Chapter 6

Up All Night

Part I

o0o

Tuesday, 3 December 2024

3:01 AM

Kurt lay awake in bed, staring at the bright display of the digital clock on the bedside table. It illuminated the otherwise dark corner of his room, bathing it in an eerie emerald glow. The numbers mocked him with the knowledge that he would need to wake up in just three short hours. Getting any sleep that night, even before he climbed into bed at a quarter till twelve, seemed a futile effort considering the events that transpired earlier that evening.

"David?"

The name had tumbled from his mouth so effortlessly. It was as though it had prepared itself before he could realize its owner's presence—like a gun loaded, cocked, and ready to fire. Formerly latent on his tongue, his name was the bullet speeding out of the chamber. And he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it—to divert its course. Nothing could have prepared him for the lethality of his declaration and he should have known, better than anyone, how a single word could shape a person's entire life. The single 'yes' he had uttered to Blaine—as the other waited, black box in hand on bended knee—had been an excellent testament of that.

"Oh my God."

Kurt heard the residual echo of his own disbelief as he relayed his words incessantly to himself, in his mind, hours after the fact. With an irritated groan, he reached out and turned the clock away just as the one changed to atwo to make it three-oh-two.

In an effort to finally fall asleep, he flipped over on his stomach and closed his eyes as he buried his face into the pillow. This only exacerbated his insomnia as he found the meeting between him and Dave project itself on to the inside of his eyelids—like an out-of-body experience where he was able to sit in a movie theater watching his own life pan out.

The cold metal keys had slipped through his limp fingers even before he could unlock the door to his apartment. He had stared unblinkingly at Dave the same way he stared unblinkingly at his blackened ceiling, trying to make sense of his thoughts as he had at that time. And at that time he maintained the belief that he was only imagining things—that this was only a mere case of mistaken identity—but he knew his eyesight was impeccable. He had a ways to go before he would need glasses, so there was no mistaking the man in front of him than anyone other than Dave Karofsky—albeit an incredibly changed Dave Karofsky.

Kurt propped himself up on his elbow and he swiped his hand blearily over his eyes before dragging himself out of bed. His body instantly registered the cold air as it swathed his naked torso, which was no longer enticingly toasty from being bundled up under the thick comforter. He shivered, crossing his arms protectively in front of his chest as he rubbed his hands up and down the bare flesh of his arms to warm himself up.

He stumbled through the darkness, treading carefully as he made his way to the door. As he reached blindly for the doorknob, he misjudged the distance and his hand swept over the surface of his dresser. His hand grazed the brooch he wore that day (a rustic looking steampunk piece with a clock face with fixed hands and a small dolphin figure attached to it, just below a tarnished metal gear) was sent clattering to the floor from its perch.

The sound was like that of his keys jangling as they hit the floor. He had jumped just as he did right then and there with the brooch. The clicking clamor had been seemingly hyperbolized when it echoed in the empty hall.

But the hall hadn't been empty. The wide gap of cream-colored carpet, ceiling, and walls between him and Dave had been palpably filled with the years in which they had not seen the other. Their lack of communication and contact since their senior year was easily transposed into the silence permeating between them.

The air had been thick with tension and Kurt instinctively hugged the papers and envelopes in his arms to his chest. He regretted the action immediately as the last thing he wanted was for Dave to get the wrong impression—that he was uncomfortable or perhaps fearful of what he could be doing in his apartment building. He had expected to see anger flash in Dave's eyes, an accusatory reminder of his obvious disregard of his statement twelve years ago in which he said that he considered him a friend, that he wanted the two of them to be friends, but that moment never came.

At the same time, he had to scold himself. Friends don't go twelve years without talking to one another, especially when one of them was obviously struggling and needed a like-minded person in their life to turn to if things ever turned bad... Became too much to bear.

Still... There had been no display of any sort of resentment etched upon Dave's face. His expression, however, did mirror his own. They stood facing the other—stock still—in just one of the hundreds of thousands of apartments in New York City, both clearly wondering how two lives could be so indefinitely entangled, especially between two individuals whose journey of understanding, acceptance, honesty, and apology began more than a decade ago and more than five-hundred miles away from where they stood then.

