Kurt sat at his desk, rifling through photographs, news articles and interview transcripts trying to piece together the best way to write a story about the latest crash and burn of a drug-addicted musician. She was a young pop-queen, plucked from obscurity by Disney at too fragile an age, catapulted into unprecedented stardom and then crassly abandoned once she lost that innocent "pedophile-wetdream" persona. It was rather amusing being a music writer for a national entertainment magazine. It wasn't nearly as simple as he'd thought it would be, but it had all the perks he'd imagined and then some.
A small stack of papers dropped onto Kurt's desk, along with a plastic lanyard and ID card. Kurt picked up the VIP badge and glanced up quickly at his boss as he ran his thumb over his own picture on the ID. His boss was a disorganized wreck of a manager; Kurt was lucky to find out about an assignment with a day's notice. "You're covering the Daiquiri concert this weekend. In the after concert interview I want comments on his upcoming album and maybe something about that LA scandal last week. Get me what you can."
Kurt smiled obsequiously at his boss, all too happy to play the part of grateful lackey, even if he resented being told how to do his job.
Daiquiri was the hottest thing in the music scene right now. His style leaned heavily towards pop rock but had a definite air harkening back to the hay days of glam-rock. Daiquiri himself had an electric (and eclectic) personality, a quick wit and an acerbic sense of humor. He could be sarcastic and self-deprecating, but he was so upbeat and bubbly you couldn't help but love him.
Kurt quietly mooned over the small, ledger-sized poster he had of Daiquiri pinned up in his cubicle.
At least Kurt couldn't help but love him.
We are the crowd
We're c-comin' out
Got my flash on, it's true
Need that picture of you
It's so magical
We'd be so fantastico
At the concert, Kurt felt like a teenage girl. He was squealing and bouncing around just like everyone else. After two years interning and four years being a paid journalist for the magazine, he would have expected the celebrity-shock to wear off. And it had – for the most part. Every now and then, there was still a musician who made Kurt's knees wobbly and made his normally cool, collected, logical mind melt into a puddle of incoherent goo. Daiquiri was one such star.
Kurt wore tight, tattered jeans and a large, fashionable graphic tee. He preferred to dress somewhat professionally for most assignments, but he knew Daiquiri looked down on suits and ties. After living a very terrified, conformist childhood, Daiquiri despised anyone pretending to be something they weren't. As a teenager, he had been a jock, an honors student, and a homophobe. Now, he was – for lack of a better word – himself. He never dressed in insane, over-the-top, outrageous outfits like Lady Gaga or Katy Perry. Nor was he fashionable in a classic sense. He wore whatever made him comfortable. For tonight's concert, he wore loose, black jeans and a black Lycra shirt. The shirt had one long sleeve; from the shoulder of the sleeved-arm, the shirt was cut diagonally so that there was no sleeve on the other arm. From the lower left hand side of his ribs, to his right shoulder, there was no fabric. He was wearing face paint, as well. It looked like he had dipped his fingers in black ink and just dragged them across his face, in a diagonal stripe perpendicular to the angle of the missing fabric of his shirt.
His personality matched the eccentricity of his dress style. He never drank alcohol – despite his name – nor did he smoke cigarettes. On the other hand, he was a fan of shisha: waterpipe. And, now that Kurt thought about it, he had never flat-out denied the accusations of LSD use. He was unabashedly homosexual and an insufferable flirt, but no one had ever seen any kind of evidence of him having had a boyfriend. Sure, he had a few songs about poisonous relationships, but, then again, Katy Perry had a song about falling in love with an alien. Older interviews with Daiquiri revealed most of his lyrical influences came from books, movies, and his own nightmares.
Leather and jeans
Garage glamorous
Not sure what it means
But this photo of us, it don't have a price
Ready for those flashing lights
'Cause you know that baby, I…
Kurt filtered into Daiquiri's changing room with the rest of the journalists. He recognized most of them and was on competitively friendly terms with a good chunk of those he knew. Kurt was the second one into the room and smiled warmly at Daiquiri. "Evening, David."
