Disclaimer: I do not own Dave Karofsky, or any other character or element of the Glee television program. The only character I own here is Gene Melton. This is intended purely as a fan-work.
Author's Note: So, yeah, I did it. I wrote more fan fiction. And for Glee, of all shows. I have to admit though, that it's been a while since I've stumbled upon a character as beautiful and interesting as Dave Karofsky. I decided to write this work from the perspective of an OC – I know, groan groan. I hope you don't find him Mary Sue-ish. This is a first draft, so ignore the grammar issues as they appear. Rate and Review is very, very appreciated. Thanks!
'There are two things certain in this world. Death. And Prom.'
For a moment, Gene Melton considered this thought to be both incredibly witty, and unlimitedly profound. Gene Melton was, at the time, slightly tipsy. It took him only a minute to realize that the sentiment was faulty, and more-than-a-little stupid. But hey, blame it on the alcohol. Or, better yet, blame it on the prom.
He sat out behind the McKinley Gymnasium with a bottle of Jim Beam, occasionally taking little swigs that made him gasp audibly as tiny amounts of whiskey carried big fire down his throat, settling into his uneasy stomach. He couldn't take big gulps. Didn't have the chest hair for it, seemed like. But how could anyone not get drunk on Prom Night? Dancing Queen alone was enough to make an alcoholic of him. An alcoholic who took tiny, baby sips.
He'd left before they announced the prom royalty. Mostly out of a stunning lack of interest. He had transferred to this school not two months prior and, were it not for the insistence of his mother (God bless her) he wouldn't be here at all. There was really very little point in going dateless to a prom full of people you don't know. But hey, this was 'socialization'. A word that, in Gene's opinion, was woefully esoteric. He wasn't one for drinking, but he felt like he'd earned a little rebellion, living through the past few months.
Lanky form pressed up against the wall, seated on the stairs facing the field that separated the campus proper from the stadium, as well as housed the baseball field, Gene reached up to place a hand on his forehead, fixing the bridge of his glasses with a pinky finger, and massaging his temples. He didn't think he liked being drunk. It made him think stupid things.
The sound of a door opening, and heavy footfalls. A deep, choked sound – like a man coughing something up. Then a low sort of groaning noise.
Gene thought, cruelly, that it sounded vaguely bovine. Then he pushed the thought from his mind. He wasn't that person anymore. He pushed himself off of the wall, and shoved the Beam into his coat pocket. He tried to straighten himself up, stepping around the corner to move into the light of the Gym's secondary exit. Up the four-foot tall set of stairs that led into the building, leaning against the safety railing that, in theory, was meant to keep kids from falling off (though tended only to encourage them to try sliding down it and hurting themselves more), was a smartly dressed guy. A big guy, Gene corrected himself, almost immediately. A big guy wearing a crown, holding a cheesy plastic scepter painted gold in one hand, and covering his eyes with another. His face was red, and wet, and his broad shoulders were shaking. He let out another of the low groaning noises which, Gene realized, were sobs.
Gene said nothing, only watching for a second. The big guy didn't seem to notice him. He let out another sob, before his stance changed and he let out a grunt that sounded like he'd been punched in the gut. He raised the scepter up, and smashed it against the safety railing – cracking it. Then, realizing what he'd done, took a moment to stare at it before sinking down to a sitting position, letting out another sob, cradling it.
'Geez, I've never seen a guy cry like that.'
Finally, he could no longer wait to announce his presence.
"Hey, it's not so bad."
It was like the big guy had been struck by lightning. His entire body seemed to jerk upwards, head rising, shoulders arching. His eyes went from the watery vulnerability of the recently sobbing to a fierce blaze fast enough for Gene to actually be slightly disconcerted. His hands tightened around the scepter.
"What the-? Who the hell are you?"
Gene was in the process of raising his hands up to his chest in mock-surrender, ready to give his name, when the big guy followed his line of questioning with a demand.
"Get the hell out of here, before I break your freakin' jaw."
His hands up in that mock-surrender, Gene could only shrug slightly.
"Hey, I like my jaw unbroken as much as the next guy, but I was technically here first."
The big guy glared daggers at him.
"I wasn't crying, if that's what you're thinking. I was-"
Silence.
"Remembering with tears?"
More silence.
"Fuck off."
Gene pursed his lips. He reached down, and opened up his suit jacket, showing the big guy the Jim Beam stashed inside. He grinned.
"Got boozahol."
The big guy stared at him for a moment, before dropping his gaze.
"Fine. Whatever."
Gene walked briskly up the stairs, to take a seat next to the big guy – leaving a respectful distance between them. He pulled the bottle out, and offered it to the big guy. After a moment's consideration, he took it, and drew himself a far manlier swig than Gene could ever have managed. He smiled.
"Looked like you could use that."
The big guy nodded, wiping his lips, then his eyes, handing the bottle back.
"Yeah."
Gene refused the bottle, gesturing that the big guy could keep it. He shrugged, and took another long draw, before speaking again.
"Home Movies, right?"
Gene blinked.
"Huh?"
"That line. It's the fat Irish dude."
"Yeah, uh . . . McGuirk. You don't strike me as the type to watch it, - . . ."
He left the silence pointed, hoping for a name. The big guy obliged.
"Dave." He shoved the bottle back into the smaller boy's lap. "And you don't know me. I like Adult Swim."
