A/N: This is inspired by a personal experience, and has elements of the Glee episode 'Bash' in it (just the fact that Kurt was beaten, and some non-graphic description of his injuries). Futurefic AU, angst. Warning for language, drinking, smoking, vague mention of underage drug use, and mention of sex.
Kurt climbs the steps to the stage and peers out past the bright lights as he approaches the mic. He scans the audience through a haze of questionable smelling smoke and spots him. He's always there, sitting at the bar in the back of the room, arriving right as Kurt steps on stage to perform. It's hard not to notice him in his three-piece suit and his cashmere coat. Kurt speculates that the entire ensemble costs more than the monthly rent in his shithole apartment. Besides, the club where Kurt sings, The Septic Tank, is not what most white-collar people would consider a cozy spot to duck in during Happy Hour for an evening martini. The multitude of leather clad, pierced, and highly tattooed clientele are mostly teenagers who look like they spend most of their time in the mosh pit at a Slip Knot concert; a throng of bitter, angry kids who bought fake i.d.'s the second they turned fifteen. Kurt - tequila drinking, clove smoking Kurt - with his purple dyed hair and his ripped thrift store jeans is every inch of his tattooed skin and his pierced ears one of their kind.
Despite a seven-year age difference they come to The Septic Tank in droves to hear him sing; his high, clear voice belting out darker versions of older torch songs; bluesy angst-ridden melodies about love, loss, and regret. He imagines that has to be the reason Captain CEO comes to the club since he turns away every advance from the young, scantily dressed men and women that approach him, and he drinks only club soda with lime.
The first time Kurt saw him it unnerved him a little – the intensity of his stare watching Kurt's every move, mouthing the words to the songs when he sings, not taking a sip of his drink until Kurt takes a break during his set. Every night after was more of the same but with each passing night a seed of a memory planted itself in Kurt's brain. It wasn't something obvious, not something Kurt could even recall when he tried. It was more like some faded emotion that springs to life whenever he looks into that stranger's eyes, which is why Kurt seeks him out the moment he steps onto the stage.
Kurt doesn't know exactly what will happen when this man tires of him and stops showing up. The bloom fighting to grow will most likely shrivel into nothing and Kurt hasn't decided yet how he feels about that. Kurt can't help the feeling that this man knows something that he should know, and he longs to pick his brain and find out what it is. The thought overwhelms him, entrances him until he's singing only to this man, and when his set is through he doesn't even remember what note he started on or what song he sang right before the end. He prays he didn't royally fuck up without knowing it.
Kurt bows and smiles, the audience clapping and cheering for him, genuinely clapping and cheering which always fills him with an indescribable joy, but his attention turns back to the man sipping his club soda and Kurt's eyes become hard. As much as he enjoys the fantasy of a man with expensive tastes who can have anything or anyone he wants coming around just to see him, he can't afford this kind of distraction. Sure, he's singing at a dive for less than he makes bagging groceries at the supermarket, but who knows? Someday the right person might walk through the door – the owner of a record label or a music producer looking for new, unappreciated talent. Of course they would more than likely walk into The Septic Tank because their car broke down and they were desperate to use the bathroom, but they would stay because of him. So he can't mess up again.
Kurt needs to talk to this guy and find out what it is about him that keeps him coming around.
He steps off the stage, high fiving those fans that huddle close to the edge to say hi to him and tell him how much they love his voice. He grins and nods appreciatively with one eye trained on the man in the cashmere coat finally ordering a real drink. As soon as he can break away he makes a beeline for the bar and hops onto the closest empty bar stool, staring at the man fearlessly.
The stranger smiles and pushes the shot he ordered Kurt's way.
"Nice to see you again, darling," the man mutters, his smile weak, his face etched with lines of exhaustion.
"Why do you stare at me like that when I'm on stage?" Kurt says, deciding to cut to the chase and be done with the mystery, regardless of the way his heart seems to want to go out to this man in his tired state.
The man yawns and shakes his head.
"Excuse me," the man says. "It's been a long day."
Kurt nods, surprised to find out that he actually cares that the burdens of life are affecting him.
"I stare at you because I'm in love with you," the man says in a dry, flat way that doesn't indicate insincerity, but tedium, as if he's repeated the same thing over and over and over before.
"How can you be in love with me?" Kurt scoffs. "You don't even know me."
"Yes, I do," the man says in the same dry tone.
"But I don't know you," Kurt argues.
"Yes, you do," the man says. "My name is Sebastian." He yawns again, hiding his mouth behind the back of his hand. Kurt narrows his eyelids and watches him. The name Sebastian rings a distant bell but Kurt isn't prepared to fess up to it yet.
"Outside of this club, I've never seen you before."
"Yes, you have," Sebastian says, and Kurt rolls his eyes, grunting at the monotony of his answers. Sebastian reaches into his coat and pulls out a thin envelope.
"I've never spoken to you before," Kurt insists, frowning in confusion at the envelope Sebastian tries to hand to him.
"Yes, you have." Sebastian thrusts the envelope into Kurt's hand when he doesn't take it. "The first night we met here at this bar, we talked for a few hours and then we went to your apartment."
"That's right," the bartender chimes in, passing by and grabbing a bottle of vodka. "You did."
Kurt's eyes knit together as he considers the envelope in his hands, and then his mouth drops.
"If you went to my apartment," Kurt says slowly, "did we…"
"Fuck?" Sebastian finishes, leaning closer to Kurt. "Many, many times."
Kurt shifts back on his stool, gasping in offense.
