Chapter 5

You've Got Mail

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Monday, 2 December 2024

Kurt arrived home on Sunday evening the night before after his amazing and long weekend with his family, feeling not nearly ready enough to go work the next day. He was fortunate that there was only one state in between them, not making it a hardship to see them during the holidays or whenever he had time off from work. It also meant only an hour and a half of dozing between takeoff and before landing at LaGuardia Airport. He did, however, have to curse the close proximity in which Thanksgiving and Christmas took place. In just a matter of weeks, he would be returning to Ohio to spend the next winter holiday with his family, not that he dreaded the notion in the least. As much as New York would be home to him, nothing said home like being able to spend the holidays with the ones he loved.

What he was most thankful for this Thanksgiving was how none of his family members asked him any questions or offer their condolences in soft, regretful tones about his divorce, because strangely enough... He was fine. It saved him the awkwardness of pretending to accept any possible remorseful lamentations with mock gratitude. If anything, since seeing Blaine on Halloween and having that talk with him, as well as knowing that he was now in California (probably impatiently awaiting summer, the warm beaches, and sand between his toes) made the process of moving on a lot easier.

Thanksgiving dinner, though, did lead to the shocking discovery that David Karofsky was, more than likely, in New York City.

Kurt spent a better part of his day trying to keep his mind alert and focused on the task at hand. He needed to read, edit, and approve the article and spread written by one of his younger co-workers, but he caught himself multiple times as his attention started drifting away from him as he began to ponder what has become of the teen… man… who he hadn't seen in more than a decade, so much that his eyes scanned the title of the article ("What Fall Color is Right For YOU?") at least twenty times before being able to make sense of it.

Fall…

Kurt found himself leaning back in his desk chair futilely, tossing his pen down in defeat. It was hard to believe, even after twelve years, that Dave Karofsky had fallen for him. Well… Fell in love with him, apparently, but he wanted to avoid the semantics, especially when Dave had hardly known him. But that didn't make the guilt of having to reject Dave any easier to bear.

Despite the fact that Dave told him during their senior year that, as much as he wanted them to be together, he wasn't ready to come out, it was apparent that he had come a long way. Being out and dating a successful architect, that much was obvious. But it wasn't like he had expected Dave to stay in the closet his whole life, especially considering the progress he made in accepting himself and changing his ways in high school alone. And after the ugly confrontation when it came to Dave running in to one of his schoolmates, who felt the need to butt in on something that was none of his business, at Breadstix, he had to wonder what became of that situation.

As much as he had tried to tell Dave that he did like him—and how proud he was of him and how much he wanted to be his friend—he never heard from him again. In fact, after allowing some time for the air to settle between them, he tried to find him on Facebook a few weeks later after the confession, only to find that there was no Dave, or even David, Karofsky on Facebook. There was, however, a link on the top of the page asking"Did you mean Dale Krueger?" He had cursed himself, wishing that he had friended Dave after he saw him at Scandals. But he did realize that they exchanged numbers that day. Dave had mentioned "baby steps" to him in that bleak, seedy bar, and together they toasted to a future where they can both be themselves and not fear what others thought of them.

Offering to exchange numbers with Dave had been his own "baby step". It was him reaching out to provide Dave with a support system (and a much needed, albeit small, one, at that) in the off-chance that if he ever need someone to talk to - about anything - he could be the one to call.

So he attempted to call Dave to make sure everything was okay at his new school, and that the smug prick at Breadstix didn't give him any trouble that week, only to receive his voicemail. He tried again the next day as well, only to be met with the same results, and once again before graduation to see if he wanted to meet up for a coffee, only that time he found himself having to listen to the noxious recording from the phone company explain how that number was no longer in service. He was completely puzzled and at a loss as to what might have happened to him. It was like Dave had disappeared from the face of the earth leaving neither hide nor hair of himself behind.

