Kurt startles awake when his phone, which he'd stuffed underneath his pillow, starts buzzing in his right ear. His eyes pop open, his mind hypersensitive to the telltale sound. His body seizes for a second, then he shoots up in bed. He fumbles the phone into the air, grabbing it before it can slip from his fingers and tumble to the ground. He looks at the screen and there it is - a message alert, maybe the one he's been waiting for, but he's too excited to open it. So he stares, locked in a comical standoff with his phone before the day has even had a chance to begin.

Kurt slept uneasily, tossing and turning when he was usually a calm sleeper, anticipation keeping him on the beveled edge as he waited for any word from Devon Anderson. Kurt read his journal from beginning to end two more times, and displayed his pictures on his desk, his dresser, his laptop, and his bedside table. Kurt reasoned that if Devon was going to be his muse, he had to let the essence of him sink into his brain. It had nothing to do with his bedroom eyes, his flirty half-smile, or the fact that he looked like a real life Prince Charming.

“Kurt! This man is old enough to be your grandfather!” common sense scolded him, but Kurt couldn't help himself from shamelessly smiling at one of the photographs and blowing it a kiss. Kurt always did have a weakness for sophisticated older men, especially actors from the Golden Age of Hollywood, which was exactly what Devon had been.

After Kurt got home from the thrift store, he went straight to his basement bedroom and started investigating his muse. He found a few random articles that mentioned Devon in three lines or less, and a link to an IMDB page with precious little more than his filmography listed. According to information Kurt pieced together between the articles and the last entries in the diary, Devon Anderson had worked his way up the ranks from background, to chorus, to one-liners, to supporting actor, and finally to screen star, until he fell off the Hollywood radar entirely for reasons unknown. Seeing as he disappeared well before the Internet, he was never really heard from again, and no one went looking for him.

Using Spokeo, PeopleFinder, and any other person locator website he could find, Kurt came up with a total of twenty-three Devon Andersons in the United States, only five of whom had ever had an address in New York, and of those, three with a birth date in 1933. Two of the three had valid email addresses. After an exhaustive search, Kurt discovered that the third Devon Anderson died a year ago.

Please, he begged to the unfeeling universe. Please don't tell me that I'm one year too late.

Kurt sent a message to the other two and hoped that he'd hear something soon, because if he didn't, he might have to go with Rachel's plan, and he really didn't want to resort to that.

The emails he sent read:

Dear Mr. Devon B. Anderson;

My name is Kurt Hummel, and I am a senior at McKinley High School in Lima, OH. I believe that I may have found your journal. I bought it at a thrift store, and I read it cover-to-cover. Your words truly inspire me, as does the story of your life. I don't want to presume, but I think that maybe you and I have a lot in common. I would like the opportunity to speak to you, in person, if possible. Along with getting the chance to place a face to the incredible things I've read, I'm hoping to use part of your story as the basis of a project I'm putting together, but I have no intention of doing anything without your express permission. Please contact me back as soon as possible.

Thank you in advance for your time.

Sincerely;

Kurt Hummel

He attached a snapshot of the journal and photographs to add provenance to his message. He also included his phone number to ensure that, no matter what, no matter where he was, he'd get the reply.

He re-read his email once to make sure it was clear, concise, and hit all the points he needed to address. He had considered adding, “Time is of the essence,” but he thought it sounded unnecessarily conceited. When he was happy with the message, he hit send. Then he sat back and waited for a reply.

Figuratively, of course. Regardless of if he didn't have permission (yet) from his chosen subject to photograph him, Kurt had work to do. He had layouts to plan. He had camera equipment to get in order. He had to make a list of potential back-up plans that had nothing to do with Rachel Berry's face. In an effort to remain optimistic, he decided to think of his scholarship as a done-deal, no matter what project he settled on. He started putting Post-It notes on his belongings, specifying which ones he intended to take, what he was going to scrap, and what he planned on putting into storage to sell when he became famous.

By midnight, he still didn't have a reply, so he got ready for bed. He showered and moisturized, taking more time than necessary. He carried his phone around with him from room to room, ready to jump on a message as soon as he got one.

And now, he has one.

He doesn't even care that it came at a smidgen past five in the morning.