"Y'ello, Pop Fancy." Kurt fought off his urge to blush. Daiquiri referred affectionately to each of the journalists by their specific magazine, website, or column. Even still, it felt nice to be recognized. Kurt knew for a fact Daiquiri knew his name, though. He'd slip and say it every now and then.
Daiquiri still wore his stage outfit, though his stylist was busy hovering over him wiping the face paint off with a warm, moist towel. No cameras were allowed in Daiquiri's changing room, just journalists. His publicist would give each journalist a manila envelope containing five original shots of Daiquiri for them to selectively use with their write-ups. Kurt felt you could always tell which journalists Daiquiri favored by which shots each one received. If his theory were true, that meant Kurt was Daiquiri's favorite, by far; he always got the best pictures.
"So Daiquiri, how did you pick your name?" Kurt glared daggers at this newcomer. She had a lot of nerve to just jump in and start asking questions. Daiquiri preferred a friendlier, less business-like atmosphere. And such a stupid first question; hadn't she even bothered to read his Wikipedia page before she came?
"I, uh…well my name is David Karofsky. 'Da' from 'David,' 'kar' from the start of 'Karofsky' and 'y' from the end of 'Karofsky'…you put it together, it sounds like 'Daiquiri'. So I just went with it." The new girl started scribbling notes, but People Magazine's journalist placed her hand over the girls and mouthed the word 'no'. She'd be laughed out of the profession if she published something like that.
"David, do you have a fresh perspective on what happened between you and Chris Brown in LA last week?"
Daiquiri smirked and scratched his fingers across the bare portion of his chest. He chuckled awkwardly. "What can I say? The man just rubs me raw. His music is an insult to art and his existence is an insult to humanity. Next?"
Kurt raised his pen to get David's attention. "I've heard rumors you'll be promoting Pepsi?" A few of the other journalists seemed to have their curiosity piqued; they obviously hadn't heard the rumors yet.
"I don't drink soda."
"All the more reason for my interest…"
"I don't have a deal in the works with Pepsi. I have been exchanging words with one of their subsidiaries, however. I'll have more for you on that by the time you come to my house in two weeks…or is Pop Fancy sending someone else?"
Kurt blanched…he hadn't heard anything about that. "I'm…that's up to my boss."
"I'll have Yvonne send him an e-mail. I don't like dealing with new people." Kurt felt his heart flutter.
I'm your biggest fan
I'll follow you until you love me
Papa-Paparazzi
Baby, there's no other superstar
You know that I'll be
Your Papa-Paparazzi
The concert had been a few nights ago. Work was a bit slow for Kurt at the moment so he busied himself by responding to comments and reviews of his online article. He could hear Tania, one of the other journalists at the magazine skulking around behind him before she said anything. "That interview was mine, Hummel. What the hell's this crap with you snatching up the interview out from under my nose?"
Kurt smiled arrogantly to himself. "Daiquiri requested me…I can't help what he does."
"You don't own every interview with him, Hummel. You don't own him, Hummel."
Tania stomped away before Kurt could respond, more to himself, than to her. "Not yet."
Promise I'll be kind
But I won't stop until that boy is mine
Baby, you'll be famous
Chase you down until you love me
Papa-Paparazzi
Daiquiri's housekeeper was the one to let Kurt in. She was tiny: small in stature and in build, but she had an intensity radiating from her. Something about her screamed 'fuck with me; I dare you.' Kurt turned up his charm and smiled at her as pleasantly as he could. "Good morning, my name is Kurt Hummel. Pop Fancy sent me to do an interview with Mr. Karofsky." Her eyes narrowed disdainfully at him. "He's…he should be expecting me."
"Daiquiri or David. You no call him 'Karofsky.' He no like 'Karofsky.' 'Karofsky' name of bully." David came up behind the housekeeper, wearing black jogging shorts and a grey wifebeater darkened by sweat. A green towel was draped across his neck. The housekeeper turned around to smile fondly at David. "David no bully. David sweet, precious boy." Raising her hand to his face, she squeezed his chin and scrunched up her face affectionately. "Such good boy." Kurt couldn't identify the housekeeper's nationality. By appearance, he naturally assumed she was some kind of Spanish, but her accent didn't seem to fit. Central Asian, Kurt wondered? Perhaps Indian? Or maybe even American Indian? He had no idea. Being from a predominantly white area of Ohio, he wasn't very good at discerning ethnicities.