Which brought Kurt back to where he was now, sitting in his office and eying his computer anxiously. He thought of going on to Google and typing in Dave's name or even going on to Facebook to see if he made a new account, but who was he kidding? Nobody used Facebook anymore. And what would he even accomplish from that? He couldn't even begin to think of the right words to say. He even considered typing in that Travis guy's name to see what information could come up, but that idea was quickly thwarted when his eager and over-caffeinated intern buzzed his phone, saying he had a phone call from the Paris Headquarters regarding an impending fundraiser.

When he got off from work after his very unproductive day, he stopped to retrieve his mail. After he collected his mail - all junk, he noted - he then made his way down the hall towards the elevator as he heard the lobby doors open, and he willed himself to stop thinking about Dave Karofsky, telling himself that the chance of running into Dave in the middle of New York City was as slim as the possibility of it being Dave who walked into the apartment building behind him.

o0o

Dave pulled his hoodie off of his head as he entered the apartment building, the fabric flecked with soft white flakes that would soon begin to melt and dampen the fabric. He slipped off his warm woolen gloves, stuffing them into the pocket of his jeans that didn't hold his keys, before cupping his hands and holding them to his lips to warm them with a huff of air. It felt good to get out of the apartment after being cooped up all day. A brisk walk to Central Park and back was a good hour, so he was feeling awakened. He hoped that now, after clearing his head, he would be able to brainstorm a topic that didn't have to do with football, or sports in general.

Though he went out for a walk in the cold with the hopes it would revitalize him, but little of that time was actually spent brainstorming. Since finding out that Kurt Hummel was in New York, he couldn't stop thinking about him. It also didn't help that the magazine was still just sitting there on his coffee table, taunting him.

He walked through the park wondering—hoping—that Kurt was doing well. He, of all people, would know that being successful didn't automatically mean being happy. And Kurt deserved both. He wondered if he was married (probably to that guy he saw hanging around with him in high school a numerous times) and if he had kids (maybe, he'd probably enjoy dressing them up in crazy outfits like the one's he always use to wear), among other things. He remembered how incredibly kind, gorgeous, and smart Kurt was, and realized he would have to be insane to think he was single. After all of the shit he and the other jocks did to him, he deserved, above all else, to be happy.

Dave wiped the wet soles of his shoes on the mat just inside the doors of the apartment complex so he wouldn't slip on the tile floor when he went to collect his mail, just as he heard the muted ding of the elevator down the hall.

He whistled quietly to himself as he found his mailbox from the third row from the top and the third one from the left. #703. He put his little key in the lock and turned it, pulling the box open. He figured there wouldn't be any mail for him, considering it was the beginning of the month and didn't have any bills to pay, and he was right. But there was one single envelope on the inside of the cold, metal box.

Dave lifted up the red envelope and shut the door, locking it once more. It looked like it contained some sort of greeting card for Thanksgiving, or even Christmas, and he dreaded the notion that it could be from his mom. As he made his way to the elevator that had just shut—having neglected to call out to the person to hold the door for him—he grimaced, shaking his head in annoyance as he looked down at the card, only to feel as though his heart managed to climb its way into his throat.

That… Couldn't be right... Could it?

Dave stared at the card in his hands blankly, forgetting where he was and that he needed to press the button to the elevator if he ever wanted to back up to his apartment.

But he was much too distracted by the sudden rush of blood to his head that he actually felt as though the room swayed, and he had to lean against the wall to prevent his legs from giving out from underneath him. His hands trembled and raised one of them to rub his temple in bewilderment as he wondered why there would there be a letter with Kurt Hummel's name in his mail box?

Dave inhaled deeply, closing his eyes in an attempt to make sense of the strange situation as well as to get some much needed oxygen into his lungs. Seeing his name in a random magazine had been one thing, but seeing that he received a letter from Kurt Hummel out of the blue? It was downright weird and the strangest of coincidences, considering he just found out that he was in New York.

Dave opened his eyes and he blinked, suddenly registering something he didn't notice before.

Kurt Hummel didn't send him the letter.

The letter was addressed to Kurt Hummel, and from an Anderson in Los Angeles, California.

It was like a mantra that was unremittingly repeated itself in his head. A little niggling voice repeating in his ear.

