Title: I Feel Warm If You Want Me To
Author: GlassParade (aka Glitterdammerung on Tumblr)
Beta: Tina (Idoltina on Tumblr)
Rating: NC-17 (that said, it’s light on porn and heavy on feels, sorry I’m not sorry)
Pairing: Sebastian Smythe and Kurt Hummel
Spoilers: None, future-fic.
Word Count: 5000+
Summary: Things are beginning to move and shift - or maybe this never really was what either of them thought it was going to be when everything started. Title from ‘Careful Where You Stand' by Coldplay.
Europe Is Our Playground ‘verse:
Paris | Prague | Copenhagen | Barcelona | Amsterdam | Gibraltar | and so we travel onward…
Message From Sebastian: So. How long until you get here? I mean, I assume you’re on your way, that you figured it out.
Message From Kurt: I’m in line to board my plane now. Please. Europe, canals instead of streets, beautiful ancient homes? Like I couldn’t have guessed that one.
Message From Sebastian: Smartass. Don’t worry. Getting here isn’t the challenge.
Message From Kurt: Do tell.
Message From Sebastian: Where’s the challenge in that?
Sebastian sleeps without dreaming, and awakens slowly, with a sigh.
They’d been tired and tense when they got back to their hotel room, and had fallen into bed without breaking the silence that had stretched between them for the last half hour.
Damn it. He’d known while he was arranging this leg of their adventure that it would inevitably lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer, questions still too confusing for him to really pick apart in his head and too terrifying to examine too closely.
Yet he’d done it anyway, drunk on the rush of excitement at the prospect of seeing Kurt again, pleased by the idea of doing something special for him after two days of being apart. A wiser man would have thought more closely on why he was so pleased, so excited. Would have paused when Vivian had asked him, shades of hope coloring her voice, if there was something the two of them wanted to tell her.
But again, too terrifying, too much, too not ready, and he’d dismissed her questions and his own with a laugh.
Message From Kurt: Damn it, Vivian won’t tell me where we’re staying.
Message From Sebastian: She’s not supposed to. I told you getting into the city wasn’t the challenge.
Message From Kurt: I would like to state for the record that I don’t like you being in cahoots with my travel agent.
Message From Sebastian: Cahoots? Who says that? And you’re just mad that she won’t let you cheat. Suck it up, it’ll be worth it.
Message From Kurt: I would love to know when you and she became BFFs.
Message From Sebastian: The Gibraltar debacle. It was so cute, have you ever heard her call anyone a ‘bastard son of a bitching sheep-fucker’?
Message From Kurt: She called you that? What’d you do?
Message From Sebastian: Hell no, she loves me. It was the airline clerk she was yelling at. That reminds me, I don’t think we’re welcome to fly Iberia anymore.
Sleep knows no tension, so Kurt has gravitated as usual towards Sebastian, wrapping himself in a curve against Sebastian’s back, arms wrapped under his and around his chest, leg hitched over to link them together. Anyone else doing this would have found themselves quickly pushed back off, but Sebastian always leans into it, timing his breathing to Kurt’s until he doesn’t know whose breath is whose.
He does this every night.
It took not being around Kurt for two days to realize that something had shifted, he thinks maybe back as early as Barcelona. Or earlier. Sebastian has to admit nothing about this has been anything he’s used to, not even in Paris. Had it been, he’d never have gone to Prague.
Sebastian is not any kind of romantic and never has been. He’s never had any need or desire to be. And he’s quite certain that, at least, hasn’t changed. There is nothing really romantic about something with its roots in mutual antipathy and a smoking hot one night stand.
But he does acknowledge that it is possibly the only appropriate beginning there could have ever been between himself and Kurt Hummel.
Message From Sebastian: You need to get here -
Picture Message From Sebastian:
Message From Kurt: That’s a church.
Message From Sebastian: Nothing gets by you, does it?
Message From Kurt: A church is not a hotel, Sebastian.
Message From Sebastian: I always knew my policy of only sleeping with smart people was the right way to go.
Message From Sebastian: Okay, okay, I’ll stop, I can just imagine your face right now and I am too young and pretty to die.
Message From Sebastian: But seriously. Get to that church.
Message From Kurt: I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT CHURCH THAT IS.