"If we…"
"Five total," Sebastian says, answering the question that hasn't even passed Kurt's lips. "A small flock of blackbirds on your left shoulder, the opening strain to Mr. Cellophane down your right side, the name Elizabeth on your inside left ankle, a pair of crossed sai swords on your inside right thigh, and a lotus flower on your ass." Sebastian leans further forward to close the gap between them again. "And I've licked every single one of them," he whispers. "You seem to favor having the swords licked the most."
Kurt sneers at Sebastian's smug, haughty expression.
"Are you always this fucking annoying?" Kurt says, sitting upright when Sebastian moves back. He picks up the shot and downs it with a single snap of his head, figuring he might need it to finish out this conversation.
"You always thought so." Sebastian watches Kurt turn the envelope over and over in his hands. Sebastian sighs and grabs it, tearing it open at one end and pulling out the letter inside, sliding it onto the bar beside Kurt's empty shot glass.
"You printed up a hundred of these letters," Sebastian explains, "and I've given you one every evening since."
"How many have you given me?" Kurt asks, staring down at the letter with a skeptical, side-long glare.
"This is number ninety-six," Sebastian says, the smirk fading away, his voice thick and heavy.
Kurt looks back up at Sebastian when hears the change; the clouded expression in Sebastian's eyes filling Kurt with guilt and an impetus to read the letter, almost like he owes the poor man for sitting through his set when he is clearly dead on his feet. Kurt picks up the letter and unfolds it, chuckling at the salutation.
Dear Me (Kurt);
Above the opening paragraph is printed a digital photograph of Kurt and Sebastian naked in bed together, wound around each other, smiling and laughing for the camera. Kurt doesn't read the letter right away, taking a moment to examine the picture in detail, noting first the small dark wood table by the bedside and the cream-colored sheets with the peony print. The picture was taken at his apartment. They're lying in Kurt's bed. Then his eyes move over the image of Sebastian, his walnut-colored hair mussed, his cheeks flushed, his muscular, tan arms holding Kurt tight against him. Kurt swallows hard trying to recall the memory of taking this picture.
He can't.
I am writing you this letter to clue you in on a couple of things. Firstly, I am you. A few months ago you saw two men beating up another man in a back alley. You stepped in and stopped the fight. The victim got away, but unfortunately you were beaten pretty badly.
Beneath these lines is a picture of Kurt's face, his eyes closed, most likely taken while he slept. Cuts and bruises littered his skin, his lip split, and a tube positioned beneath his nose to help him breath. The letter trembles slightly in Kurt's shaking hand. He looks away for a moment and notices his shot glass is now full again. He throws back the shot quickly to steady his nerves.
While you were in the hospital they discovered you had suffered some memory loss. It was oddly intermittent. Some days you would forget about being beaten up. Some days you would forget about being out of high school. Some days you forgot the names and faces of all the people who loved you. On the day you were finally released, you left the hospital alone without a word to anyone.
Kurt re-reads that last paragraph a few times, each time taking a divot out of his heart. Most mornings when he wakes up he feels so alone he wants to shatter into a million pieces. He has no home, no childhood memories, no one who loves him to call his own. He always wondered why. He had a wallet and a license and a few odd credit cards. That helped him get his start, but outside of that things got a little fuzzy; blurry images of faces and voices that drifted in and out of his mind in whispers, but nothing concrete that he could hold on to.
It sounds a little too fantastical to be true. The scope of his memory seems to cut off at the moment he leaves the bar, and picks up again when he wakes up in the morning. If Sebastian isn't lying, then they were together last night; but try as he might Kurt doesn't remember a moment of it.
Looking back up at the photo of the two of them in bed he wishes he had.
It took over a month before a friend of yours tracked you down and told Sebastian where you were, bagging groceries at the Westside Market on 7th Avenue, and every night he comes to see you sing in an attempt to help jog your memory.
That's where the letter cuts off. Kurt starts to flip to the next page, but Sebastian stops him.
"Not yet," he says.
Kurt looks at Sebastian, slightly annoyed by the sudden stop.
"Where's the rest of it?" Kurt asks.
"That's as far as you got before we went for round two," Sebastian says, pointing to the picture at the top of the page.
"Well, what would the rest of it have said?" Kurt asks, feeling the start of tears in his eyes. "If this is true, how come I've never been to your apartment? Why haven't you taken me home?"
"I have."
"Then how come I wake up every morning in my own bed alone?" Kurt's voice cracks, his fingers strangling the letter in his hand.
Sebastian's shoulders slump.
"Sometimes you remember more," Sebastian starts softly. "Some days you remember nothing. Some days I need the letters to lure you to come home with me. Sometimes I don't…" Sebastian smiles sadly. "But no matter what happens the night before, every morning you wake up a clean slate. You remember everything from the time you left the hospital, but you don't remember me. The few times you stayed with me, or I stayed with you…" Sebastian shakes his head. "It didn't end well."
Kurt stops shaking, trying to imagine how difficult this must be on Sebastian if indeed this is all true.
"So, what," Kurt forces past the sobs stuck in his throat, "we've been dating this whole time and I don't remember?"
Sebastian laughs, a stunted sound, empty and humorless.
"No," he says, reaching over and flipping to the final page of the letter. Kurt looks over the copy of another picture of the two of them. He brings it closer to his face to get a better look. Even without the purple hair the man standing beside Sebastian bears too great a resemblance to Kurt to be anyone else. Kurt examines the edge of the image but he can tell it's not photoshopped. He's usually pretty good at spotting a fake. The document underneath though…it had to be genuine. The photocopier picked up the watermark and the signature behind it is definitely his.
Sebastian catches the letter when it slips from Kurt's fingers.
"We've been married for four years, Kurt." Sebastian refolds the letter and sticks it beside another one in his pocket. "You're my husband."