"What… I don't…"

He opened the bedroom door and allowed the diffused white light of the moon, mingling with the dingy yellow glow of the street lights below, to seep into his bedroom through the window blinds, atypically pushed aside, in the living room. At least now he could see what he was doing without having to turn on the overwhelmingly bright lights of his bedroom.

He pulled open the second drawer to find something to wear as the scenes of his and Dave's encounter continued to relay itself in his mind—how his reaction had surpassed shock to the point where he could hardly form a coherent thought. And neither could Dave, apparently, as he merely took a few tentative steps toward him as though he imagined him as a mirage and anticipated that he would disappear the closer to him he became. And the closer Dave moved towards him, the better he was able to read his expressions and his body language. The way his lips parted wordlessly as diction failed him; his rich, golden-brown eyes betraying awe. It was then that he realized Dave was just as surprised as he was to have run into each other and could not have prepared himself for this chance encounter; this little happenstance after all of these years.

And the years had been kind to Dave, Kurt thought as he glanced at his own ghostly appearance in the mirror over his dresser after pulling the warm, charcoal-colored Henley over his head. He leaned in towards the mirror to comb his hair—sticking out from his head at every possible angle—into a more presentable style with his fingers before scrutinizing his dark circles under his eyes in the silvery glass.

Kurt supposed he could be grateful for all the time he spent moisturizing as a teen. While he knew aging wasn't discriminatory, he had yet to see the unwelcome arrival of crow's the workaholic that he was, he felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with his lack of sleep that night. What he needed was a day of relaxation and respite. But then again, marriage and divorce was bound to create some amount of stress upon an individual, and therefore, dark circles were practically a given.

Dave, on the other hand, seemed to have taken better care of himself than Kurt had over the years, looking both stress-and care-free. Kurt found it odd how Dave seemed to have grown at least an inch or two since he last saw him. Kurt wasn't particularly short himself at five-foot-eleven, but his growth spurt in high school seemed to have occurred in the course of one summer. His dad often joked how, in retrospect, he seemed to have grown like a weed over night. Then again, their obvious height difference might have had to do with the way Dave held himself now—taller and prouder with his broad shoulders back. He had obviously grown more comfortable and self-assured in his own skin. It was far cry from the way he remembered Dave—nearly hunched over as he shyly reached for his hand across the table at Breadstix.

Kurt had found himself staring at the pull strings dangling from Dave's sweater, which rested upon the wide expanse of his chest. He had to wonder why Dave would want to work for The New York Times when he could have played football for a living, considering his build.

He had looked… Good.

His eyes slid up Dave's body and fixated upon the tawny irises once more. Dave had raised a questioning eyebrow and Kurt's cheeks burnt with mortification as he tried to convince himself that he hadn't been ogling the other man. Before he could dwell too long upon that thought, Dave had stooped down, causing him to quickly step back, puzzled. He hadn't the slightest idea what the man was doing until Dave brought himself back up to his full height and Kurt was able to see his keys dangling from the end of Dave's curled index finger as he held them to him.

Kurt had held his hand out, palm up, his gaze unwavering and glued to Dave's face even after the keys touched down upon his hand with a gentle clink; after he closed his fingers around them, clutching them so that the smaller mailbox key dug painfully into the malleable flesh of his palm and the key to his apartment stuck out from between his index and middle finger; after he swallowed thickly before speaking with a croak.

"I was just thinking about you."

Kurt cringed at how the words sounded in his head as he picked up the crumpled pair of jeans, which he had worn to work that day, off of the floor and slipped them on. The context seemed to allude to something far less innocent than his constant mulling over his whereabouts and well-being since the Berrys mentioned his name in conversation at Thanksgiving dinner.

Despite it being exactly what he intended to say, Kurt automatically became flustered. His cheeks had seared with a torrid heat and he looked down at the floor, laughing self-deprecatingly. A large part of him wished he could hide his face, which he could only assume to be sporting a brilliant shade of maraschino-cherry-red, while the other felt strangely compelled to give this man a hug.

