It’s Handel this evening. A Kurt from several months ago would be surprised and even mildly impressed that Current Kurt could recognize the composer just from listening. But Past Kurt hasn’t spent as much time listening to these songs as Current Kurt has. The music is fainter inside his cramped office than it would be outside. He still manages to lose himself in the sensation of letting the sounds wash over him like tidal waves of pure, raw energy. His eyes, blue eyes, stare unseeing at the grainy wood of the wall opposite him as he listens. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, an errant thought pops into existence; he should at least attempt to finish his paperwork before leaving for the day. He doesn’t move and a new movement begins.

This one is livelier than the last. It opens with a flurry of higher notes trilling out a short, happy medley before dropping into something softer and more melodic. It is a song one might dance to. He thinks of spring, of family, of a time when his mother was still alive and he had yet to find out how cruel people could be. The music swells to a crescendo before backing off suddenly and he lets his eyes slide shut.

The easy slide of bow on strings gets closer and a small smile splits Kurt’s face. His eyes leisurely re-open and he turns to the room’s only window. The heavy white shades that he used to keep drawn at all hours of the day are pulled up as high as they can go. The large window doesn’t open or he would have slid that up as well. As he stares out at the street, his violinist walks into view, just a few feet away from the thin square of tinted glass that separates them.

The man wanders slowly as he plays, the smooth, polished wood of his violin resting lightly on his shoulder. There must be no one around outside to watch him; Kurt knows the man has a tendency to pace when not holding an audience captive with the emotion pouring from the instrument in his hands. The violinist stops just in front of the window, staring off in the direction of the restaurant next door, and gives Kurt a glorious side view. His dark curls are illuminated by the setting sun, giving him an almost angelic air about him. The fading light plays tricks with his face, leaving half of it in tan shadows and making his eyes sparkle when he turns a certain way. A car drives by. The music doesn’t pause.

Kurt slowly pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly at the icy hardwood floors on his bare feet. He shuffles over to the window and places a slim hand on the sun warmed glass. As he watches, the man’s mouth twists wryly and his eyebrows draw together. Kurt frowns lightly as the song slows down until it peters into silence. The violin falls from a lean shoulder and the man lets out a sigh that Kurt sees but doesn’t hear. He longs to know what the violinist is thinking, why he’s stopped.

In his mind’s eye, the violinist turns to face the window and notices Kurt watching him. His face lights up as their eyes catch and his lips form the name Kurt. This time around, English isn’t the man’s first language, so the word has a funny lilt as it leaves his lips. Kurt returns his smile as a stocky hand is placed on the window level with his own; they would be touching if not for the streaked glass that separates them.

He tells the man to wait for him. When he nods, Kurt turns back to pick up his shoes and head for the door. He’s outside in a moment, black loafers on his feet and a coat that he hadn’t grabbed wrapped around him like a blanket. Kurt sees the man approaching him from his spot outside the window. The violin is safely tucked away in its case but the music still seems to linger. Without another word, he holds out a hand and Kurt takes it, lacing their fingers together. They start to walk.

“Marco,” Kurt decides. He’s Italian, living in the United States with a temporary Visa. It’s going to expire in a few months. He needs a Green card. He moved to the U.S. because his mother had lived here as a teenager and he had grown up hearing stories about how wonderful America is.

Marco looks over at him and smiles at the name. “I need to ask you something.” His accented English is strange and beautiful to listen to; he puts emphasis on the wrong syllables and caresses each vowel with his tongue with the same love and consideration that pours from his fingers when he plays his violin. The music Kurt imagines he hears seems to get more insistent.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Kurt asks, pretending not to know what Marco’s talking about. The dimpled grin he gives in return is earnest and excited. Tugging his hand, Marco leads him to a park across the street that hadn’t existed until now. There’s a pond stretching from one end to the other and a stone bridge that connects either side. The park is breathtakingly beautiful and completely deserted. He takes him to the middle of the bridge, right against the railing, and sets the violin case on crumbling bench beside them. Kurt doesn’t ask what’s going on. He doesn’t wonder what Marco’s doing.

Taking both of Kurt’s hands in his, Marco drops to one knee, gazing up at him adoringly. Kurt takes a deep breath.

“Ti amo, cara mio,” Marco says. It’s the only Italian phrase Kurt knows. “Marry me?”

Kurt looks into Marco’s eyes and tries to ignore the way that they change color. He’s never seen the exact shade, so they can never settle on just one. Feeling Marco squeeze his hands lightly, Kurt glances down at where their fingers are intertwined. The contrast between Marco’s tan, calloused hands and his own pale skin is striking.

Their eyes meet again and this time, it feels flat. Marco’s expression is yearning and lovely and so, so fake. Kurt jerks his hands away abruptly, letting out a sharp gasp. He hates this part. He can feel the illusion slipping away and he knows from experience that trying to grasp it back into existence is like trying to keep a wave on the sand. Marco seems not to notice Kurt’s distress, smiling up at him as if he’s the most important being in the universe, and Kurt can taste the wrongness in the air like a poison. Taking a step back, Kurt finally manages to tear his eyes away from Marco’s and whirls around back inside his cramped office, his shoes on the floor next to the desk and his hand pressed up against the window.

The violinist is staring off in the direction of the restaurant, looking wistful. Kurt is staring down at him through the tinted window, his fingers curling lightly against the glass. They stand in silence.

Then the man seems to get a hold of himself. He shakes his head and puts the violin back onto his shoulder. The bow rests lightly on the highest string for a moment before he begins to play again. Handel is out; the flavor for the night is now violin remixes of classic rock songs. Turning away from the window, he walks off in the opposite direction, the smooth sounds of Queen trailing in his wake.
Letting out a quiet huff, Kurt leans forward to rest his head on the window pane. He watches the violinist walk away until he can’t see him anymore. Kurt’s cheeks are wet. He reaches up to wipe his face only to find that his hands are shaking. He needs to stop doing this. A shuddering hiccup escapes his mouth and he suddenly realizes that the strange gasping noises he hears are coming from him. Forcing himself to breathe, he turns his back to the window and slides down until he’s sitting on the floor. His legs curl up in front of him and he buries his face against his knees. Kurt tries to stay quiet and he can’t tell but he doesn’t think he’s very successful.

His body is wracked with tremors. His eyes are wide, staring unseeingly at the patch of floor in front of him.

He imagines he hears Vivaldi and his breathing stutters. As if he’s watching a movie reel playing in her mind, a pair of frighteningly familiar black shoes step onto the floor in front of him and he looks up. His violinist gives him a wink.

“Alright there, Kurt?”

“Everett,” he whispers. Everett’s from California. San Francisco. He knows how to surf and wants to try teaching Kurt one day. They’re in love.

Everett grins down at him and holds out a hand.

“Wanna go for a walk? I got something I gotta ask you.”

Kurt screws his eyes up and pretends this isn’t happening.

“Can’t,” he forces out. “You’ve already left.” Before, he would think of the man and they would go somewhere else. Fantastic, beautiful places that don’t exist outside of his mind. The man hasn’t made an appearance in his office before and Kurt doesn’t know what it means that he’s here.

Everett (the violinist he’s just the violinist his name isn’t Everett or Marco or any of the others because Kurt doesn’t know and it kills him) doesn’t say anything. Slowly, Kurt cracks his eyes open. He’s alone again.

A thin sigh escapes his lips and he hugs his knees close to his chest. Inexplicably, Kurt still misses him.

“Tomorrow,” Kurt promises himself. “I’ll go meet him tomorrow.”