Message From Sebastian: Oh no, you’re going to have to ask directions from people you don’t know in a language you don’t speak, whatever will you do.
Message From Sebastian: No really, please don’t kill me when you find me. I swear to God or whatever that this will be worth it.
But what was Paris the beginning of? Sebastian feels like someone who didn’t realize the world was shaking beneath his feet until he’d already fallen to the ground. This wasn’t something that was supposed to happen.
Whatever this was.
His thoughts are circling endlessly, too quick to pin down. Not that he’s really making an effort to do so. His curiosity and worry aren’t strong enough yet for him to be up to focusing, though he knows he’ll have to sooner rather than later -
Keeping in line with everything else unexpected that’s been happening, the hand that suddenly encircles his cock is a surprise that sends his thoughts scattering to the winds.
The Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari is a very pretty church, not as imposing as the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona but certainly a lovely structure. Kurt is fairly certain he would appreciate it more had he not just endured multiple flights to get out of Gibraltar to Venice, then braved buses and water taxis to get here, all while hauling his bags with him.
Not for the first time, he is grateful for his hard-won ability to travel relatively lightly.
Also not for the first time, he is questioning his sanity for agreeing to keep playing this game with Sebastian. Figuring out what church this was had indeed involved talking to strangers, although thankfully they all spoke much better English than he did Italian – he was limited to being able to count to fifty and order dinner with a passable accent.
But the water taxi ride had been beautiful, he admitted, taking him past gorgeous building after incredible structure, listening to the lyrical flow of chatter between the other occupants of the boat in a rainbow of languages. It had been more restful than a cab in a more conventional city, and despite the fact that it was summer, there was a breeze in the air that cooled them all off. It had actually been an enjoyable ride.
Even the walk from the stop near the Basilica had been picturesque, but now Kurt is very tired and just wants to rest. He checks his phone.
Message From Sebastian: If you’re facing the church, turn around and cross the bridge. Turn left.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Kurt does, pausing to snap a photo when he reaches the other side.
Picture Message From Kurt:
Message From Less Cute Than He Thinks He Is: Nice, but keep going until you see this -
Picture Message From Less Cute Than He Thinks He Is:
Message From Less Cute Than He Thinks He Is: And follow the right turn.
Message From Kurt: Is the hotel in there somewhere?
Message From Less Cute Than He Thinks He Is: Just keep walking.
Message From Kurt: Seriously, you can’t just tell me?
Message From Less Cute Than He Thinks He Is: You’re almost there. So close.
There is nothing to do but to walk on. Hitching his shoulder bag up, he sighs again and keeps moving.
“You were thinking so loud it woke me up,” comes the sleepy mumble into Sebastian’s ear, followed by a tiny, slow lick at the lobe. “Want to talk about it?”
Sebastian shakes his head, breathing sharply in as the hand on his cock begins to move. “No,” he croaks out, dropping his head back against Kurt’s shoulder.
With a noise that sounds suspiciously like a purr, Kurt presses even closer, the bulk of his erect cock nudging into the cleft of Sebastian’s ass. “Good.”
Kurt trudges up the cobbled walkway, dragging his rolling case and trying to ignore how the other bag’s strap is digging into his shoulder. He is already plotting his revenge, and because he is very tired and in deep need of a long shower, most of his plans involve honey, rope, and an ant pile in the desert.
Kurt Hummel is a cranky, cranky person when he gets this tired.
The walkway abruptly terminates at a tall wall, greenery bursting in bright plumes over the top and spilling a little down the sides.
Kurt blinks owlishly at the genial-looking Italian man standing by the heavy door in the wall. “Buon pomeriggio, Signore!” The salutation is amiable, his smile friendly. “You must be Signore Hummel. Signore Smythe called to say you were near, I thought I’d come make sure you knew where to go.” He steps forward and sticks his hand out in greeting. “Mi chiamo Lorenzo, and welcome to the Oltre Il Giardino.”
“This is a hotel?” What lies beyond the door in the wall looks more like a house, a large, greyish-cream colored mansion of a house, lovely and elegant. The garden is perfectly tended and beautifully green, dotted with small white tables. “It’s beautiful.”
“Grazie.” Lorenzo continues to smile as he guides Kurt through the garden to the doorway. “It doesn’t look like a hotel, hm? It was once the home of Mahler’s widow, and now…well, it may not be the largest hotel in Venezia, but we hope you like it here all the same.”
