Notes: This is re-write written for the Klaine Valentine's Challenge prompt "(Everything I Do) I Do It for You". Warnings will be vague so as not to give away the plot too much.

Kurt takes a seat on his park bench, and with a deep, relaxed sigh, becomes one with the weathered wood beneath him. He opens his journal, pulls out his pencil, and starts to sketch. Okay, it's not his bench, per se, but it's the one he sits at every day, so it might as well be. Maybe he'll dictate in his will that after he dies, someone needs to buy a plaque for this bench that says Kurt Hummel Sat Here … A Lot. Not that he ever has to fight for it, which always strikes him as odd because it's by far the best bench in the park - installed beside an ancient oak tree whose branches separate just so that it lets the rays of afternoon sun peek through while still shielding him from the bulk of their glare, keeping him comfortably cool. It's also in front of the duck pond, the right distance away so that overflow doesn't drench the ground beneath his feet. Various water fowl walk their families past it in search of spare crusts of bread. He forgot the stale loaf that he leaves by his front door today, like he did yesterday, and the day before. It's probably molded by now. He'll toss it and wait for another one to go stale, but it still irks him.

He hates wasting things.

It's strange how much his mind has been wandering off on him lately that he can't even remember to grab a loaf of bread on his way out the door.

The temperature is warm for a start-of-spring day, and Kurt invites it. He's getting sick of chilly weather. But the sun doesn't feel the way it used to. He can't explain the difference, but then who would he explain it to? He doesn't talk to his old friends anymore. No one calls. No one comes to visit. It bothered him once, but not so much now. He finds he quite likes spending time alone.

Maybe it's because he's getting older, he thinks with a chuckle, but that can't be. He's only …

Kurt's head pops up from his drawing while he thinks. For some reason, he can't remember how old he is. He tries to do the math in his head, but he can't recall the year. He chuckles again. It's such a weird feeling. It's not like it's waiting on the tip of his tongue, or lingering in the back of his mind out of reach. It's gone. Completely gone.

What the hell is going on?

He shrugs it off. He's probably tired. He'll go to bed an hour earlier tonight. That should fix it.

He looks down at the sketch he's working on and frowns when he sees it. Everything he's drawn looks like nonsense. He flips through the pages. Many of them are empty, but the used pages look the same - scribbled on, like by a three-year-old with a black crayon.

Could he have grabbed the wrong book?

Maybe this is a dream, Kurt thinks anxiously. That might explain the off sensation of the sun on his face. But on the bright side, if it is a dream, Kurt can conjure himself up a handsome, dapper …

"Hello there."

Jackpot.

The voice comes out of nowhere, and now Kurt is convinced that he's dreaming. If it wasn't for the pain in his back that's been developing slowly over time, twinging when he shifts to see where the voice came from, he'd be sold.

The man is backlit, a halo of sunlight surrounding his head, filtering into Kurt's vision so that Kurt can't make out the details of his face. But something in that voice sounded vaguely familiar. Kurt raises a hand to block the sun and get a better look.

"Do I know you?" he asks. With his hand over his eyes he can make out better the man's sculpted cheekbones, a slight slope of a nose, a brow furrowed in amusement, and golden-whiskey eyes that resemble a thought Kurt had a while ago when he …

When he what? What was he doing when he had that thought of eyes like these? He hasn't a clue.

"Occasionally," the man replies. He gestures to the bench. "May I sit?"

Kurt raises an eyebrow. He doesn't know why he's hesitant. Wasn't he thinking a second ago about how wonderful it would be to meet a handsome man in his dreams? This man definitely fits that bill, and then some. But he smiles with a secret hiding on his lips. And those eyes, the way they look at him, like they know him, like they've seen him before, and not sitting on a bench in Central Park.

It's not the fact that this man is a stranger that bothers Kurt. It's the fact that he feels this man knows him. But like the conundrum of his age, why he feels that way keeps ducking out of his reach.

"Be my guest," Kurt says, deciding to return to his journal. They're in a huge park, in a city filled with people. There is no way this guy is here for him.

"That's a wonderful design for a jacket you're working on there," the man says, glancing over at the journal open in Kurt's lap.

Kurt opens his mouth, ready to set the man straight, that this isn't his book, and this mess on the page isn't his sketch of a jacket. But when Kurt looks down at the page, he sees it. It is a jacket. Had it always been? That's what he was working on, but it was indecipherable chicken scratch before.

Wasn't it?

"Is there something wrong?" the man asks, his brow pulling in the middle as he stares familiarly into Kurt's face.

"Uh, no," Kurt says quickly. "No, there's nothing wrong. I …" Kurt closes the journal and examines the cover – brown leather, creased on the spine, and worn where the oils from his hand have eaten into the material over time. He recognizes it. It's definitely his journal, and an important one, too. It was a present. Someone gave it to him. An important someone. "I thought I had grabbed the wrong book."

"So, that's not your sketch of a jacket?" the man asks, but Kurt knows by his tone that he's teasing.

Being teased by this man warms Kurt's whole body more than the sun.

"Yes, it is." Kurt hides his eyes bashfully. "It absolutely is. Thank you for the compliment, by the way."

"Not at all." The man reaches for Kurt's knee, but stops with his hand hovering in the air. A second later, he curls his fingers in and brings it back to his side.

"You know, it's been kind of a weird day," Kurt admits, looking at the hand that's no longer anywhere near his knee. "I've been forgetting a lot of things this morning."

"Oh?" It's a single, non-committal syllable, but when the man says it, he sounds disappointed.

"Yeah. For a while, I thought I might be dreaming."

The man's eyes – expressive golden eyes, clear and deep, surreal in their beauty – seem filled with worry, but he smiles softly. "You know, there's a way we can check if you're dreaming or not."