There was a third part of him, however. This third part that he could only assume to be his conscience, which he tried to convince himself was the most infinitesimal of the three underlying Kurts, had a strange, niggling quality similar to that of a Mrs. Hudson-Berry and it seemed very keen to point out how he could easily accomplish both of these feats if it meant hugging Dave and hiding his face in one of his brawny shoulders. Kurt pushed that thought away easily and with a rather confused grimace as to where that train of thought could have came from. Dave, on the other hand, had only cocked his head pleasantly, his eyes squinting in bemusement.

Dave really had changed.

"I'm not sure what to make of that... Kurt." Dave had said benevolently, sounding far more eloquent than what Kurt, in his disheveled state, had been capable of. He had also added his name in an afterthought, like he was testing the foreignness of it and the unfamiliar way it rolled off his tongue, But the way the corner of his mouth twitched let him know he was teasing him.

And as Kurt regarded Dave, who was apparently quite entertained by their state of affairs, he noticed how the corners of his eyes crinkled in harmony with his smirk. Kurt knew enough about dermatology (thanks to all the skin care articles he read in Vogue growing up and as an editor now) to know that wrinkles were capable of appearing in a person's twenties. Kurt didn't think Dave was one for practicing extensive skin care rituals and the three faint creases of skin, which was more than likely proof of that, provided a sense of warmth to him. And warmth wasn't something he could recall Dave exhibiting; admiration, appreciation, ardor (he thought contritely), yes. But warmth?

Dave had blinked, his thin lips widening into a playful smile and revealing just a hint of the white enamel as he waited for Kurt to explain himself, which only further brightened his eyes—accentuated the individual, traverse lines that were, nonetheless, minutiae in contrast to the aggregation of his features. Kurt had to question whether all the measures he had taken over the years to prevent any similar imperfections from appearing on his own face had been worth the effort, especially when Dave made "middle-age" look so... Becoming.

He wore it well.

"No, I mean... What I meant to say was..." Kurt had to take a steadying breath and he had glanced down at the minimal space between the tips of Dave's sneakers and his own boots. When he lifted his gaze he smiled and blinked away the guilt, the sadness, and the worry and finally said the one thing he needed to say.

"Hi, David."

Kurt sighed as he walked into the living room and picked up the pea coat strewn across the back of the couch. Considering he had forgone his usual routine altogether by not hanging up his coat in his closet or dumping his dirty clothes in the hamper, it was obvious that he wasn't thinking clearly (or at all) when he got home. He would be lying if he said that he wasn't happy about the weird coincidence that was running into Dave. But his flustered state in the hall as well as when he entered his quiet apartment—alone and trapped with his unceasing, chaotic thoughts—made it obvious that Dave had clearly messed up his routine. He had yet to even open the envelope on the table that Blaine had sent him and was taken aback by his disinterest in its contents.

"I, uh..." It had been Dave's turn to look down as he laughed softly. "I think this belongs to you. It was in my mailbox." He offered meekly as he held an envelope out to him. Kurt took it, trying not to drop the other papers in his arms that were becoming more and more rumpled and askew. Staring at it curiously, he noticed the number 603 printed in ink—his apartment number.

"Thank you…" he breathed."That's strange. The mailman must have put it in yours by... Wait…Your mailbox?" he paused, his eyes widening incredulously as he stared at the man once more."You live here?"

As he buttoned up his pea coat, he recalled how Dave had looked around in confusion. Kurt had to belittle himself for asking such a stupid question. Why else would Dave be there?

"Yeah. Almost five years, actually," Dave said simply and Kurt had to shake his head. Five years.

"Wow. That's... Incredible." Kurt weakly. And he couldn't decide whether incredible would be an over or an understatement.

"Why?" Dave questioned gently as he crossed his arms in front of him thoughtfully. "How long have you lived here?"

He looked up from where he was looking at the envelope in his hand nostalgically. It seemed unfair that he had lived in his apartment for so long without knowing that Dave had been there all along.

"Just a couple of months."

Kurt walked into the kitchen, searching for his keys when he didn't find them on the table in the foyer. He came up empty in the kitchen, but he did manage to find his cell phone on the counter, the battery almost at fifty percent having forgotten to plug it in to charge once he got home. He knew he would it if he was going to go out this late and he shoved the device into his pocket as he continued the search for his keys.