“I think I’ll love it.” He’d love anywhere that meant an end to his wanderings, but the hotel seems perfectly designed to appeal to him no matter what his mood. Inside, it is cool and calm, decorated in tranquil colors, with an almost whimsical mix of modern and antique touches. Further, he is delighted when Lorenzo guides him to a room that is on the ground floor. “Oh, thank God, no stairs.”
“No, Signore Smythe booked this suite especially – he said you would be tired after walking. I don’t know why he had you walk at all.” The smile becomes a puzzled frown. “There’s a water taxi stop right outside.”
Kurt reminds himself that murder does no one’s thriving career any good, and also a dead lover is of no use to anyone.
“But I hope you like the room. It’s one of our popular ones,” Lorenzo continues, unlocking the door and ushering him inside. “Usually families like it and it’s booked, but you’re lucky it was available.”
“Amazing,” Kurt breathes, looking around. It’s a little gem of a suite, shades of white dotted here and there with touches of green. They’re in a sitting room with ornately carved doors that lead into a bedroom with a bed he wants to dive right into. And is that a door that leads right back out into the garden?
“Now, you go put your things down, and I’ll be right back,” comes the instruction, and by the time Kurt turns around, the man is gone, leaving him alone.
Where is Sebastian?
His hand comes up and grips at the back of Kurt’s neck when Kurt first pushes his cock carefully inside, the only sound Sebastian makes is a quiet, sharp exhalation at the sensation of unaccustomed fullness.
It’s not that Sebastian doesn’t like bottoming, he just…doesn’t do it. Not often. With most partners because it’s a power trip, the slow climb and steep satisfaction of taking them apart, of demanding they come for him. On top, he feels in charge of what happens.
With Kurt, it’s still been for the sake of watching him fall apart, but there’s an awe and a pride to it that’s never present with anyone else. Sebastian admits he’s been selfish in this, but doesn’t regret it, not at all. Not when his memory is filled with groaning kisses and the pale curve of Kurt’s throat, of hot come against his stomach and whispers of fuck, yes, fuck, coming, I’m, yes, please faster -
But there’s an intimacy now with the roles reversed, or maybe the intimacy came with the talk from earlier, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t really care, either, as Kurt presses more deeply inside, takes his time, begins to rock gently in and out. After a moment, Sebastian catches the rhythm and begins to rock with him, his hand still firm on Kurt’s neck to anchor himself.
“Here.” When Lorenzo returns, it is with an envelope and a covered bowl on a tray. “Signore Smythe asked that I bring this right to you when you arrive.”
With a frown, Kurt reaches for the envelope. “And where is my wayward traveling companion? I see his bags, but I seem to be otherwise alone.”
“He said the letter would explain.” With a sympathetic smile, Lorenzo deposits the tray on the low table near the windows. “Should you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. Enjoy your stay.” And he’s gone again, with Kurt feeling simultaneously appreciative of his surroundings and completely annoyed at being alone to enjoy them. With care, he wedges a finger under the flap of the envelope and tugs it open, extracting a single sheet of paper covered in Sebastian’s spiky handwriting.
“Dessert?” He looks up and moves over to peek under the covering of the bowl Lorenzo brought in. A gorgeous and delicious-looking tiramisu is layered temptingly in the large porcelain basin, an ornate spoon laid down on a napkin next to it, waiting to be dipped into the sweet treat. Kurt scoops out a mouthwatering bite immediately, realizing all of a sudden that he’s starving and that airline food, while better in Europe, is still not real food.
It’s not cheesecake, but it is a little taste of heaven, and it takes considerable effort for him to put the spoon down and return to the letter.
When he’s done, he sets it down, no more enlightened than when he first began to read it.
Message From Kurt: Where ARE you?
But fifteen minutes later, there’s no response, and the clock is ticking ever closer to four. There’s nothing to do but follow directions. Directions that make him feel oddly warm and fuzzy through his irritation, make him feel like someone is taking care of him for the first time in too long.
A smile drifts across his lips at the thought of it, a smile that vanishes as quickly as it tried to appear. This is a game, a lark, a fun distraction. He doesn’t need to get sucked into feeling things that won’t ever be there. Things have gotten complicated enough in his head as it is, lately.