"Fair enough, Dave. I'm Gene." The lanky boy rolled his shoulders, before reaching up and trying to straighten his shaggy blond hair.
"What were you talkin' bout, earlier?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's 'not so bad'?"
"Oh," Gene laughed, and shook his head. "The crown, bud. I know it's not exactly fashion forward, but it's not worth coming out here any crying over."
"Hey, I wasn't-"
"I know, I know. Remembering. Gotcha."
Another long pause. Dave reached up, and ran a hand down his still-red face. He looked like he might start going again, so Gene decided to intercept him.
"Whatever it is, you shouldn't let it get to you so hard. I mean, this is a night you're going to remember for pretty much ever. Prom King, right?" He gestured to the crown and scepter with a wave of his hand. "Kind of a big deal. By teenager standards."
Dave only nodded, avoiding eye contact.
"Forgive me if I didn't vote for you. Kind of new here, and no one came forward with any bribes. So, is it a chick?"
"Something like that," Dave muttered, tersely.
"Right. You shouldn't let some flighty high school girl ruin this night for you. It-"
"It's not a chick thing. It's-" He paused, before raising his gaze to look directly into Gene's. They each noted the color of the other's eyes: Dave's hazel, Gene's bright green. "Why the hell am I telling you this?"
Gene shrugged.
"Because I give you my alcohol. Because a stranger might be the better person to listen, right now."
Dave frowned. It wasn't an ugly expression, though Gene guessed that few were on this guy.
"It was a 'me' thing, alright. I'm . . ." His lips seemed to tighten. When he said the word 'coward', it almost seemed like an effort to force it to slip from between his teeth. His hands gripped the scepter a little tighter, and his eyes began to water. The alcohol had loosened him up, Gene knew it.
"Hey," he said softly, nudging the guy gently with his knuckles – he didn't dare risk any more intimate touch – no hand-to-shoulder hanky panky with this one, he seemed jumpy enough already, "buck up. It's not to late to-"
"I'm not goin' back in there," Dave said, forcefully. "No way. It'll be hard enough to . . . to have to deal with people looking at me."
"Alright, fair enough." He handed the bottle to Dave again, and Dave took it gratefully.
"I don't . . . I don't know what to do."
Gene shrugged. "Go home, I guess. Go back inside, and people will probably be able to tell you've been . . . remembering. Red eyes, and such."
Dave gave a dry, disgusting breath, almost like a chuckle. "Right, run away again. Real macho."
"Look, Dave, for what the advice of an alcohol-bearing stranger is worth, not everybody can been brave all the time. I'm not going to pretend to know what you're going through, but I know sitting back here talking to me's not going to help it."
Dave actually managed to crack a smile.
"Hasn't sucked."
"A real charmer. And honestly, going back in there might make the situation worse. If you go back now, there's a good chance that someone will know you've been crying. And a decent chance that someone will call you on it." He shrugged. "So go home. Salvage the evening, as best you can."
Dave looked at him, considerately. Gene found his eyes drawn the larger boy's eyebrows, though he couldn't begin to explain why.
"What about 'courage'?"
Gene shrugged. "Sometimes it's hard. Sometimes you just gotta compromise as best you can."
At this, he thought he saw Dave's expression truly lighten, for the first time that evening.
"Right."
With that, Dave rose to his feet. This close, Gene was staggered by how big he was. Practically a wall unto himself. He rose to his feet as well, just so that he wouldn't feel quite so dwarfed. It didn't help much.
"Think I will head out. Who needs some stupid dance anyway, eh?"
By the way that he was gripping his scepter, Gene guessed that he knew the answer to that, but said nothing.
"A fair call." He reached out, and plucked the bottle away. "Don't need to be taking that with you, though."
Dave reached up to remove his crown, displaying a remarkable amount of gentleness towards it. Like he was afraid he's break it. His cheeks were still streaked and slightly red, but Gene was struck by how handsome this larger boy was. And when he smiled.
"Look, uh- . . ."
"Gene."
"Right. Gene, right. You don't . . . you don't have to tell anyone about this, alright? Especially that kid with the curly hair, Jacob. Especially not him."
Gene grinned.
"Wouldn't dream of it. Shall I assume that I've never spoken to you, either?'
Dave seemed to consider this for a moment. After a quick side-to-side glance, almost conspiratorial, his eyes met Gene's. For a moment, Gene thought he felt his heart beat faster.
"Don't have to. It's up to you, I guess. Thanks," he nodded at the bottle, " For the Beam. And the advice."
Gene shrugged. "Thank me if it turns out good."
Dave nodded and turned, walking down the little set of stairs. Gene was surprised that he actually moved rather well for a guy his size. He turned to look over his shoulder at Gene, opened his mouth to speak, and then decided on a back-handed wave instead. Gene raised his own hand, and watched him go. When he was out of sight, headed in the direction of the parking lot, he took a seat again.
He thought of the big guy, 'Dave', the McKinley High School student who had popped his 'heart-to-heart' cherry. Was he a friend? Probably far too early for that. Maybe the prom hadn't been such a bad idea. He brought the whiskey back up to his lips. Still another hour and a half before his mother came to pick him up. This would pass the time.
But he knew he was lying to himself. This would be the last drink he'd take. And he was only taking it because of the knowledge lurking in the back of his mind – this was the spot where the big guy, 'Dave', had placed his lips. Though he'd never voice this to anyone, it seemed to him to be a perfectly good reason at the time.