CHAPTER 1: Blast from the past

If you had asked a teenage Kurt Hummel what he was going to be when he grew up, a waiter at a catering company would have never made the list.

Then again, neither would most of the jobs he'd had in the last five years.

He'd learned not to expect much. It had taken some time, but now he could proudly say he was a master.

Tonight's party was another thing he didn't expect much from. It was utterly boring: just a big bunch of well-off, mostly middle-aged people celebrating a "literary success" of one of their own; a first book selling well or something. In any case, it was shaping up to be a peaceful night of walking around with drink trays, polite smiles and an internal running judgment of the guests' outfits because oh my god. All in all, nothing more than the previous four parties Kurt had worked at since he'd gotten the job two weeks ago. Boring. Uneventful.

Just what he needed.

It was living up to the promise until approximately ten p.m., when the night got immeasurably worse in a heartbeat.

Kurt was on his way to gather some empty glasses from the tables across the room when he happened to see something – or rather, someone – he thought he'd never ever see again. Someone whose sudden appearance in the middle of a perfectly normal party, in Kurt's perfectly normal life, was like a lightning strike that sent him reeling and panicked to the nearest bathroom, where he proceeded to promptly empty his stomach.

Later, when his breath slowed down and his heart stopped hammering against his ribs hard enough to bruise, Kurt slumped against the wall, waiting for his hands to feel steady again. It was a miracle that even terrified and pushed by a need to escape so intense it hurt, he'd managed to put his tray down on a nearby table and not drop it. He might still get paid for the whole evening if he got his shit together and went back out there now.

He could do that. He needed the money, so there was no room for slacking, no matter the reason. He'd just have to keep out of his way.

Matt's.

Well, not really, but that was the only name Kurt knew him by. Special Agent Matt.

The name made Kurt's throat tighten, so he swallowed thickly and splashed some cold water over his face and wrists. When he was certain he wouldn't have another breakdown, he straightened up, took a deep breath and went back into the vast ballroom. He found his tray and resumed his rounds, the obligatory smile on his face only a bit more forced than usual.

As he coursed the room for the next hour, Kurt kept well away from that particular corner. And yet, he couldn't help peering over the mass of people every now and then, to glance at the lone figure without being seen himself. The man was still sitting there alone, as dark-haired and broad-shouldered as Kurt remembered, though his hair was longer and unstyled now, falling in curls on his forehead. He didn't talk with anyone, didn't even seem interested in anything but the tumbler in his hand. Was he here on a job?

For years, Kurt had wondered how it would feel if he ever saw the agent again. Now, when the initial shock was over, he seemed to be doing okay. There was a rather complicated tangle of emotions bouncing through his chest every time he set his eyes on Matt – anger, curiosity, sadness, hurt, regret, disbelief – but it didn't choke him. It didn't make him incapable of functioning, paralyzed or even afraid.

Actually, a small but insistent part of Kurt's mind was already busy weighing possibilities and wondering if he was bold enough – or crazy, that was debatable – to just approach the guy. In spite of his rather dramatic freak out back there, it kept nagging him with words like fate and opportunity, and he couldn't bring himself to ignore it completely.

Because the truth was, he'd secretly hoped to meet this man again one day, and talk to him. He may have even tried – unsuccessfully – to arrange it once or twice, in a moment of desperation. And now here they were, in the same room for the first time since that night, and Kurt could probably find a way to talk to the agent – if he wanted it badly enough.

Did he want it? Was he ready for this?

Oh, fuck it. Yes he was. Five years was long enough to be able to face his demons at last.

Though... maybe not at work, or in a ballroom full of people. Who knew how Matt would react? No, he needed another plan.

Normally, Kurt's person to go to with a request like this would be one of the bartenders, Tasha. They weren't exactly close, but she seemed to like him well enough. But in this case Tasha couldn't do what he needed; it had to be a guy. Kurt frowned when he realized the only person here who could help him was Sebastian. Great. God, he hated that douchebag.

Oh well.

He found him at the bar, loading his tray with fresh glasses of champagne. Standing beside him and adding to his own tray as well, Kurt made sure there was no one around before he spoke.