His iPhone beeps a second time, alerting him again to the new message.

Kurt opens it and holds his breath.

It's from Rachel. One of her pep messages meant to launch him into action.

He knows she means well, but it's extremely irritating.

To: Kurt

Get up, get up, get up! Time to work! Time to conquer! Time to succeed!

He gets another alert, heralding another message from Rachel.

To: Kurt

You have got to discover you, what you do, and trust it.

“Oh, God,” Kurt groans, rubbing his tired eyes and retreating back under his covers, “she's started with the Streisand quotes? Now? It's too early in the…”

A third alert comes on the heels of the second. He's about to dismiss it when he realizes it's an email and not a text message.

“Great,” he mutters, flicking the message open, “she's attacking me from all sides. Probably knows that I…”

He reads the email quickly and stops his grumbling.

This one isn't from Rachel.

Dear Mr. Hummel;

I was delighted to receive your email, and even more delighted to hear that you found my old journal. I would love to discuss participating in your project. How would ASAP work for you?

Sincerely;

Devon B. Anderson

***

Kurt's Adrienne Vittadini luggage set and his Billingham Hadley camera bags travel a path that starts on his bed, makes its way down to the foyer, and finishes in the trunk of his Navigator. And while he loads his things, getting ready for a full day of driving on next to no sleep, his father watches. Kurt feels his dad's eyes follow him as he packs up his vehicle, his face showing no emotion, but his eyes disapproving and sad.

Kurt had discussed his potential plans with his father over a rushed lasagna dinner right after he sent out the emails. Friday night dinners in the Hummel household were sacred, a tradition started by Kurt's mother, and Kurt did his best to honor them…up until recently. Kurt may have taken a raincheck on a few due to Glee Club rehearsals, competitions, study groups, and the occasional school dance. But Kurt knows that his father understands. Burt Hummel realizes that his son is doing what he needs to do to take the next step in his life. He's probably proud that his son became the take charge type of guy that doesn't need constant supervision to get stuff done. Kurt has never outright said it like that, and his father hasn't either, but that's okay. It's understood between them, and that's what's important.

Kurt explained to his father about his meeting with Ms. Boarish, and how if he didn't get this opportunity, his entire project would basically be boiled down to how much he loves and supports his best friend, Rachel Barbra Berry, NYADA finalist and Broadway hopeful. His father seemed stoic about it at the time, but he is about most things, and Kurt figured it was no big deal.

When Kurt got the email from Devon earlier that morning, it also included the address of Devon's estate in Great Neck, his phone number, and driving directions on how to get there. Kurt replied that he would jump in his SUV and be on his way, and that's basically what he started doing. He was ecstatic that not only would Devon be interested in being the subject of his project, but that he seemed eager to get started right away. Kurt didn't clear the trip with his dad. He didn't feel that he had to. He's eighteen, and if he wants to take a trip to New York over spring break, he doesn't see why he shouldn't. He's been taking trips all over Ohio alone since he got his learner's permit and his father bought him his Navigator. And all those times, his father didn't give him the look of blanket disapproval that he had fixed on him now.

Kurt had figured that getting back on track to winning his scholarship was as easy as loading up his stuff and heading out. But when his father caught him packing his suitcases, he called in late for work and stood out in the driveway to watch.

It's unnerving.

It seems to Kurt that his father has something he wants to say, he just doesn't know how to say it.

Or he's waiting for Kurt to ask.

Kurt loves his father, but this steadfast, supportive man has become distant, and Kurt doesn't think it's the missed dinners that are bothering him. Burt doesn't normally hold back when it comes to things like that – things that are important, but could still be considered small in the grand scheme of things. Whatever he's keeping to himself, like the hands shoved deep inside his pockets, or the thoughts crammed beneath his frayed cap, has built up between the arguments over reheated casseroles eaten a day late. When Kurt entered the senior year home stretch, with graduation looming ahead like a red finish line pulled taut for him to cross, his father started to pull away. When he is around, he's strangely moody, almost sorrowful.