The letter was sent to Kurt Hummel.

The letter was for Kurt Hummel.

Kurt E. Hummel.

101 West End Ave

Apt. #603

New York, NY 10023

Right. Below. Him.

Dave felt the air escape his lungs as he looked up at the analog numbers slowly flashing in red above the elevator.

Surely the elevator would have been back on the ground floor by now, but what felt like minutes staring at the card, flabbergasted, was, in actuality, mere seconds.

3…

He took in a shuddering breath, the air feeling stale and useless in his lungs.

4…

He licked his lips, only for them to feel just a little bit more chapped then before.

5…

He rose his hand to his mouth to gnaw on his thumb nail, only to find that he had already chewed it down to the edge over the long weekend, contemplating the proximity between he and the boy he was once convinced he was in love with.

6…

Dave waited for the number to change, but it didn't. He was able to count to five before finally pressing the illuminated button as the numbers started going down once more.

5…

"No…" Dave breathed out. Registering the possibility of just who could have taken the elevator up to the sixth floor.

4…

"It can't be." He wanted to tell himself that in no way could it have been Kurt, but at this point, nothing seemed impossible.

3…

He leaned over, jamming his thumb upon the button once more, willing for it to hurry up, growing steadily impatient as he wondered what the hell was wrong with the other elevator and for the landlord to put an "out of service sign" on the door, at least.

2…

He shifted anxiously on the spot, tapping the card against the palm of his hand.

1…

Finally the elevator doors slowly opened. Dave exhaled like it was some sort of miracle and he pushed his way inside before they could open fully. He tapped the number six before he pounded the button that was supposed to make the doors close, but even he was naïve to think that worked in any elevator. When they eventually closed, Dave found himself looking closely at the envelope once more to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Hell, maybe he was dreaming. He imagined himself laying somewhere in the bushes in Central Park, knocked unconscious after being mugged and about to catch hypothermia. He used the hand not holding the envelope to pinch the skin through the thick fabric on his opposite arm. He did not wake, and even better than that, he could still feel the wallet in his back pocket, right where it should be.

Dave didn't bother looking at the numbers above his head. He knew that it would only make time slow down. But finally and with a great lurch, the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened.

When Dave practically stumbled out of the elevator and turned in the direction of where his apartment would be if he was on the seventh floor, he felt as though his heart successfully stopped beating, the blood freezing in his veins as he was outside in the cold once more.

He took three more steps down the quiet and nearly empty hall if it hadn't been for him and the man struggling to open the door while his hands were full of what looked like junk mail. He licked his parched lips as he stood stock still, staring at the man. How could he not? The familiar coiffed, russet brown hair. The rose-tinted, porcelain cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. The dark eyelashes fluttering around the same, though considerably matured, almond-shaped eyes.

"Kurt?" Dave rasped as he ground his back teeth together, waiting for a response. And he thought this had to be a dream. Like one of those recurring dreams he had of the small, confining room lined with clothing and hangers. He recalled the flash of the letterman jacket and the tint of the jewels from the gold crown peeking out from the box on the top shelf. It was easy to see it from where he stood on top of the chair. The sturdy, seemingly reliable wood would disappear from under his feet completely before feeling the inexorable tightness of the leather material around his throat. In that dream, he always cried out for the same person for help, but that person would never hear him. He was never present. Why would they be there in his closet, of all places, even if it was just a dream? But if this was a dream, the Kurt in front of him would successfully open the door to his apartment and go inside, leaving Dave to be consumed in the unmitigated darkness of his dream world. But that was how he knew he couldn't be dreaming now, because that moment never did come.

Present Kurt didn't turn the key. And he most definitely didn't go inside. But he did turn his head as Dave took one more tentative step closer, the envelope feeling weightless in his hand as a paralyzing chill overtook his body as the startling bright cornflower blue eyes surrounded by a darker ring of ocean blue met his, and the full, coral-pink lips parted as the two hushed and questioning syllables floated into the stillness of the air between their bodies.

"David?"