On Top Of the World
Chapter One: Something's Missing
Daniel Fine clicked shut down on his computer. He shrugged into his jacket and stuck his head into Kurt's office. "I'm done. Anything you need before I go?"
Kurt looked up from his laptop. "I'm good, Dan, thanks. Night." Kurt stretched, and rolled his shoulders. He checked the time on the bottom of the screen, 6:45.
"Kurt, it's your birthday. Go home." Dan stood in the doorway, shaking his head.
Kurt forced a smile for his assistant. "I'm going. I promise."
"Uh-huh." Daniel looked skeptical, but he left.
Kurt poured himself a scotch, and sipped it, staring out the window. His office was on the 17th floor. The Manhattan skyline at night was fantastic; flashing lights and energy, endless possibilities. So why was he so fucking depressed?
He was in no rush to go home to an empty condo. He wasn't there enough to justify having even a dog. He could get a bird, but taking care of Pavarotti at Dalton had cured him of any interest in avian pets. It's not like a bird was going to greet him at the door anyway! Kurt's shoulders sagged. He leaned against the window, resting his forehead on the glass. 34 years old! Happy Fucking Birthday!
His next sip was more of a gulp, a major piece of disrespect to the Glenlivet. How had he come to this? Which of his decisions had led him to this, staring into the night, wondering how he had screwed up? Where had he zigged when he should have zagged? Kurt stared into his past, the lights of New York flickering in the distance.
Should he have tried harder to make it work with Blaine? Maybe it was dropping out of NYADA, switching to Parsons. Was that where he had gone wrong? The three years he had been with Greg… Kurt grimaced, the scotch turning bitter in his mouth. God! That had been a fucking waste of time. How had he not realized the guy was a pretentious asshole the first day, or night, or week? No, getting rid of Greg had not been a mistake, not in any universe!
His first job as a glorified errand boy with Jill Sander… Should he have gone back to Lima? Or taken that job offer in Chicago? Was moving from fashion design to fashion journalism his big mistake? No, he loved his job. Maybe that was the fucking problem. He worked all the time. He hadn't taken a vacation, in … god, could it be three years? Yes, easily.
He had been lucky enough to get an internship at the magazine while he was still at Parson's. After graduation, he had jumped at the chance to be an assistant. The pay was ridiculous and the work was menial at best, but it was a start. He was young and in New York, and in love with Greg.
Three years later at twenty five, he had been promoted to editor. He had still loved New York but Greg was history. Anthony, a stylist at Neiman Marcus, succeeded Greg. They had started out tearing off each other's clothes, and ended two years later, sharing sections of the newspaper over breakfast in silence. Kurt met Anthony's successor at a photo shoot. Richard, a free-lance photographer, travelled a lot and as an editor, so did Kurt. Because one or the other of them was always packing a bag and grabbing an airplane, they had never actually lived together. The whole relationship was one long "Hi, I missed you. Get naked!" Kurt frowned at his glass. Maybe that's why they had lasted almost five years … they hardly ever saw each other!
An opportunity came up in Europe that Richard just couldn't turn down, and it ended. They had never even discussed Kurt moving with him to France. It had never occurred to either of them. Kurt had just been promoted to Fashion Director, and he would never have left New York anyway. He tipped his glass, and found it empty. He set it down on the stainless steel bar cart, with an audible click. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the window. He stared down at the city spread out below him. He was literally, on top of the world; in a city he loved, with the dream job he had worked towards for years.
It had started slowly, just a whiff of an idea that flitted across his mind, nothing really, easily ignored amid the constant tumult that was his life. His days were a cacophony of next, more, better. The next issue, the next trend, the newest idea or designer; he had to be on top of it all. Even when he wasn't technically working, he was. As Fashion Director of one of the largest men's magazines in the country, Kurt got invited to everything; there was always a show, or an opening, or a charity dinner. He didn't go to everything, of course, he couldn't. He had to actually carve out time to be creative, to channel the vision that the magazine defined.
Over the last six months, that almost imperceptible tremor of disquiet had become more frequent, stealing into his rare tranquil moments. It often came on him unexpectedly, popping into his mind while he was brushing his teeth, or drying off after a shower, or just after he turned the lights out at night. It no longer whispered softly in the background. It had become insistent and annoying, and refused to be ignored.
Tonight, it was loud and clear. Something's wrong. Something's missing. You need something else, something more… you need someone!
Kurt stared into the night, and stopped running from the truth. He was alone … … … and he didn't want to be.