The overwhelming scent of lilac and vanilla circled Kurt's head, invading his nose and stirring him. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep, and he slowly blinked open his eyes and looked up. He was lying flat on his back. He wasn't in the closet anymore. Everything was white, bright, and open. Was that a skylight?
He sat bolt upright and frantically looked around, completely disoriented. When he realized he wasn't wearing a shirt, he panicked and covered his chest with his arms and hands. Wait a second. Was that muscle? He was too thin. His hands were too big. What was going on? He rolled off the bed and scrambled to his feet, desperately in search of his dad. He called out as he stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hall.
That's when he heard singing coming from the bathroom, an unfamiliar man's voice, and the door was cracked, allowing steam to pour out into the hall. Then the sound of running water ceased, and Kurt heard wet footsteps on the tiled floor.
He ducked down, terrified of the stranger in the strange bathroom in the apartment that -
Kurt turned around, and his eyes widened when he noticed the large window that stretched all the way across the one wall. As he stepped toward it, his mouth fell open, and he gasped. Through it, he saw a city laid out before him, the Chrysler Building and Empire State Building rising up above the rest. He was in New York City. He was in New York City?
When Kurt turned back around, he jumped nearly a foot in the air and shrieked at the man staring back at him through the decorative mirror on the wall. His heart was thumping painfully fast, and his hands flew up to touch his face, the man in the mirror doing the same, wearing the same startled expression as he was. Oh, god. Was that -? His hair, his eyes, his skin...Kurt poked, prodded, and rubbed each part of his face to make sure it was real. And then he pinched himself.
"Ow." He rubbed the sore skin, feeling his toned bicep.
Kurt stepped backwards, collapsing onto the couch, a pile of magazines immediately catching his eye. He picked one up and turned it over, and when he saw his name printed on the address label along with the apartment number, he brought his hand to his mouth. He lived here. This was his apartment.
It was real. He was older. He lived in New York City. Which could only mean...
His wish had come true.
"Hey there, angel face. You're finally awake. I was hoping you would have joined me in the -"
Kurt jumped to his feet again. "Get away from me! Stay back!" Kurt shouted at the wet, nearly naked man now standing in front of him, only a towel concealing his nether regions, and then he snapped his mouth shut, grabbing at his throat. His voice was deeper.
"Whoa there. Are you that hungover? I knew I shouldn't have let you drink that third cosmo. You're such a lightweight." He ran a hand through his damp, long, blonde hair, and Kurt's eyes drifted down to his very defined abs. After a sharp intake of breath, Kurt swallowed hard.
"I'm warning you! You need to leave before I tell -" Kurt paused, realizing his dad might not be anywhere nearby to save him. He was probably still back home in Ohio.
"Tell me what? How great last night was? How awesome the sex -"
Kurt squeaked and turned bright red.
He grinned broadly. "I can't believe you're blushing, but I guess, I mean, people do pay me to take pictures of this fa-ab-ulous body and to look at -"
"No! Don't!" Kurt said as the man began to peel back the towel. He covered his eyes.
He laughed. "Okay, I think I get it. You want to role play..."
Kurt needed to get away. He rushed toward the front door near which he spotted a shirt on a hanger fresh from the dry cleaner.
"Kurt?" the man called out.
He ripped into the plastic overwrap, quickly pulled the shirt on, and then looked down, noticing a few pairs of shoes lined up on a rack. Kurt slipped into a pair of moccasins, the footwear that looked the least complicated and least threatening, grabbed a jacket from off a hook on the door, and hurried out of the apartment. He ran blindly down the hall and got into the elevator, forcefully pressing the button for the lobby.
This was all too much to take in.
He walked quickly past the doorman and then pushed his way through the front doors, finding himself outside on a busy city avenue. The sun was glaringly bright, and Kurt squinted as his eyes adjusted. People were bustling about, cars, trucks, and cabs were zooming along the street, and foreign smells and a chaotic jumble of sounds smacked Kurt in the face like a tidal wave, almost knocking him back.
"Kurt! God, what took you so long? We're going to be late -"
He turned toward the source and was taken aback. "Lucy? Lucy Fabray? Is that you?" Kurt said, studying the features of the blonde woman standing expectantly by the curb, a town car idling by. It looked like her, but at the same time, something was very different.
"Are you on something? And, god, ew. No one has called me Lucy since junior high. You know I started going by my middle name...it's not so old-fashioned." She looked him up and down. "What on earth are you wearing? Never mind. Just get in the car so we can pick up coffee and keep our jobs at that madhouse."
"I'm not getting in the car," Kurt said. Then the naked man leaned out the window and called down to him, causing Kurt to jump. Maybe getting in the car was the lesser of two evils.
"Stop being a psycho, Kurt. Get in the damn car." She grabbed his arm, opened the door, and pushed him in and onto the seat. "Buckle up."
"Where are we going?"
"Work?" She stared at Kurt's blank face. "At Vogue dot com?"
"I work for Vogue?" Kurt said, more to himself than Lucy.
"You won't for much longer if you don't show up."
"Your middle name...?"
"Quinn, Kurt, Quinn."
"Right." Quinn. Quinn Fabray. That did have a certain ring to it.
"Whatever you're on, I might need some by the end of this day..." Quinn mumbled.