"Come on, Fancy, lemme give you the tour."
Kurt played the part of dutiful journalist as David showed him his anteroom, living room, dining room, kitchen, day room, parlor, library, gym, sunroom, and yard. Despite the size of the house, everything looked lived in. His house wasn't for show; the kitchen was stocked with junk food and pots that had seen too many trips to the stove and not enough trips through the dishwasher; the parlor had a pool table with balding spots of the fabric from overuse; the sunroom was crammed with winter cacti and a pair of noisy cockatiels; the library had more books stacked around the room in various states of being read than were on the shelves.
The only rooms Kurt didn't get an opportunity to explore were David's bedroom and his music studio. The music studio Kurt expected to be off-limits; Daiquiri was notoriously shy about his writing process. He had no formal musical training and was deeply embarrassed about how much he had to try to get the right note or a good pitch in a new song. Same with his writing; no one ever saw a single line from a song until it was completely finished and recorded.
The mystique around David's bedroom drew Kurt's attention, though. As they passed by the shut (and locked) door, David offhandedly pointed it out to Kurt, but continued the tour. Kurt, unbearably curious, began coming up with different reasons in his head as to why David might not allow anyone in. Perhaps the housekeeper refused to clean in there and he had piles of dirty underwear everywhere? Or maybe he had a formidable sex-toy collection? Or maybe he was keeping a sex slave locked up? Kurt giggled to himself at the thought of being kept as David "Daiquiri" Karofsky's personal sex toy.
David gave Kurt a bemused, questioning look that prompted Kurt to redden. "Sorry, I was just thinking to myself."
"Care to share?"
Kurt had 'known' David for about two years now. He'd always been friendlier to Kurt than the other journalists: never sarcastic, judgmental, or short tempered. Kurt decided to let him in on his thoughts. "I was just thinking of the different possibilities as to why no one's ever gotten a glimpse of your bedroom."
David shrugged. "Simple really…once you become famous, everyone seems to think they're entitled to know every single moment of your life. I take my cousin out for lunch, all of a sudden I'm all over the tabloids with the caption 'Who's Daiquiri's New Mystery Man?' or someone gets a picture of me eating a Twix and next thing you know I'm defending accusations of binge eating. Even my house is fair game…can't I at least get the sanctity of my bedroom to myself?"
"Fair enough."
"So...I take it that wasn't one of your scenarios?" Kurt blushed, ducking his eyes out of David's line of sight. "Tell me?"
"I…uh…briefly considered the likelihood of you keeping a sex slave in there."
David let out a single, short Ha! "Trust me, if my fan-mail is any indication, I have more than enough volunteers. It doesn't interest me any, though."
Kurt changed his posture, jutting his hip out slightly, subtly making himself seem smaller by lowering his shoulders and pushing forward his chest. He cocked his head to the side, exposing the pale expanses of his neck. It screamed sexual vulnerability. "No? A healthy young man with no desire to have a pliant young male writhing under his touch whenever he pleases?"
David picked up on Kurt's body language and came in close. Laying his hand heavily on Kurt's hip, he steered Kurt closer to himself so that their bodies leaned into each other, but without any contact, save for David's hand. Lowering his lips towards Kurt's neck, he breathed against Kurt's skin before moving up to whisper in Kurt's ear. "You assume too much." Kurt shuddered as the feeling of goosebumps sprang up on his arms. "I'd rather be the one under the whip, than the one holding it…"
I'll be your girl
Backstage at your show
Velvet ropes and guitars
Yeah, 'cause you're my rockstar
In between the sets
Eyeliner and cigarettes
David was an insufferable flirt. Every journalist knew it. This wasn't the first time he had intentionally turned Kurt on, only to abruptly move away and change topics. Kurt had seen David do it with other journalists, as well. Male and female. He was a cock-tease. There was no other word for it.
He seemed to have been more into with Kurt than he had with other guys, though.