Kurt tilts his head. "How?"

The man leans in. Kurt mirrors the move, drawing closer, ready to hear the secret.

Ready to hear all this man's secrets, if he's willing to spill.

"Kiss me," the man whispers, and the words – those two little words – take Kurt's breath, the next one, and three or four after that.

Time slows as Kurt decides what he should do. He can't just kiss this guy. He's only known him about three minutes. But it feels so nice to be flirted with. Kurt can't remember the last time someone flirted with him. There's such an allure to him, like he was made to order – a perfect match to Kurt's specifications. Kurt doesn't exactly feel like he's meeting him. He feels like he's finding him; like he was meant to find him.

But how can he if they've never met?

Kurt is still not ruling out dreaming, or maybe a hallucination, but none of that means he's easy.

So he comes up with a response that will solve all of those issues at once. At least, he hopes it does. He doesn't want to frighten the man off.

But if this is just a dream, he'll be back.

"Find me here tomorrow," Kurt whispers back, letting his eyes drift down to the man's lips - a minor indulgence, "and we'll see."

The man licks his lower lip, and Kurt bites his. He may have whimpered as well. Kurt imagines those lips on his and his reaction to that is embarrassingly swift.

The man smiles. "It's a date." This time, he pats Kurt's knee, the touch sending sparks throughout Kurt's entire body, up so far as his brain, firing off with a hundred feelings, sounds, and images at once, none that he can catch but which feel important. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Kurt doesn't watch the man leave. That's not how he wants to remember him – walking away, leaving him alone. He returns to his sketch, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought and making a few alterations – mainly to the model wearing the jacket. It's not an exact rendering of this gorgeous man by any means, but with the way Kurt's memory keeps slipping through cracks and holes, he doesn't want to forget him. No, it's not exact, but he can always improve on it tomorrow.

If the man does return, maybe Kurt can use it as an excuse to get him to stay longer.

Blaine stands from the edge of the bed, and with a wistful glance back, walks out of the room. He closes the heavy door carefully behind him, not wanting the sound of the lock clicking to disturb Kurt in any way. Kurt is smiling, scribbling nonsense in his journal, biting his lower lip and giggling to himself. That's the way Blaine loves to see his husband –so giddy, so hopeful.

"You know, you don't have to come tomorrow, Mr. Anderson," Dr. Stan, Kurt's neurologist, says. Dr. Stan is a stern, husky, greying man in a stiff white coat, always with a clipboard in his hands. His clipboard seems to be more of a prop than a tool since he doesn't ever refer to it or write anything on it, not that Blaine has seen.

Blaine huffs and gives the doctor an irritated once over. He used to be polite about that remark, nod at the man's concern, but Blaine is so over that. That one sentence has become the man's catch phrase, and he wields it as if he's required by law to say it after every visit. The doctor looks at Blaine poignantly, waiting for him to agree, but Blaine shakes his head instead.

But only to keep from rolling his eyes.

"You've been telling me that every day for the past year."

Dr. Stan sighs at Blaine's response. "Your determination with regard to your husband's recovery is admirable, and talking to him is doing wonders in helping to improve his brain functions. I just want you to remember that his memory isn't going to come back all at once. This is a process. A little at a time."

"Your point?" Blaine asks, exhaustion adding an edge to his words that he'd normally edit out.

"You see him for a few minutes, and then you stand outside this door for hours," he points out as if Blaine doesn't know. "All day even."

Blaine puts his hands on his hips and shrugs. "Where else would I be?" He feels like he's running around in circles. He knows that he'll have this same conversation to look forward to when he returns to see Kurt tomorrow.

He can hardly wait.

"There must be something else you want to do with your life. You can come Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It'll be the same thing to your husband."

"Am I bothering you?" Blaine asks, jumping on the defense. He didn't used to. He used to take the time to explain, to negotiate, to make Dr. Stan understand that that's not just his husband in that room, but his entire life. If he leaves Kurt behind and doesn't return, even for a day, he runs the risk of losing that life, and he can't do that. He'll never do that. His patience in having his actions questioned has long since worn thin. Just as his husband has become a different person - a person who doesn't remember that Blaine, or a life outside of Central Park, exists - Blaine has changed, too.

He's becoming an asshole.

"Because if I am, I can always take my husband, and the money I spend for you people to treat him, to a different facility. One that doesn't badger me when I come to visit."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson," Dr. Stan says, deeply apologetic and so sincere about it that Blaine can't tell if the man is really sorry or if this is a good act. "Of course you're not bothering us. And no, we don't want you to move your husband to a different facility, but not because of your money. We host one of the finest facilities in the country for handling patients with his particular diagnosis. But as a doctor, I'm charged with making sure that the needs of the family are being met as well. Your health is a concern to us, too. Your husband needs you strong, Mr. Anderson. I don't think he'd want you putting your life on hold, especially not on his account."

Blaine's rage extinguishes a degree, and that, ironically, infuriates him. He wants to be angry at this doctor, but he's not. He's angry that it's been a year and Kurt still doesn't seem to be any closer to coming home than he did after the accident that zapped his long-term memory. He feels cheated out of that time that he can't ever get back.

And the future, from his own uneducated standpoint, looks bleak.

These visits are all Blaine has.

They might be all he ever has.

"He's my husband," Blaine argues, but the way those words get lodged in his throat, they sound more like a plea.

"But in an hour, he won't remember that you've been here. Not the way you want him to."

Blaine looks through the window at Kurt sitting on his bed, smiling as he draws in his journal. He runs his fingertips down the clear, double-paned glass, tracing around the profile of his husband's face. Physically, he hasn't changed a hair since the day they brought him in.

He's barely changed in the past twenty years they've been together.

"But I'll remember."