Kurt wishes for today that he could say his good-byes in a note like he planned and not have to be subjected to this. He's under enough pressure as it is with his month deadline ticking steadily down. He tries to focus on the things he's packed and the things he still needs to pack. He's got his cameras and his lenses. He packed Devon's journal, along with an old brown leather one of his own for jotting down miscellaneous notes, pertinent information, things he wants to remember, yada-yada-yada. He makes a mental note that he needs to stop by Mack Camera Store and buy three new 64GB CompactFlash cards before he reaches the highway - one for each of his cameras. He's bringing his laptop. Should he bring his photo printer? It might be a good idea. He'd better grab a ream of photo paper at Mack while he's at it. Does he have enough clothes? He's packed three of five suitcases. Shoes? Maybe he could do with another few pairs. He has to prepare for every possibility. Devon lives near the beach. Kurt should pack his swimsuit. Then again, it is only April…

Kurt starts lifting his last suitcase, one full of his sweaters and thicker cold weather clothes in case the weather changes, when a throat clearing stops him in his tracks.

“But, I don't understand why you have to go away now,” his father says, a sentence he's repeated at three different intervals so far.

“Because,” Kurt says with a huff he covers by straining to pick up his bag and maneuvering it into the vehicle, “I have to completely redo my scholarship project if I have any hope of winning.”

“There aren't things that you can photograph here in Lima?” his father asks.

“No,” Kurt answers simply. He's explained himself three times already. He's tired of explaining. He feels drained, which sucks with the drive he has ahead of him. If he leaves now, he'll be lucky if he hits Great Neck before nightfall.

“Kurt, this is your last spring break before you graduate,” his dad says. “Before you go off to college and New York. Do you really have to spend it in Great Neck?”

Kurt rolls the suitcase into the trunk, his shoulders slumping from exhaustion. He's not about to change his mind, but why does his dad have to make this harder than it needs to be?

“Dad, I told you…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you've explained it to me already. I get it.” His dad takes off his baseball cap, worn from daily wear and faded by the sun. He runs a hand over his head the way he does when he's stumped for words. He replaces the blue relic, adjusting the brim to block out the sun that's moved higher since they've been standing out in the driveway. “You know, your mom, she found lots of things to photograph right here in Lima.”

“But I'm not like mom,” Kurt says, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left. He wants to go –not to get away from his dad (well, maybe from this conversation) but because the faster he gets to New York, the faster he gets what he needs for his project and boom! - scholarship. “I can't be happy here. This isn't my future, dad. New York is. It always has been.”

“Yeah,” his dad says with a heavy nod. “Yeah, I know, I just…” Burt's eyes focus on the SUV packed with Kurt's stuff. He opens his mouth to finish his sentence, but exhales instead, whatever he was about to say blowing away with a long sigh. “Be safe, will ya? You know, pull over if you get tired, don't use your phone while you're driving, and…call me? When you get there?”

“Of course,” Kurt says, giving his dad a hug, relieved that he's finally free to go. “I will. I promise.”

“Good.” Burt claps his son on the shoulder, turns, and walks away. There's nothing left for him to say, no way that he can make his son stay.

From inside the house, Burt watches Kurt check his bags. He stops, staring at the house with thoughtful eyes. Burt's heart pauses a beat when he sees Kurt jog back into the house through the open garage, hoping his son might have changed his mind about his trip. Kurt races down the stairs to his room, but comes out again in a flash, carrying two pairs of Doc Martens in his arms and his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Kurt hurries to his Navigator, sets the shoes on the floor in the back seat, and puts the bag in the front passenger seat. He climbs behind the wheel, turns the key in the ignition, and pulls out of the driveway. Kurt waves once over his shoulder, turning his head only part of the way to make sure his dad returns it.

His dad does, but Kurt doesn't notice.

***

Kurt has driven to New York a handful of times with his father, and with his friends, their parents tagging along to chaperone. He's gone for three college tours and a slew of competitions. The first time Kurt saw the iconic lights of the city come into view, he knew that over a decade of pining for New York wasn't just a phase.

New York is where he was meant to be. That's his home.

Even if the ten hour drive to get there gives him a pain in his ass, a cramp down his spine, and a crick in his neck.

