A/N: Written for the tumblr anon prompt #13 - "Kiss me" and I apologize ahead of time because I am more than sure this is not what you had in mind. Warnings will be vague so as not to give away the plot too much. Title comes from the Cyndi Lauper song Time After Time.

Kurt takes a seat on his park bench, and with a deep, relaxed sigh, he becomes one with the weathered wood beneath him. He opens his journal, pulls out his pencil, and starts to sketch. Okay, it's not his bench, per se, but it's the one he sits at every day so it might as well be. Maybe he'll dictate in his will that after he dies someone needs to buy a plaque for this bench that says Kurt Hummel Sat Here…A Lot. Not that he ever has to fight for it, which always strikes him as odd because it's by far the best bench in the park. It's situated beside an ancient oak tree whose branches separate just so that it lets the rays of afternoon sun peek through while still shielding him from the bulk of their glare, keeping him comfortably cool. It's also in front of the duck pond, the perfect distance away so that overflow doesn't drench the ground beneath his feet. Various water fowl – ducks, geese, swans – walk their families past it, looking for spare crusts of bread. He forgot the stale loaf that he leaves by his front door today, like he did yesterday and the day before. It's probably molded by now. He'll toss it and wait for another one to go stale, but he hates wasting things.

It's strange how his mind has been wandering off on him lately that he can't even remember to grab a loaf of bread on his way out the door.

The temperature is warm for a start-of-spring day and Kurt invites it - he's getting sick of chilly weather - but the sun doesn't feel the way it used to. He can't explain the difference, but then who would he explain it to? He doesn't talk to his old friends anymore. No one calls. No one comes to visit. It bothered him once, but not so much now. He likes spending time alone.

Maybe it's because he's getting old, he thinks with a chuckle, but that can't be. He's only…

Kurt's head pops up from his drawing while he thinks. For some reason, he can't remember how old he is. He tries to do the math in his head, but he can't seem to remember the year. He chuckles again. It's such a weird feeling. It's not like it's waiting on the tip of his tongue to be spoken, or lingering in the back of his mind out of reach. It's gone. Completely gone.

What the hell is going on?

He shrugs it off. He's probably tired. He'll go to bed an hour earlier tonight. He looks back down at the sketch he's working on and frowns when he sees it.

Everything he's drawn looks like nonsense. He flips through the pages. Most of them are empty (this is a new book) but the used pages look the same - scribbled on, like by a three-year-old with a black crayon. Could he have grabbed the wrong book?

Maybe this is a dream, Kurt thinks with an anxious smile. That might explain the off sensation of the sun on his face. But on the bright side, if it is a dream, Kurt can conjure himself up a tall, handsome…

"Hello there."

Jackpot.

The voice comes out of nowhere, and now Kurt is almost fully convinced that he's dreaming. If it wasn't for the pain in his back, that's been developing slowly over time, twinging when he shifts to see where the voice came from, he'd be sold.

The man is backlit, a halo of sunlight surrounding his head, filtering into Kurt's vision so that Kurt can't make out the details of his face. But something in that voice sounded vaguely familiar. Kurt raises a hand to block the sun and get a better look.

"Do I know you?" Kurt asks. With his hand over his eyes he can make out better the man's sharply sculpted cheekbones, a slight slope of a nose, a brow furrowed in amusement, and moss green eyes that resemble a thought Kurt had a while ago when he…

When he what? What was he doing when he had that thought of green eyes like these? He can't recall.

"Occasionally," the man replies. He gestures to the bench. "May I sit?"

Kurt raises an eyebrow. He doesn't know why he's hesitant. Wasn't he thinking a second ago about a tall, handsome man? This man definitely fits that bill, and then some. But he smiles with a secret hiding on his lips and in his eyes. And those eyes, the way they look at him, like they know him, like they've seen him before, and not sitting on a bench in Central Park in the sun.

It's not the fact that this man is a stranger that bothers Kurt. It's the fact that he feels this man knows him, but like his age, why he feels that way keeps ducking out of his reach.

"Be my guest," Kurt says, deciding to return to his journal. They're in a huge park, in a city filled with people. There is no way this guy is here for him.

"That's a wonderful design for a jacket you're working on there," the man says, glancing over at the journal open in Kurt's lap.

Kurt opens his mouth, ready to set the man straight, that this isn't his book, and this mess on the page isn't his sketch of a jacket, but Kurt looks down at the page and he sees it. It is a jacket. Had it always been? That's what he was working on, but it was indecipherable chicken scratch before. Wasn't it?

"Is there something wrong?" the man asks, his brow pulling in the middle as he stares into Kurt's face.

"Uh, no," Kurt says quickly. "No, there's nothing wrong…I…" Kurt closes the journal and looks at the cover – brown leather, creased on the spine and worn where the oils from his hand have eaten into the material over time. "I thought I had grabbed the wrong book."

"So, that's not your sketch of a jacket?" the man asks, but Kurt knows by his tone that he's teasing.

Being teased by this man warms Kurt's whole body more than the failed sun.

"Yes, it is," Kurt says with a roll of his eyes. "It absolutely is. Thank you for the compliment, by the way."