Kurt picks up his tiramisu and resolutely stalks off to run a hot bath and relax.
Sound yes, speaking no – breaths hitching and gasping in tandem, fingers tangling and nails scratching. Delicate fiery crescents burn into Sebastian’s thigh where Kurt is gripping him, welcome little aches and pains he’ll feel for days with an indelible satisfaction.
He twists his upper body, turning to halfway face Kurt as best he can and tilting his face up. Their lips meet and fuse, tongues slipping past each other while they share hot gasping breaths, hands roaming over flushed skin, pausing here to pinch lightly, there to press firmly. Sebastian’s back arches as he breathes in deep, slings his leg over Kurt’s to pull him in even closer.
At last he has to face forward again, the slightly awkward twist beginning to make his back hurt, but he reaches his hands back to curve his long fingers around the tight backs of Kurt’s thighs, rocking his ass down to meet each thrust. Still no words form, only desperate murmurs hissing out from between his teeth while Kurt presses his lips hard to Sebastian’s shoulder, reaches his hand around to grip and stroke at Sebastian’s cock again.
As Sebastian had clearly known it would, a luxurious bath and the decadence of soaking in it while eating what is basically a liqueur and cookie custard goes a long way towards taking the edge off of Kurt’s annoyance. He is a puddle of contentment wreathed in a steamy cloud of delicious scent, surrounded by the strains of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony - he’d downloaded it to his laptop and set it playing, thinking it was only appropriate.
It is with reluctance that Kurt eventually does finish his treat and emerges from the bath, pruney but considerably relaxed. A glance at the clock surprises him – it’s already five minutes to four. And just as he’s beginning to panic about not knowing what to wear, because he doesn’t know who his visitor is, or why he’s getting a visitor in the first place, there’s a knock at the door.
Gathering up a plush robe and every ounce of dignity he can muster, Kurt cracks the door open and peers out, surprised to see a young woman standing there, with bright brown eyes and a thick dark braid slung over her shoulder. Her face brightens into a smile when she sees him. “Buon giorno,” she greets him, holding up a tiny blue business card with the simple legend: Giovanna – Massaggiatore – Naturapato – Istruttore di Yoga. “You’re Kurt?”
“Yes?” She looks harmless enough, so he backs up and opens the door. “You’re my visitor?”
“I’m your masseuse.” Her smile only grows broader as she wrestles a portable massage table into the room. “It will only take me a minute to set up. Off with the robe.”
“Masseuse?” What is Sebastian up to? He knows he doesn’t have to butter up Kurt to get laid, and surely he doesn’t actually think the Gibraltar storm was his fault? Not to mention this seems a little overboard for making up for sending Kurt all over Venice. “Are you sure?”
“Si. Signore Smythe booked me for you.” Giovanna flashes him a wink, flipping the table to standing. “Lucky you have a sweet boyfriend.”
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,” Kurt blurts out in a frantic rushing tumble of words. “No no, we’re just friends. Not dating.”
Giovanna arches an eyebrow as she leads him to lay face down on her table. “Everyone should be so fortunate to have a friend who is so very nice to such a gorgeous man.”
Yeah, Kurt’s trying to not think too hard on that one.
Kurt slows down, his thrusts becoming almost lazy. “Come for me?” he murmurs, hand pulling sure, firm strokes on Sebastian’s cock. His breath is warm and his voice low, intimate, even tender, as if the three words he’d just let slip were something with greater meaning entirely.
Who knows? Perhaps for the two of them, these three words are best, far more appropriate than any other three that lovers might exchange. This is no ordinary affair, they no ordinary pairing – and for Sebastian, certainly, being in the position of receiver and supplicant, taking what Kurt chooses to give him, it is a matter of trust given to no other person, maybe it’s the most Sebastian is capable of relinquishing.
“Please? Come? For me?” Kurt asks again, dusky and sweet, and there’s nothing else for it, nothing to be done but what he asks, and so Sebastian does, long and hard and with a shudder that rocks his entire body.
After Giovanna works her magic, reducing Kurt to a happy, boneless, drooping human being, she has to all but pick him up and deposit him into the bed, guiding him to rest under the cool white coverings.