One of Kurt's favorite parts about the drive from Lima to New York is watching the scenery change, knowing that he's leaving Ohio and traveling to somewhere better, a place where he fits in by virtue of being himself, not by kicking and screaming. A back road interspersed with mom-and-pop stores morphs into a main street lined with strip malls, every block capped with a 7-11, stuck on the corner like the period at the end of a sentence, each one at odds regarding the price of gas depending on its association with a fast food franchise or its distance from the highway. A landscape dotted by used car lots and Lutheran Churches narrows into a two-lane highway, followed by hours and hours of farms, meadows, trees and green grass, till the I-80 becomes the New Jersey Turnpike, and he starts seeing civilization the way he defines it. All the musicals on his iPod cycle through before he gets there, and he sings nearly the whole way.

It's a lonely ride, but it's immensely freeing.

Kurt stops only once to grab a bite for lunch and to use the bathroom, too excited to be there already to think about meals or breaks. He has a bottle of Evian, a bag of goji berries, and granola in his messenger bag, so he sees no reason to stop for an additional sit down meal. After the despair of Friday afternoon's career counselor meeting, the excitement of this opportunity fills him with the adrenaline he needs to power through.

Kurt crosses a murky Udalls Mill Pond as the song “A Whole New World” starts to play, and it strikes him as bizarrely apropos. He's been to Manhattan, parts of the Bronx, Brooklyn, and a corner of Queens, and when he thinks of New York, those are the areas he pictures – buildings crowded together, busy streets cutting through, with cabs and clutter and commerce as far as the eye can see. But Great Neck is a different universe altogether - a slice of suburban splendor with the promise of urban diversity right at its back door.

No, not exactly. That's too simple, makes it sound more accessible to the common folk than it is.

Kurt had Googled the address where Devon lives before he headed out, had done close-ups of the neighborhood using the satellite feature, so he was prepared for the large estates on acres of rolling green grass and their magnificent views of the ocean.

He just wasn't as prepared as he thought he would be.

Who knew that crossing the span of a bridge could make the difference between comfortable and palatial? These people take lavish to the extreme. And high-maintenance – Kurt's been called that himself, but by people who obviously didn't know the meaning of the term. Kurt thought the suburbanites of Lima were obsessive about their lawns, but that's because he'd never been here. On one property he passes, a gardener is on his knees with a ruler and a pair of shears, trimming unruly fescue to a uniform length, while his companion is balanced at the top of what has to be a twenty-foot ladder, pruning the trunk of an African Elephant topiary. Kurt drives by private streets and gated properties, each home more magnificent then the last as he gets closer to the ocean. He bends at the waist to get a glimpse of the Rodin statue in front of one house, leans over the center console to examine the marble columns of another, and finds himself driving with his head craning toward the passenger-side window to get a better view, twice almost drifting off the road.

The houses here are in no way close together, but Devon's house doesn't come into view until Kurt turns on to Martin Court and drives onto a property about the size of his entire neighborhood.

No…larger. Definitely larger.

Kurt pulls to a stop at a curb that runs along a lawn the length of a football field, with a cobblestone paved path leading up to the front door. Kurt stares at the house, then checks the address on Google Maps, making absolutely sure he's in the right place.

30 Martin Court.

Yup, this is it.

“Holy…” He stops himself before the curse makes it past his lips. He's not a religious person, but he doesn't want to be sacrilegious in the presence of this cathedral.

Kurt knows he's not seeing the whole property from the street, but what he does see has him terrified to get out of his SUV. Kurt Hummel has never felt like a country bumpkin before, not even when he stood onstage at the Gershwin Theater (when he and Rachel snuck in after hours to sing – what they affectionately referred to thereafter as a ‘breaking-and-entertaining'). But in the shadow of this enormous house, Kurt feels rather small time.

Nothing like a fourteen million dollar mansion to shear down the old self-esteem.

Fourteen million dollars. Kurt saw that estimate of the estate when he was Googling the address. Here he is struggling to win a $10,000 scholarship. He can't even conceive of one million dollars, let alone fourteen. The ticket price of this house could put him through college, grad school, fund his study abroad… Heck, with fourteen million dollars, why even bother with school? He could cut out the middle man, buy his own gallery, and spend the rest of his life appealing to his vanity by showcasing only his own work.

No, he'd have to help other artists, too – the underrepresented masses struggling more than he.