"I need a favor."

"Nope." Sebastian didn't even look at him.

"I'll take your cleaning duty tonight."

Cleaning after the parties – late into the night after spending hours on their feet already – was the worst part of the job. Washing and packing away all the dishes, loading them into the van, dealing with the messes... No one liked that. Surprisingly, they were more efficient doing it with the smaller crew, so they took turns. Tonight was Sebastian's.

The offer finally got his attention and he turned to Kurt, calculating. "Tonight and next time."

Kurt sighed. "Fine."

"So what do you want that badly?"

"See that guy in the far corner?" Kurt kept his back to the room and didn't point. "Young, dark curly hair, dove grey suit –"

"Got him. Mm, that's a looker. What about him?"

"I need his phone number. Or an email, some kind of contact information. And he can't see me."

Sebastian looked at him with a new curiosity. "Okay, is your social awkwardness so bad you need me to pick up a guy for you? And then what? Go on a date in your name? 'Cause I could be fine with that, he is seriously hot."

Kurt rolled his eyes. Why oh why was Seb the only other gay man on the staff?

"He's... someone from my past. I need to talk to him, but I don't want to make a scene here, okay?" he hissed.

Seb's eyes were positively gleaming now. "Well well, our little angel is not so innocent after all, are you? Who is he? An ex? A one-night stand?"

Kurt winced. "Something like that. Will you do this already?"

"Fine, fine. Jeez, he sure got your panties in a twist."

Kurt gave him a little impatient push. "Go. Just don't say anything about me, at all. Try to pick him up or something."

"Oh, I'll pick him up alright. You'll get your boy's number. Just remember, two cleaning shifts."

"You've got it."

Seb was already on the move, a glass of scotch added to his tray, and Kurt's heart pounded hard and fast. Would it work?

***

Blaine never wanted to go to this stupid party. Client or not, it wasn't as if Blaine's name was even on the book cover. He was just a ghost writer, for god's sake. But his agent was adamant that since he'd been invited, he needed to be there, and finally Blaine had gotten too tired to argue and agreed to appear just to make her stop bothering him.

Which he now dearly regretted.

He knew no one here apart from Harold – the client – and the company couldn't be further from his type, all posh fifty-plus businessmen and their bored wives, old and new. Everyone kept trying to engage him in small talk, two elderly ladies – one very drunk – had already tried to get all friendly with him, and he had a new pair of shoes on, which, it turned out, only looked comfortable. So finally he'd hidden at the small table in the corner and kept ordering drinks, counting away the hours until he could leave without appearing rude. He decided midnight would be acceptable.

It still felt like an awfully long time.

His foul mood only made it worse. He'd just come back from his annual vacation – in the Caribbean this year – but for some reason, the getaway didn't have the desired effect at all. Two weeks spent away from the weight of reality, with all of his usual activities and distractions that had always worked to fix him up, and he wasn't even a bit more relaxed or rested than when he'd left New York. Clearly, he needed a change, in the way he spent his vacations if nothing else.

And now he was at this ridiculous party, edgy and uncomfortable, wasting time that could be much better spent. Like maybe finishing that autobiography he was writing for a teen starlet. Or getting royally drunk.

Speaking of... Blaine turned to look for one of the waiters who were circling the room in their white jackets, silver trays on their arms.

Yup, there came one. And he seemed to have another glass of whiskey for him already. Excellent.

***

Ten minutes later Sebastian dropped a napkin onto Kurt's tray. There was a number there, written black and bold, and the first, silly thought Kurt had when he saw it was, He has nice handwriting for someone in law enforcement.

The second was, Oh my god, this is happening.

"Well that was easy. Your ex-whatever is half gone already. Is he always such an easy drunk? He basically offered me a quickie in the bathroom. Hmm, maybe I should take him up on it. He's got such sinful lips."

Kurt felt a little sick again. He had no idea if what Sebastian said was the truth or just his usual crudeness, but it was safer not to know or he might talk himself out of doing what he'd already decided. Not to mention, he'd rather not think too much about Agent Matt's sinful lips. Or other parts of him, for that matter.

"Thanks for the number. I owe you."