Now they sat in the breakfast nook in David's kitchen talking about David's pending sponsorship agreement with Quaker Oats (certainly a bit different than what the rumors had led Kurt to believe). It was only the teensiest bit annoying that David would never let his flirting with Kurt extend past flirting. It was painfully obvious that, while David might flirt with most journalists – most guys, in fact – he had true feelings for Kurt. Didn't Pop Fancy always get the best interviews and pictures of Daiquiri, thanks to Kurt? Wasn't Kurt the one David ended up talking to after interviews? Wasn't Kurt the one he always smiled and waved at when he was getting swarmed by interviewers? Wasn't Kurt the one he had specifically requested come to his house for this interview?
It was propriety. That was the only reason Kurt could give himself for why David refused to openly acknowledge his feelings for Kurt. A world-famous musician dating a journalist? It didn't happen. Kurt would probably lose his job if they started dating.
That was it! David was protecting him!
How sweet could he possibly be? He knew how much Kurt loved his job so he put aside his own feelings, his own happiness so that Kurt could do the thing he loved.
They weren't even dating and David was already being the perfect boyfriend.
Shadow is burnt
Yellow dance and we turn
My lashes are dry
Purple teardrops I cry, it don't have a price
Loving you is Cherry Pie
'Cause you know that baby, I
Kurt got lots of interesting information for the latest interview. He even got some nice photographs. They made nice additions to his already abundant collection. Kurt could have made a fortune selling many of the photographs he had taken over the years of Daiquiri. The hobby had started before Kurt had even joined Pop Fancy. He had photos of David at restaurants and cafes, leaving and entering various businesses and stores, golfing, jogging, playing Frisbee in the park not too far from his house. Beaches, woods, urban sprawl. The settings and activities were innumerable.
He wasn't a very difficult person to find. Kurt wasn't a dedicated paparazzo, so he didn't have the same connections and skill as others. He always had to start fresh at David's house and just…wait. But his father owned a car garage, so Kurt usually had plenty of choice when it came to cars he could "borrow" so David's neighbors wouldn't get annoyed seeing the same blue Toyota sedan sitting outside every night.
Night. It was usually night.
David was a dedicated night-bird. It made it a great deal easier to deal with concerts and the obligatory celebrity partying. The only time it wasn't night was when the activities were those best suited for the day. Jogging was easily done at night. As was skinny dipping at the beach a half-mile from David's house (those photographs had a place of honor directly over Kurt's bed). Other activities weren't so accommodating to David's lifestyle. Golfing for one wasn't often seen as a night sport. Though that picture of David in his khakis and aquamarine polo at the TPC Scottsdale was still rather adorable.
I'm your biggest fan
I'll follow you until you love me
Papa-Paparazzi
Baby, there's no other superstar
You know that I'll be
Your Papa-Paparazzi
David had been entirely too trusting with Kurt when he had been in his house. David had excused himself to the bathroom at one point leaving his phone perfectly visible. Kurt picked it up on a whim, not expecting it to be unprotected, but – lo and behold – there was no password. Kurt wanted to explore the phone, but not knowing how long David would be gone, or whether or not the housekeeper would come in, Kurt went straight to David's calendar. There were only a few events listed and none of those work-related. After dedicating a few outings to memory, Kurt closed the calendar app, and placed the phone back exactly where he had found it.
That's how, three weeks later, Kurt found himself at a club he normally wouldn't be caught dead in. It wasn't a gay bar, which was its first strike, in Kurt's opinion. It charged a forty-dollar cover: strike two. And it catered to college-aged, bleach-blonde bimbos. Strike three. His high-school friend, Brittany, looked like a nuclear physicist compared to some of these tittering fools.
Kurt got to the bar around eight o'clock and enjoyed the amateur band as well as he could. He used to enjoy indy bands, but once he became a music journalist, his tastes had become a bit too refined for anything not polished to perfection. David came in around nine-thirty, his arm around the waist of a pretty young brunette thing. David was dressed incognito – boot-cut jeans, a button-down cotton shirt and a baseball cap with a scarlet 'B' embroidered on it. He also wore contacts, turning his beautiful hazel eyes a bluish-greyish color and had let his facial hair grow out into a goatee. Kurt had never seen David unshaven. He looked good – in a rugged, feral kinda way.