He gawks in wonder, the daydream of opening a SoHo gallery tickling his head, until he notices the sun dipping below the seam of his windshield, its golden rays hitting above the level of his eyes. He sighs. He has to suck it up, leave his Navigator, and walk his ass to the front door. If he's not going to get out of his SUV, why waste the time and the gas to come all the way out here? Driving a Navigator roughly 611 miles isn't cheap.

“Come on, Kurt,” he says, brushing stray berries off his shirt and taking a peek at himself in the mirror. He has purple shadows under his eyes, and from his sticky tongue, he suspects his breath is probably awful. He can't do anything about the bags, unfortunately, as his concealer cream is lost somewhere amongst the luggage in the trunk, but his funk mouth he needs to fix. He reaches into his glove box and pulls out a Colgate Wisp. He does a quick brush over his teeth while he gives himself a pep talk. “You can do this,” Kurt mumbles around the tiny device he's using to scrub his teeth. “Devon Anderson's just a person. An extremely rich, interesting, heart throb, ex-actor person, yes, but he still puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you do.”

Kurt tosses the defiled Wisp back in his glove box. He opens his door, swings his legs over the side of his seat, and hops out, knees creaking, hips aching, struck by an untimely urge to use the restroom. But that's going to have to wait. He can hold it, but if someone could shut off the sound of the waves rushing back and forth, that would help.

Kurt strolls up the pathway to the house, shaking his sleepy right leg every three steps, trying to wrangle the feeling back into it. The sunlight touches his cheek and he peers out toward the horizon. The path to the house makes a left, bringing him to where he can see a sliver of the beach in the distance. The salty sea air blows through his hair, and he takes a deep breath to capture it as it passes by.

Yup, he could definitely get used to this.

The front door looks unusually bland for such an extravagant house – a plain, featureless slab of blonde wood, probably thicker than it appears. The outer walls of the house are entirely made of windows, tinted so passersby can't see inside, but the occupants can see clearly outside, and a thought that slipped his mind barrels back.

He wonders if someone is watching him walk up.

Thank God he didn't trip over his tingling foot, but now he might have to explain the leg wiggling.

He doesn't see a doorbell or a knocker on the smooth wood door, but there's a speaker box on the wall to his left, the same kind he's seen on walk-ups in the city. It has several Mother-of-Pearl-esque buttons, each one labeled for a different floor (five total) and one labeled simply doorbell, which he assumes can be heard throughout the whole house. He presses that one. The muted song of bells chiming echoes from floor to floor. He hears them start from above, cascading their way down, and as they fade, they're replaced by footsteps walking up to the door.

The door opens a crack, and Kurt, excited to the point of nearly exploding, instantly starts talking.

“Hello. My name is Kurt Hummel, and I'm here to see…”

Hazel eyes - stunning hazel eyes - peek around the edge of the door, followed by an eerily familiar head of dark hair, and a friendly smile. Kurt doesn't know the color of those eyes, but the cheekbones, the hair, the smile…but it can't be.

Kurt doesn't believe in ghosts, but he knows he's looking at the closest thing to an apparition that he'll ever see in his lifetime.

“Are you…Devon Anderson?” Kurt asks, taking a subconscious step back as the door opens further.

The boy opening the door - dressed in a white-and-grey striped long-sleeve cardigan and grey bowtie, looking like he stepped out of one of Devon's photographs - smiles brighter, those hazel eyes darting down bashfully. Kurt wants to lean over and catch his gaze again.

He wasn't done looking.

“Uh…no,” the boy says, “I…”

“Blaine?” a masculine voice calls from inside the house. “Who's that at the door?”

“It's Kurt, Grandpa,” Blaine calls over his shoulder. “That boy that you said was coming.”

Kurt's eyes go wide. Devon told his grandson that he was coming? Kurt can't help feeling flattered, as premature as that is. Of course, Devon would tell his grandson that he was coming. Devon wouldn't want him freaked out by the presence of a random teenager wandering around the house, carrying a camera.

“Blaine?” Kurt asks when he hears the name. “As in Devon Blaine?”

“Yeah, I'm Blaine Devon Anderson,” he says, chuckling.

“So, your parents named you after your grandfather?” Kurt crosses his arms over his chest as the breeze off the ocean blows stronger.