He took the napkin, folded it and hid it carefully in his inside pocket. It was so light and fragile for something so important. Life-changing, maybe.

Because even with the nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach, Kurt was almost completely sure: this made sense. He needed to try. Maybe this was the change that would let him break out of the stagnant, hopeless circle his life had become in the last few years. He just wanted to live – to have all of those things that should be normal at his age, that were still so painfully abstract to him. A stable job. A boyfriend. Feeling safe.

Maybe getting this final, radical closure would help. It had to help. If it didn't, he really was out of options.

He'd call tomorrow.

***

The cheeky, attractive waiter entertained Blaine for a moment, which was nice. After he resumed his rounds, Blaine could at least fill some time lazily considering if the boy would actually call, and if he would still be hot without the whiskey goggles. Probably not, considering that Blaine got bored with imagining what they could do together after a mere ten minutes.

He sighed with relief when midnight struck and he could say goodbye to the host and go home. Finally. He was so tired from all the smiling, pretending and small talk that he only wanted to sleep. Really, writing all day didn't get him as drained as official functions where he didn't have to do anything but appear. Still, with his job, sometimes it was unavoidable.

He'd done his share for at least a month now. Time to get back to his solitary life.

The next day rose cold and bright in that beautiful combination of sunshine and fresh snow – a perfect day to shut out the world and work. Without bothering to change out of his pajama pants, Blaine closed the heavy drapes, made himself his first cup of coffee and sat down to write.

The ringing shook him out of his focus hours later, when all he had left to do was write a sufficiently cheesy ending. Blaine stretched and reached for the phone. He didn't recognize the number that flashed on the display; probably the party kid then. The idea of having some fun tonight didn't sound all that bad. He swiped his thumb across the display.

"Blaine Anderson speaking."

There was a sharp inhalation in the receiver, followed by a moment of silence, but before he could check if the connection didn't get broken, the caller spoke. The sound of his voice caused Blaine's insides to twist. It couldn't be.

It was.

"H-hi. Um, my name is Kurt Hummel. You probably don't remember me but –"

Blaine tried to swallow through the knot in his throat, and nearly choked. He could say he didn't remember. He could pretend that name was nothing more than a long forgotten blip on the radar of his memory. He could make the boy believe he didn't care, force him to leave Blaine alone.

Right. Who was he kidding?

"I remember," was all he managed, not trusting his voice beyond that. He didn't know what to say anyway. Besides, it was Kurt who called – Kurt who had his number somehow. He probably had a reason. Other than destroying Blaine's life completely, that is.

"I... I'm sorry to intrude like this, I don't mean to... um. I know it will sound crazy, but... could we meet? For coffee? Or, or drinks?" The last part was rushed, forced out in a way that betrayed Kurt's nerves.

Blaine closed his eyes. It was a terrible idea, what was the kid thinking? But somehow, in the short distance between his brain and his mouth, his firm No turned into a quiet, "Why?".

Kurt hesitated. "I just really want to talk to you. I... tried to find you, before. And when I saw you last night..."

Blaine's brain connected the dots at last. His tone was biting as he spoke. "Oh, so you sent your friend to get my number?"

"He's not my friend." Kurt sounded offended, and really, how funny was it that this was what he focused on?

"Kurt," the name felt sharp on Blaine's tongue, cutting. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"I know. But... please. I really need to talk."

Please. That word, the pleading tone of that high, soft voice, and Blaine was undone. One night – a single night and the boy had him conditioned. He couldn't say no, no matter how certain he was he'd regret it. He sighed.

"Fine. Tomorrow night?"

They agreed on a time and location, and with a quiet bye, Kurt disconnected. Blaine saved the number in his phone, his fingers trembling over each of the four letters in the boy's – no, man's now, he wasn't a kid anymore – name.

Oh, he'd regret this so much, he knew. He was already shaking, anxiety inching its way under his skin, and it would only get worse.

He closed his laptop – there would be no more writing today – and went to open the liquor cabinet. He needed distractions tonight; plenty of them. Because that phone call, that voice, the pictures that it brought back to Blaine's mind threw him right back into the darkest, most terrible night of his life.