-s-
When Kurt's head finally stopped spinning from taking in his new, completely inconceivable reality, he pulled the keyboard tray out, placed his hand on the mouse, and slid it forward, jiggling it a bit. The monitor on the desk lit up, bringing him to the welcome screen:
Kurt E. Hummel
Executive Editor
Vogue*com
He had his own office with his own computer, the tower of which didn't seem to exist. There were no wires connected to anything. How did it even work? With a click, the desktop popped up, and he clicked around on some of the icons before opening up the start menu, searching for games, and clicking on solitaire. Jackpot. He and his dad had a computer at home, but Kurt wasn't really allowed on it too often or for too long because it held up the phone line. Besides, it ran insanely slow and wasn't nearly as slick or fancy as this one. This was like space-age stuff. He couldn't wait to tell Blaine.
Something started buzzing in his desk drawer, and Kurt looked down, hesitant to open it and figure out the source of the mysterious sound. Just then, a woman poked her head through the doorway of the office.
"Pardon me, Mr. Hummel, but you have a meeting in the conference room in about ten minutes."
"I do?" Kurt glanced at the time on the screen and excitement flooded through him. He was going to a meeting. It sounded so official and important, and, surely, it would be a lot of fun.
"You told me to remind you, sir."
"Oh. Yes, Yes, of course. Thank you." He tried not to laugh at how silly it sounded when she'd called him 'sir'.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked.
Kurt squinted at her name tag. "Terri." He pondered her question for a moment and then answered. "Yeah, Terri, can you find someone for me?" Kurt peeled a sticky note from the tab on the corner of his desk and scribbled down a name and phone number on the paper square before handing it over.
"'Blaine Anderson'...?" she read off slowly.
"Yes, please. I need to talk to him," Kurt said.
"No problem, Mr. Hummel. I'll have it within the hour," Terri said before ducking out of the room.
The buzzing started up again, but Kurt ignored it, deciding he'd investigate it later. He rose from his desk and rubbed his hands together. He practically skipped out of the office and headed down the hall, reading the signs on the doors and directories on the walls to locate the conference room. When he turned the corner and entered, there were already a few people seated around a long, rectangular table, and Kurt found Quinn, hurriedly taking the empty seat beside her.
"Glad you could join us today, Mr. Hummel and Ms. Fabray," a voice came from the front of the room. Kurt looked up, and his heart skipped a beat. Standing before him at the head of the room was none other than Vogue dot com's senior editor and designer extraordinaire, Isabelle Wright. "I'll assume you two were late because you were networking all night."
"Let's go with that," Quinn said nonchalantly.
Kurt was still stunned that Isabelle Wright was standing there in the flesh. And she was his boss.
"Let me cut to the chase, because I don't want to waste anyone's time. I received a call this morning, and Anna herself has threatened all our jobs because she thinks the website is 'uninspired'. There's just no fresh content. Vogue is losing its reputation to Elle," she said as if it tasted bitter on her tongue. Isabelle was momentarily distracted by Kurt who was sitting there, rotating his chair side to side and beaming stupidly at her. "Kurt."
"Yes?" He sat up straight.
"Are you trying to make a statement? Is this," she pointed to his clothing, "a new trend I haven't heard of yet? It's a little bold even for you. Do share."
He looked down at his outfit: a black and white houndstooth-patterned button-up dress shirt underneath a gray camo jacket and plaid pajama pants with his moccasined feet poking out the bottom. He looked back up and bit his bottom lip, suddenly feeling self-conscious. This fashion faux-pas was a nightmare he wanted to wake up from. He felt his face growing hot.
"No, wait. I see it now, Kurt. It's very Mondo Guerra. Yes, multiple patterns in a strangely unexpected and seemingly unflattering way but somehow it still - works. Very good."
He took a deep breath and looked over at Quinn who rolled her eyes at him. He may have just dodged a bullet.
"And speaking of what works, our party tonight is now even more important. I can't express how crucial it is that we make a statement that says 'Vogue is still the top fashion magazine. We're still hot, trendy, and will not go down without spilling the blood of our enemies'," Isabelle said, pounding a fist against her palm.
Kurt stared wide-eyed at her and then slowly scanned the faces of the others seated around the table. None of them looked nearly as terrified as he felt.
When the meeting concluded, Kurt was on his way back to his office but was stopped by Terri.
"I have what you asked me for," Terri said.
It took a minute for Kurt to realize what she was talking about, but then he smiled and took the paper from her. "Thank you!"
"The number you gave me was his parents' house, but I did a quick background check - and trolled social media - and found out where he is now. He's a self-proclaimed musician, one of those starving artist types, but he must be doing something right, because he lives in Greenwich Village," she rambled as she explained.
Kurt stared at the paper for a while, allowing all the information to soak in. Blaine's a musician. That made sense. He's living his dream too. "Thank you." Kurt hugged the paper to his chest. "Thank you so much!" He wrapped his arms around Terri and pulled her into a hug.
"You're welcome," she said, her eyes wide in fear. When he let go, she began to back up and brush off her jacket.
Everything was unbelievably amazing so far. His life was almost perfect, and even Blaine was here in New York with him! He couldn't wait to go see him so they could talk about how bizarre but awesome everything was, how his wish had come true, and all their dreams were as well. If anyone was going to believe him about what had happened and not judge him for it or think he was absolutely batshit, it would be Blaine. He also wanted to invite him to the party Isabelle had mentioned, because what was the point of going to a party without his best friend?