“The signore told me to tell you to sleep well, and he will come for you when it’s time,” she had whispered, tugging up the duvet. “So, sleep well, and I think dream of him – even if he is not il tuo ragazzo.” A pat on his shoulder. “Maybe you think of how he should be, si?”
But he doesn’t dream, only drifts.
Warmth against his back, lips on his shoulder and a gentle hand stroking his cock – these are the things that slowly pull Kurt back to wakefulness.
He sinks back into Sebastian’s arms now, spine to chest, pulse to heartbeat. “Hi,” comes the whisper in his ear, soft and playful, a little gritty with desire. “I brought dinner.”
“Not hungry.” Kurt rocks his hips back, snugging his ass into Sebastian’s crotch for just a moment before rocking back forward to push his cock through Sebastian’s fist. “Mmm.”
Much to his disappointment, Sebastian’s hand disengages, and he feels himself being shoved around and pulled up to sitting. Sebastian is facing him with a grin, clad only in his usual low slung, faded jeans that only just cling to his hips. “You are incredibly adorable when you’re asleep. I never noticed.” He turns away, slipping out of the bed to grab a covered container of something that smells incredible, the aroma of garlic and butter and seafood filling Kurt’s nose and making him instantly forgive the aborted handjob. “Here, eat, you still need to get dressed so we can go.”
“Go?” Kurt accepts the fork and container, opening it up to find a delicate lobster risotto waiting for him. He barely gets out a “Go where?” before all but diving into the divine smelling dish, knowing he’s eating like a pig but completely unwilling to stop. It’s almost obscene how good this is.
“Just out,” Sebastian replies with a smile, dropping back down onto the bed with a container of his own. “Somewhere.”
This is really starting to feel very close to being some kind of date. “I feel like I’m being spoiled a little,” Kurt ventures cautiously, thinking back to earlier.
“Yeah, maybe a little,” is all Sebastian says, shrugging as he starts in on his own dinner. “You complaining?”
No, Kurt thinks between bites, but I am wondering. Wondering why you’re doing it…
…and why I think I could get used to it and be happy.
It’s equal parts disturbing and interesting, much as the revelation of his sleeping patterns had been in Gibraltar.
If things hadn’t changed in Barcelona, if they hadn’t been off-kilter from the start in Paris, Sebastian knows for certain now that they’ve changed here. Now there’s no denying that there’s something more going on, no ignoring that the energy between them has shifted, mellowed and sharpened at the same time.
Kurt is pressed up against his back again, breath slowing and evening out. “Go to sleep,” he mumbles into Sebastian’s ear, and there’s three more words that would have more meaning between the two of them than any three other more traditional ones. They mean that Kurt gives a damn about him, just like everything he’s arranged today means he gives a damn about Kurt, and wow, doesn’t that just scare him to death?
If he’d thought Venice by day was lovely, Venice by night is breathtaking.
The moon sails through the clear sky not unlike their gondola cutting through the quiet back canals of the city, lighting everything in a wash of silver. They’re far from the Grand Canal, far from the normal tourist-packed areas, so there are fewer other boats on the water and it’s as quiet as Kurt thinks Venice might ever get, the only sounds the murmurs of people on balconies and walkways, their gondolier’s humming, the water rippling around and lapping at the sides of the boat.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says at last, the first words between them since boarding.
“I wanted to.” Sebastian is reclined next to him on a bench in the gondola that’s almost as large as a bed. By unspoken agreement they aren’t wrapped up in each other, not like other couples – because they aren’t a couple, Kurt asserts fiercely to himself – but their hands are touching, not holding, just fingers lightly intertwined, bridging the gap between their bodies. “I said I’d make Gibraltar up to you.”
“Gibraltar wasn’t your fault,” Kurt reminds him for the dozenth time, tipping his head to the side to deliver an exasperated, but fond smile. “You can’t control the weather.”
Sebastian’s responding shrug has an air of being slightly forced in its militant casualness. “I wanted to do it anyway.”
Kurt rolls his head back to look up at the clear sky. “It’s just been kind of romantic.” Abruptly, he can feel Sebastian tense at his side. “You have never struck me as any kind of romantic. Not ever.”
There’s no response. Not so much as a sharp intake of breath. Only silence and the sounds of life in Venice dancing on the breeze. At last, a soft exhalation. “I’m really not. This just seemed like something nice to do.”