“Kind of. It's a family thing,” Blaine says. “If I have a son, I think they'll expect me to name him Devon Blaine and start the cycle over again. Not that I wouldn't already. I absolutely would.”

Kurt nods. “Sounds like a cool tradition.”

“Uh, Blaine? Don't you think our guest might want to come in out of the cold air?”

“Yes, of course,” Blaine says apologetically, stepping aside. The man walking up behind Blaine is a mirror image of his grandson, except his hair is a shade of grey bordering on silver, and he has more lines on his face, particularly in the corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiles.

But his hazel eyes are equally as stunning.

“I'm Devon Anderson,” he says, holding out a hand to Kurt. “Thank you for coming down here so quickly.”

“Thank you for saying I could come as soon as possible,” Kurt says, taking the man's hand and shaking it. “I really appreciate you meeting with me.”

“Well, it's not that often that I find someone so interested in my life,” Devon says, leading Kurt inside, leaving Blaine to shut the door behind them. “I'm no Cary Grant, you know.”

“I've always been more of a Rock Hudson guy myself,” Kurt says.

“Mmm, aren't we all?” Devon remarks.

Kurt follows Devon and takes a seat on one of two identical, camel-colored leather sofas. Those and two matching love seats have been positioned around a gilded iron float glass coffee table in the center of the biggest living room Kurt has ever stepped foot in. This room, with its walls of glass and wood stretching high above their heads, showing the landings of every floor, reminds Kurt of the auditorium at NYADA, which he photographed when he accompanied Rachel and her dads on a tour. With the back wall of windows looking out at the ocean, and the setting sun's light streaming in, this room would be the perfect place for an intimate concert. Kurt can picture where in this room the orchestra would sit, where the artists would perform. They wouldn't need to set up chairs for the audience. There's more than enough seating with the bar adjacent and several other armchairs/stools/high-back chairs scattered around for entertaining. Kurt glances up at the vaulted ceiling and wonders what the acoustics sound like.

Devon sits on the love seat closest to Kurt. He crosses his right ankle over his left, and regards the two boys – Kurt, sitting politely, waiting patiently, taking quick, unassuming glances around, trying not to appear vulgarly impressed, and Blaine, hovering close to Kurt, unsure of whether to sit beside him, across from him, or stay standing. Devon figures it's a difficult issue for Blaine to negotiate considering he has the biggest shine for this boy that Devon has ever seen.

Devon knows his grandson, God bless him, but even if he they were strangers, Devon knows what a crush at first sight looks like.

“Blaine, why don't you get this young man something cold to drink? Kurt must be absolutely parched after his long drive out here.”

“What would you like?” Blaine asks. “We have soda, tea, coffee, bottled water, chia - you name it, we probably have it.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says, crossing his legs so his bladder doesn't burst, “but that's really not necessary.”

“Kurt,” Devon says, leaning a bit forward and flashing that disarming smile from his photographs, “you may not have noticed, but I'm trying to get rid of my grandson. You see, I have the feeling we're not going to be able to shake him now that you're here, and I want to have a moment with you to myself.”

“Grandpa!” Blaine gasps, cheeks flushing red in a blink.

“Oh, okay,” Kurt chuckles, turning his attention to Blaine. “Um, do you have a Diet Coke?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, pulling himself back from embarrassment at the hands of his grandfather, “I think we have some lying around.” Blaine smiles and nods, but doesn't move. Kurt bites his lower lip, smiling at Blaine, blissfully unaware of his inaction. Kurt had fantasized briefly when he put Devon's pictures up around his room what it might have been like to meet him back in the 50s, when Devon would have been roughly Kurt's age.

If younger Devon was anything like Blaine, Kurt would have been enamored in an instant.

“Bla-ine,” Devon says with a lilt, “would you be so kind as to get our guest his drink? And ask Lillian to set one more place for dinner.”

Blaine looks at his grandfather, his cheeks slightly redder than before, then back at Kurt. “Will do,” he says with a wink. “I'll just be a minute.”

“Take your time,” Devon says to his grandson's back, waiting until he's seen the last of him before focusing on Kurt. “So, tell me more about this project you're doing.”