can hear ringing in his ears.

“You know, some of you ladies and gentlemen still seem a little lonely.” The voice is dry, almost mocking. The crowd laughs and catcalls and collectively leans forward, eyes glued to the stage. “But don’t you worry your inebriated little heads - if our lovely ladies don’t do it for you, our strapping young gentlemen most certainly will.”

A drumroll has started without Kurt’s noticing, a low rumble that builds, just slightly, as the announcer takes a dramatic pause. Despite himself, he can feel his own anticipation ratcheting up.

“Without further ado, the shining star of The Moulin Rouge. Our very own teenage dream.”

The curtain sweeps open. Rachel clutches onto Kurt’s arm.

“It’s him,” she hisses, nodding meaningfully at the stage.

Kurt doesn’t even flick his eyes in her direction.

There is a chorus of men onstage, dressed in tight black vests and black leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, but there is no doubt as to who, exactly, Rachel is referring to.

He’s in the middle, a bright spot in a sea of dark. His vest is made of a red material that molds to his body and seems to shimmer in the light. His head is down, like the rest, but his presence is like a magnet in the middle of the stage, drawing every eye to him without moving a muscle.

The entire room is holding its breath, a long moment of suspense that stretches tighter and tighter as the silence prolongs. Just as Kurt thinks it will snap, the man looks up.

Kurt has to bite his lip to keep from gasping aloud.

It’s just - he’s got these eyes, these big, wide eyes that seem to sparkle brighter than any fake diamond in the world, picked out with dark eyeliner and lashes so gorgeous that Kurt suspects they may be store-bought. His face is a study in contrasts - the softness of his mouth played up against the strong line of his jaw, the lushly styled curl of his hair against the sharp jut of his cheekbones. Kurt can see, now, that he has a thick band of leather circling his throat, bobbing and stretching as he swallows.

He looks over the crowd. His lips twist slightly up. He opens his mouth and starts to sing.

It’s his voice, alone, and Kurt would laugh at the song choice if he weren’t so entirely transfixed.

“Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me,
I think they’re okay…”

Slow, lovely, maybe a little ironic. His voice cuts Kurt to the bone.

“If they don’t give me proper credit,
I just walk away…”

There’s a lingering pause, here, before the music kicks in and the men behind him come to life.

They dance, they sing, they unbutton their vests, but Kurt couldn’t care less, and he suspects he isn’t alone. He almost feels sorry for them, performing like that when they could easily be invisible.

The man, the lead - and God, but Kurt needs to know his name, Kurt is meeting with him tonight - he moves with the kind of grace that can only be inborn and a sexy self-awareness that can only be learned. He smiles and winks and flirts with every eye he meets, and he does it with such sincerity that Kurt starts to melt in spite of himself.

There’s just…there’s this light that he seems to pull up from inside when he sings, and this wicked twist to his mouth when he calls himself a “material girl,” and then the music shifts, and suddenly it’s -

“I’ma get your heart racing in my skintight jeans,
Be your teenage dream tonight.
Let you put your hands on me in my skintight jeans,
Be your teenage dream tonight - ”

He pauses, looks out over the crowd, every inch of him an open invitation as the tension of the silence pulls tight.

“ - ‘Cause we are living in a material world,
And I am a material girl…”

The juxtaposition is clever, just sweet enough and bitter enough that Kurt is genuinely impressed.

This man invites the attention, he plays and he teases, and he builds the fantasy with his warm, melting-honey eyes, but the warning there is clear: you can buy me, but you can’t have me.

The man’s breathing is coming harder by the time the music ends, pushing the muscles of his chest appealingly against the confines of his vest, emphasizing the narrow dip of his waist. The barest trace of sweat across his forehead glitters under the stage lights.

The curtain closes. There’s a moment of silence, and then the crowd bursts into uproarious applause. Kurt is nearly too dazed to join in.

“He was good, wasn’t he?”