“Just like you don’t really do sleepovers. Sebastian…” Kurt watches from the corner of his eye as Sebastian very deliberately doesn’t look at him. He has to know, it’s been nagging at him all day and now it’s all but screaming in his ear. “This is supposed to be a game, right?”
Silence, long and tense silence, then - “Truth or dare?”
“What?” It’s out of nowhere, unexpected, a complete non-sequitur. A nervous laugh escapes before Kurt can bite it behind his teeth, and he snatches his hand back. “What do you mean?”
“It’s your turn. Truth or dare?”
And he remembers Amsterdam, remembers lungs full of marijuana smoke, a head clouded and pleasantly stuffed with giggles. Remembers asking the question that creaked the door between a fun diversion and something more genuine a little more widely open. “You can’t be serious.”
“I told you I hadn’t forgotten. Your turn.”
There’s something in Sebastian’s eyes when he shifts to face Kurt that tightens his stomach with nerves and rushes his blood with adrenaline. The door is about to be pushed wider, he can stay on this side or cross over and this is all too fast, he needs to stay on this side but has to admit that he knows there’s a part of him that wonders what the other side would look like and - “Dare.”
The dare is safe, he thinks. A dare is straightforward, nothing that can trap him into revealing problematic thoughts and emotions that even now, it’s way too soon to even look at, let alone express.
Except of course, trust a lawyer to find a loophole. “I dare you to tell me what happened between you and Blaine.”
But nothing matters until the ghosts of their pasts stop haunting them at every turn. Sebastian knows he has to figure out what he’s going to do. This can’t go anywhere until he knows where he is going. If it can even then.
Most of all, this really, really can’t go anywhere until the specter of Blaine stops being that silent, gentle, occasionally suffocating presence that lingers just out of sight and reach. Even now, as Sebastian is drifting off to sleep, he can almost feel the other man in the room, even though Kurt rarely wears the ring on the chain anymore, even though Kurt never talks about him unless directly asked. Maybe because Kurt never talks about him unless asked.
Either way, Sebastian isn’t risking anything more than his body and trust until he knows more about what he’s up against. Kurt may say things are over between himself and Blaine, and Sebastian is at least fairly sure he has no intention of even trying to resurrect them at any point, but whatever happened was big, that much is clear. How could it not have been, with the history between them?
No, Sebastian isn’t comfortable acknowledging anything else unless he knows exactly what stands in his way.
The question is a sucker punch to the gut. “No.”
“I got deep, you get deep.” Sebastian’s eyes are still so opaque, so unreadable, full of things Kurt needs to know and is afraid to find out about. “What happened?”
Kurt shakes his head. He can’t put it to words, not like this. He needs time to prepare and organize himself so that he doesn’t become a shaking wreck. “I can’t. Pick something else.”
“No, you have to answer the question I asked you.” A tiny smirk. “Those are the rules.”
“Oh, and you aren’t breaking rules for me left and right?” It’s a challenge and Kurt knows it, just like he knows Sebastian can’t resist a challenge any more than he can.
Until, apparently, now. Sebastian’s jaw sets tightly. “Forget it. Yes, this is still a game.” He shifts back and puts his hands behind his head, turning his attention back out to the canal.
The implications of the simple statement – an answer that isn’t, revealing nothing and everything all at once - are staggering. “What changed?”
“I can’t sleep without you,” is the only answer he gets before silence drops between them like a dark, soft blanket.
They stay for a full week in Venice, each day more indulgent than the last. Kurt doesn’t tell his story and Sebastian doesn’t push for it, and after the first night a dreamy indolence drapes over them both that neither wants to disturb.
And it is Sebastian who must eventually, with great regret and reluctance, prod Kurt to make his arrangements and move on to the next city, even though he has come to think he would be perfectly content to stay in Venice, in this situation, forever, regardless of phantoms and persecutions and confusing, unacknowledged feelings.
The photo arrives while Sebastian is grumpily packing up his things, and he has to sit down and stare at it, blinking in confusion.
Picture Message From Kurt:
It’s nowhere he’s ever been in his life. Sebastian has no idea where Kurt has gone.
But he definitely has to figure it out, because the next message is, Find me and I’ll tell you.