He wished he could have talked to Dave longer; however, barely after he had revealed how long they had been, unknowingly, living in the same apartment together, Dave had only been able to mimic his own astonishment by uttering a singularly impressed wow before they were interrupted.

"That really isn't that long, now that you think about it," Kurt said, waving him off, trying to sound not at all annoyed by how exorbitantly unfair their circumstances were. "It was only a matter of time that we—"

"If you want to take me for a ride..."

Kurt stopped talking abruptly when a muffled voice, or a song, rather, came to life. It came from the depths of one of Dave's pockets.

"Oh, shit," Dave huffed while patting down the pockets to his jeans. "I'm so sorry," he added apologetically as he looked up at Kurt, his face etched with embarrassment.

Kurt's astonishment morphed into amusement and he giggled, trying his best to stifle the giggle without the use of his hands.

"You know you can..."

"It's alright," Kurt said understandingly as he watched Dave with fascination—pressing his lips together in an attempt to conceal his smile—until he finally found his phone, the source of the noise, in the front pocket of his sweater and he pulled it out. When he looked at the screen, Kurt couldn't help but notice how Dave looked a little put out.

"You should probably get that," Kurt suggested over the tinny sound of the jazz ensemble and the crooning, velvety drawl of Michael Bublé erupting from the device.

"I could call him back later... If you wanted to talk?" Dave had proposed. His eyes were full of earnest, which made Kurt feel all the more guilty when he shook his head congenially.

"I'm your man..."

"No, really..." He motioned to the phone in Dave's hand. "It's fine. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other soon. I hope," he added truthfully. "And thanks for…" he trailed off, smiling shyly as he waved the red envelope.

"You're welcome, Kurt. It was good seeing you." Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt had been certain that he saw Dave's arm twitch; like he considered reaching out to touch him before thinking better of it. Kurt looked up as Dave gave him a gentle smile, but not before seeing the forlorn look cross his features. As Dave took a couple of steps backwards, a smile teasing his lips spoke up once more as Kurt made a second attempt at getting his keys into the tumbler.

"Try not to make it another couple of months, okay?" Dave joked (though Kurt could almost hear the genuine, underlying request concealed beneath his cheerful tone) before he answered his phone as he turned around, not allowing Kurt the opportunity to correct him.

Months? Try years.

"Hey, babe." Kurt was able to pick up Dave's greeting as he walked toward the elevator and he could almost feel the smile melt off his face. That was right... Dave was seeing someone. Dave. The former bully who once terrorized the occupants wandering the halls of McKinley—anyone who dared to be different, dared to stand out—was out and in a relationship with another man, meanwhile he was a twenty-nine year old divorcé and quite alone.

Kurt finally saw a glint of something underneath the coffee table and he frowned when he realized it was his keys. Had he thrown them? He knelt down and picked the keys off the floor with a huff before traipsing towards the front door to slip on the simple pair of black vans he left adjacent to it.

Kurt unlocked the door, which included the doorknob, deadbolt, and chain latch, before pulling the door open. He forgot about the lit hall on the other side and had to squint as his eyes were assaulted from the drastic change in brightness. He shut the door softly behind him, not wanting to wake his neighbors on either side. Finally he locked the deadbolt from the outside before slowly meandering down the hall, in no rush to get to the elevator. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat along with his keys. Running into Dave—the realization that they have been living in the same apartment building, unknowingly, for months after having just discovered he was in New York—had been stupefying; incredible, even. He had questions and he only wished he hadn't been so surprised earlier as to not be able to voice these unsaid questions.

How are you? What are you doing now?

Are you happy?

Kurt pressed his thumb against the down button between the two elevators and stood patiently in front of the elevator that he knew to be in service. He frowned thoughtfully, however, when he noticed a flash of white to his right as the arrow on the wall signaled that the elevator was coming down, not up. He couldn't imagine who else could be awake at this time of night.

The doors opened with a chime and he sidestepped to peek curiously into the elevator—out of order for as long as he could remember—and what he saw surprised him.

Although, by now, he knew he should have gotten used to being surprised by Dave Karofsky.