Rachel is bright-eyed and watching him expectantly.

“Oh. Yes. He’s very, um. Flexible.”

Kurt is very happy that his voice has managed to remain steady, even if he can’t get out more than two words at a time.

“He’s expecting you in 15 minutes. You just need to tell the bouncer that Santana sent you, and he’ll let you back.”

“What - back there?”

Rachel rolls her eyes.

“It’s not contaminated, Kurt. You’re just going to sing for the guy, show him why we’re the best fit for their foray into musical theater.”

“You want me to sing for him?”

“Obviously. How else are you going to sell him the script?”

“I don’t know, plot synopsis?”

“Kurt, I’m ashamed of you. Since when are you not ready to sing at a moment’s notice?”

Kurt doesn’t take the time to point out that they’re not actually living in a musical and that most people don’t find it necessary to break out into song in the midst of their daily lives, but only because he is currently freaking out. This is so far out of his comfort zone he might as well be in Siberia.

“How do I know when he’s…ready for me?”

“Santana said she’d come find us.”

Kurt nods, unable to do much else.

Some of the women from earlier are back on stage, but it’s nothing special, and no one is paying very close attention. Kurt takes the opportunity to people watch instead.

Kurt has always been under the impression that married scumbags and douchey frat boys make up the bulk of customers at establishments such as this one, but he has to admit that this crowd seems a lot more diverse. There are women sprinkled throughout, cougars on their lonesome and a rowdy group that is most definitely a bachelorette party. There are younger men, too, men in suit jackets whose body language screams money and arrogance, surveying the room like hawks on the hunt.

A low, murmuring buzz has settled over the crowd, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. The performers are still interspersed amongst them, working their assets for all they’re worth, stroking hands over cheeks, perching prettily on knees, charming their way through a seduction that’s old as time.

The place is undeniably classy, Kurt must admit, as much as that word can apply to a strip club. Sue Sylvester must be a smart lady, and she must be making bank. He’s still skeeved out by the fact that she makes that money by selling off the people in her employ to be ogled and treated like objects, but that doesn’t prevent him from admiring the skill it takes to make a place like this remotely palatable. The distinct lack of g-strings and the quality of the talent certainly help.

Kurt’s mind flickers to those amber eyes, lit bright by the spotlight.

His heart skips a beat. His blood spikes. God, he’s in trouble.

He’s woken from his reverie by the sound of a throat clearing. He looks up to see one of the chorus girls - Santana, he remembers - looking at them with an almost lazy sort of impatience.

“Glad you could make it,” she says, slow and sardonic.

Rachel beams.

“Thank you for inviting us. Your performance was very good.”

Santana rolls her eyes and turns to Kurt, arms folded beneath her breasts.

“Boy Wonder is ready for you.”

Kurt takes a deep breath, hoping to calm the racing of his heart. It doesn’t exactly work.

“Okay. Do I just - ”

“Tell Puck you’re here to see Blaine and he’ll let you in.” She gestures back to that red-lit door without bothering to look.

Blaine.

“Puck?”

She rolls her eyes again, harder, this time, if that’s even possible.

“God, do I have to hold your hand?”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, just grabs Kurt by the wrist and drags him out of his seat.

“I’ll wait here!” trills Rachel, as if she has a choice in the matter.

Santana navigates through the crowd with ease, only letting go of him when they reach the doorway. Not bothering to spare him a glance, she smirks at the guard and leans in to whisper in his ear. The guard - Puck, probably - breaks into a dopey smile that couldn’t be more different from the stoicism he’s been wearing all evening. Santana pulls back, and he schools his expression once more. He glances at Kurt.

“Well? Go ahead.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” puts in Santana.

“Where do I - ?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Santana snickers, but Kurt chooses to take the high road and throws her a weak smile.

“Thanks,” he says.

He takes one last fortifying breath and walks through the doorway.

Part 1b

above all things, kurt/blaine

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