Kurt feigned not seeing him, but watched him out of the corner of his eye. After fifteen minutes of so, David took the girl's hand and tried tugging her away from the stage and over to the bar. Kurt waited until David was passing right behind him to turn, bumping into David, being certain to tilt his drink towards himself, to avoid wetting David.
"Oh, dammit." Kurt used his free hand to wipe some of the excess moisture from his shirt.
He was dressed the same way he had in high school: daring and flamboyant. His work had no formal dress code, but his boss had strongly 'suggested' Kurt tone down his outfits when he first started interning. Since then, Kurt's style had been forced into an early grave.
He had been all too happy to resurrect it for this evening. He had a forest green turtle neck on, a crocheted vest over that. He wore skinny jeans in a vibrant shade of plum purple, tucked into knee length black boots. As Kurt pretended to be fussing over his clothes, David's hand pressed against Kurt's chest, trying to sop up the moisture with a fist of napkins. "I'm so sorry."
"That's o-…David?" False surprise…
"Hey, Fancy…I mean, Kurt."
Brown eyes – the girl hanging from David's arm – looked between the two of them. "You know each other?"
"Yeah, he's one of my writers. He's the one that does all those articles talking about my biceps."
Kurt's eyes went wide and he chewed on his bottom lip. He loved David's arms, but he hadn't really written about them that much, had he? "Pop Fancy? Mom doesn't like me reading that magazine. She says it's bad enough when girls drool over you, but she says a guy turning you into a sexual commodity is a crime against nature."
"Tell mom to bite me."
Promise I'll be kind
But I won't stop until that boy is mine
Baby, you'll be famous
Chase you down until you love me
Papa-Paparazzi
"David says you're one of the least contemptible."
Kurt placed his Shirley Temple down and smirked at Robin. "That's…good?"
"A lot of them – journalists – apparently don't know boundaries." Robin was David's sister, younger than David by three years. She was here visiting and was apparently a fan of the headlining band tonight, so David had surprised her by bringing her to the club to see them. David was being the dutiful big brother and running for drinks and food for the three of them every so often.
Robin was the one that invited Kurt to join her and her brother. She wasn't too great at censoring herself when it came to discussing David's childhood. If Kurt were of the right mind, he would be able to write some rather amusing articles for the next few weeks.
David rejoined them with an order of boneless garlic parmesan wings and three drinks. Another Shirley Temple for Kurt, a "Mounds Bar" for Robin (one part Lady Godiva chocolate liquor, one part Malibu, on the rocks, in a rock glass) and something pink and slushy-looking for David. "What's that?" Robin pointed her straw at David's drink.
"Virgin strawberry daiquiri."
"Ah, just like you."
Kurt snorted into his straw, sending up little bubbles throughout his glass. Kurt felt David's hand slide behind him and settle in the small of his back. "Just because I don't 'date' doesn't mean I haven't had sex. Just ask Kurt."
Kurt's eyes widened in shock. Robin, obviously picking up on Kurt's discomfort, rolled her eyes. "Stop lying. Mom'll be pleased to know you haven't acted on your 'sinful desires'. You should date though. No one needs to know."
"We aren't kids anymore, Robby. This isn't just you covering for me when mom finds my porn collection. If I date, it'll be two hours before it's all over the newsstands and Internet. I don't think Mom'll be too happy standing in line at Walmart to see a picture of me snogging with Rufus Wainwright."
"God, I don't want to see that. He's what, fifty?"
"He's thirty-nine." Kurt, of course, knew the most intimate details of most major recording artists, not just for work, but because he genuinely found it interesting.
"Doesn't matter; as long as the general public thinks my personal business is their own personal entertainment, I'm not dating anyone."
Real good, we dance in the studio
Snap-snap, to that shit on the radio
Don't stop for anyone
We're plastic, but we still have fun
He was the son of a mechanic. Kurt had never shied away from physical labor, but it was more difficult doing this than he had expected. Even more difficult given that he had to do it unnoticed. A few supplies from this Lowes, and few more supplies from that Home Depot, a bit more from that Ace Hardware. He had to demolish and re-pour concrete, installing steel bars in the process; tint the windows; install some new plumbing; install better lighting. Having an attached garage made it easier to conceal his activities, but it was still a constant fear that someone would see and question what he was doing.