"No problem," the man says. He reaches out for Kurt's knee, to pat it, but stops with his hand hovering in the air, then brings it back to his side.

"You know, it's been kind of a weird day," Kurt admits, looking at the hand that's no longer anywhere near his knee. "I've been forgetting a lot of things this morning."

"Oh?" When the man says it, he sounds disappointed.

"Yeah," Kurt laughs. "For a while, I thought I might be dreaming."

The man's green eyes – beautiful, expressive green eyes, clear and deep, surreal – seem filled with worry, but he smiles softly and says, "You know, there's a way we can check if you're dreaming or not."

Kurt tilts his head.

"How?" he asks.

The man leans in and Kurt mirrors the move, drawing closer, ready to hear the secret.

"Kiss me," the man whispers, and the words – those two little words – take Kurt's breath, and the next one, and Kurt's pretty sure three or four after that.

Time slows as Kurt decides what to do. He can't just kiss this guy. He's only known him about five minutes. But it's so nice to be flirted with. And there's such an allure to him, like he was made to match Kurt's specifications. Kurt doesn't exactly feel like he's meeting him. He feels like he's finding him. But how can he if they've never met?

Kurt is still not ruling out dreaming, or maybe a hallucination, but that doesn't mean he's easy.

"Find me here tomorrow," Kurt whispers back, letting his eyes drift down to the man's lips - a minor indulgence, "and we'll see."

The man licks his lower lip and Kurt bites his.

He may have whimpered as well. Kurt imagines those lips on his and his reaction to that is embarrassingly swift.

The man smiles.

"Then it's a date," he says, this time patting Kurt's knee lightly with a touch that sends shivers throughout Kurt's entire body, up so far as his brain, firing off with a hundred feelings, sounds, and images all at once, none that he can catch but all which feel important. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Kurt doesn't watch the man leave. That's not how he wants to remember him – walking away. He returns to his sketch, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought, and making a few alterations – mainly to the model wearing the jacket. It's not a perfect rendering of this gorgeous man by any means, but with the way Kurt's memory keeps slipping through cracks and holes, he doesn't want to forget him. No, it's not a perfect picture of the man at all, but he can always improve on it tomorrow.

Sebastian stands from the edge of the bed, and with a long, last, wistful look back, walks out of the room. He closes the heavy door carefully behind him, not wanting the sound of the lock clicking to disturb Kurt in any way. Kurt is smiling, scribbling nonsense in his journal, biting his lower lip and giggling to himself. That's the way Sebastian loves to see his husband –so giddy, so hopeful.

"You know, you don't have to come tomorrow, Mr. Smythe," Dr. Stan, Kurt's neurologist, says. Sebastian huffs and gives the doctor an irritated once over. He's a stern, husky, greying man in a stiff white coat, always with a clipboard in his hands. The clipboard seems to be more of a prop since he doesn't ever refer to it or write anything on it. Sebastian knows the man's name, but he never bothers using it. In his head, he simply refers to him as Captain Fuckwad.

The doctor looks at Sebastian poignantly, waiting for him to agree, but he rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, well, you've been telling me that every day for the past year."

The neurologist sighs at Sebastian's response. It's the only one he ever gives.

"Your determination with regard to your husband's recovery is admirable, and talking to him is doing wonders in helping to improve his brain functions. I just want you to remember that his memory isn't going to come back all at once. This is a process. A little at a time."

"Your point?" Sebastian asks, grinding his teeth around the words.

"You see him for a few minutes, and then you stand outside this door and stay here for hours," the neurologist says, telling Sebastian this as if he doesn't know. "All day even."

Sebastian puts his hands on his hips and shrugs. It's a mannerism he adopted from Kurt, though Kurt looks way more intimidating when he does it than Sebastian.

"Where else would I be?" Sebastian asks. He feels like he's running around in circles. He knows that he has this same conversation to look forward to when he returns to see Kurt tomorrow. He can hardly wait.

"There must be something else you want to do with your life," the neurologist says. "You can come Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It'll be the same thing."

"Am I bothering you?" Sebastian asks, his hackles rising, jumping on the defense. "Because if I am, I can always take my husband, and the money I spend for you people to treat him, to a different facility. One that doesn't badger me when I come to visit."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smythe," the neurologist says, deeply apologetic and so sincere about it that Sebastian can't tell if the man is really sorry or if this is a good act. "Of course, you're not bothering us, and no, we don't want you to move your husband to a different facility, but not because of your money. We host one of the finest hospitals in the country for handling patients with his particular diagnosis. But as a doctor, I'm charged with making sure that the needs of the family are being met as well. Your health is a concern to us, too."

Sebastian's rage extinguishes a degree and that irritates him. He wants to be angry at this doctor. He's angry that it's been a year and Kurt still doesn't seem to be any closer to coming home than he did after the accident that zapped his long-term memory. He feels cheated out of that time that he can't ever get back.

These visits are all Sebastian has.

"He's my husband," Sebastian argues.

"But in an hour, he won't remember that you've been here."

Sebastian looks through the window at Kurt sitting on his bed, smiling as he draws in his journal. He runs his fingertips down the clear, double-paned glass, tracing around the profile of his husband's face.

"But I'll remember."