It would be ok, though. Everything would work out just right. He was doing this for him and David.
I'm your biggest fan
I'll follow you until you love me
Papa-Paparazzi
Baby, there's no other superstar
You know that I'll be
Your Papa-Paparazzi
Kurt took the soup from the stove and put some into a large bowl with crackers on the side. David liked crackers with his soup. Not oysterettes, as Kurt had expected, but saltines. A glass of milk would suit to complete the meal. David was very simple. He was a big boy and ate a lot, but he was never very picky and didn't require course after course of different foods.
He placed the tray beside the basement door while he worked the special lock. The lock was a special keypad hidden behind a photograph next to the door. It wouldn't do well for someone to visit and see a complicated electronic lock next to the basement door. It would raise too many questions. He picked the tray back up as he swung the door open.
Once the soundproof seal on the room was broken by the open door, Kurt could hear the bridge of one of his favorite songs. He started humming along to David's warm tenor. As he descended the steps, he spotted David in his chair, on his side on the floor. "What are you doing down there?"
"Wasn't very comfortable sleeping sitting up."
He must have been tired if his voice were any indication. Kurt placed the food aside, and leaned down to pull David and the chair back upright. It was rather heavy, but not beyond Kurt's strength. Once the chair was right side up, Kurt went about checking on David's straps. A pant leg had risen up over the strap around his ankles, so Kurt set about readjusting it. Going around to the back of the chair, where David's hands were lashed behind himself, Kurt checked David's wrist straps and noticed the chaffing had gone down a bit. "I brought you food; that squash soup you liked so much."
"That's great…uh, could you maybe…maybe undo my hands so I can feed myself? I promise I won't hit you, again."
Kurt leaned down and kissed David on the lips. David had stopped turning his head when Kurt did this. It was a good sign. David just didn't understand yet that Kurt was doing all of this for him.
For them.
"I'm sure you wouldn't, but I like feeding you." Kurt sat in David lap and lifted the bowl into his own lap. He began spoon-feeding David, while humming along to the current song playing. David had been quite a productive artist during the five years since his first album debuted; the size of the playlist meant songs tended to repeat only three times a day.
"So…how long am I staying here? You know if you let me go I'll be able to take you out on proper dates: to the movies, out for dinner, on vacation. Whatever you want. You just gotta…let me go."
Kurt appeared like he was considering that for a moment. "Nah, I don't think so. I don't like the idea of other guys getting to ogle you. Only I can have you."
"But I won't be Daiquiri anymore. I won't be able to make any music anymore if I stay down here." Kurt waited until David stopped talking before shoveling a spoonful of soup into his mouth.
"That doesn't matter to me David. You'll always be Daiquiri to me. Now you're just my Daiquiri."
Promise I'll be kind
But I won't stop until that boy is mine
Baby, you'll be famous
Chase you down until you love me
Papa-Paparazzi
"You're in the news."
"Am I now?" David put his pencil down and turned around on the piano stool. Kurt had moved his own piano into the basement for David and David had continued his music writing. He always got shy about it when Kurt came into the basement and would usually hide what he was working on.
Kurt handed over the newspaper. While David read the article about himself, Kurt massaged David's neck around the metal collar he wore. The collar was just an insurance investment for Kurt at this point. David would never try to escape – again – he knew better, now. But just in case he had a moment where he wasn't thinking clearly, the collar reminded him of his limitations. Attached to the collar was a metal chain. The chain attached to one of the metal polls Kurt installed in the floor when he repoured the concrete in the basement. David could easily get anywhere within the room, but the length of the chain prevented David from being able to so much as touch the door or windows, let alone go through them. "They've called off the search."
"Yep." Kurt wrapped his arms loosely around David's arms, balancing his chin on David's shoulder as he read the newspaper article. "Now we don't have to worry about anyone taking you away from me."
"Great." Kurt tried his best to ignore the sarcasm in David's voice.
"It's ok to be happy about this, David. It's ok, you know?"
"How is this ok? I'll never see my family again. None of my friends."
"It doesn't matter David. None of them ever loved you as much as I do. I'm your biggest fan."