Chapter One: The Kiss

Since the first day of high school, Kurt Hummel had been shoved, dumped, slushied, and swirled. He had endured glares, taunts, threats, and more than a few scrapes and bruises. But nothing had ever made him feel as sick, as terrified and degraded and powerless, as his first kiss.

First kisses were supposed to be special, so how had his ended up so wrong? He tried to tell himself it didn't count in a million different ways, everything from the fact that he'd actually been kissed by a girl before to reminding himself that it was nonconsensual, practically assault. But none of that could get the horrific, bare facts out of his head: another boy's mouth had been pressed passionately—almost desperately—against his in a kiss. It didn't count, but it did. David Karofsky had stolen the first kiss that would have meant something.

He didn't know what had made him do it, whether it was his recent encounter at Dalton Academy with the possibility that things could be better, or the fact that Blaine Anderson had smiled at him and given him a single word, a mantra: Courage. If he were honest with himself, that last shove had probably just been his breaking point. Everyone had one, right? All he really knew was that one moment he had been standing in the hallway, practically glowing with happiness at the screen of his phone bearing that single, life-edifying word from Blaine, and the next the phone had been slapped from his hands and he had felt himself hurled by a large, bulky form into the row of lockers. And then…

Usually the first thing he registered was shock, the second pain. This time, the shock gave way straight into a blind fury that he had never felt before, and the anger wiped out all the fear and dulled the pain of the bruises surely starting to form on his back. He didn't stop to think about what he was doing, he just went tearing after Karofsky, bursting into the otherwise deserted locker room and proceeding to scream uncontrollably at the other boy.

"I am talking to you!" Karofsky's broad back was to him, and he didn't turn, he didn't look at Kurt at all.

"Girls' locker room's next door."

"What is your problem?"

"Excuse me?" Now he did look at Kurt, and Kurt fought an urge to take a step back. Courage.

"What are you so scared of?"

"'Sides you sneakin' in here to peek at my junk?"

"Oh yeah, every straight guy's nightmare, that all us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you. Well guess what ham hock, you're not my type." Did I just call him 'ham hock?' Oh Gaga, he's going to hit me.

"Is that right?" Karofsky's voice was low and dangerous as he squared off with Kurt, his brows contracted over his eyes in a threatening glare. Figuring he would be beaten to a pulp for this anyway, Kurt threw what remained of his caution and control to the wind.

"Yeah. I don't dig on chubby boys who sweat too much and are going to be bald by the time they're thirty!"

"Do not push me, Hummel." Here it comes, thought Kurt. He's going to hit me.

"You gonna hit me? Do it." Get it over with because I'd rather be hurt than scared all the time.

"Don't push me!"

"Hit me 'cause it's not going to change who I am. You can't punch the gay out of me anymore than I could punch the ignoramus out of you!" Karofsky's expression crumpled, and the desperation in his voice was more frightening than his glare or his fists.

"Then get outta my face!" Kurt couldn't, he couldn't stop now, he had walked into it and he was going to finish it once and for all. And the gleam—a tear?—in Karofsky's eye had just confirmed something Kurt had suspected all along.

"You are nothing but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are!"

Kurt had no way of knowing how beautiful he was in those moments. His pale face was flushed, his eyes were a steely blue-green-grey, or just all cold colors at once, glossy with unshed tears of frustration and anger, and his chin was jutting out aggressively. And he was so close. Karofsky knew for a fact that Kurt Hummel had never willingly been this close to him before, more out of fear than anything, and his bravery just made everything about him glow brighter. His voice was musical even as he shouted, and a lock of hair fell haphazardly into his eyes. This wasn't the bitchy diva that sashayed down the halls looking superior and perfect, and this wasn't the frightened but longsuffering martyr that picked himself up off the ground and went about his life in silence. This was Kurt Hummel with all of his perfect control stripped away. Karofsky thought—with the part of his mind that wasn't about to be driven insane, that is—that no one, man or woman, gay, straight, or indifferent, could have possibly denied that he was beautiful, and irresistible, in his fury. So when that last sentence—so painful, so true—came across his face accompanied by the sweet smell of Kurt's breath, David Karofsky did the only thing he could think of doing in that moment.

He lunged towards Kurt with face and hands, and for a wild and terrifying second the smaller boy thought he was going to actually try to rip his head off. But a large hand cupped his face at his jawline, the long fingers splayed against his cheek, holding him there. And then Karofsky was kissing him, and a sound that was half defeat and half desire came tumbling out of his throat to vibrate against Kurt's lips as his entire body locked up in shock. It didn't matter that he didn't kiss back; Karofsky's lips were like every other part of him, stronger than Kurt, and they moved Kurt's without his permission, without his consent. There was heat, and there was passion, and the fact that it was all one-directional was lost upon the taller of the two boys, his mind completely taken up with the kiss. Kurt tasted like strawberries.

My first kiss, Kurt thought, and the thought was detached from the act, from any emotion that should have gone with it. In the resulting vacuum, it latched onto the only emotion Kurt could muster: a kind of fearful surprise.

When Karofsky opened his eyes, he saw the shock, and the fear—well, wasn't he afraid as well? Wasn't his heart pounding like he'd just run a marathon?—and he searched Kurt's face for only a moment before he leaned in again, intent upon gaining a second kiss. That's when other emotions started to register in Kurt: horror…disgust…and pain. Without thinking, he pushed the other boy away violently, with more strength than Karofsky would have thought Kurt's slender arms capable of. He backed away, looking like nothing so much as a cornered animal about to be beaten, and the realization hit Karofsky, unwelcome and cold.

The kiss that, for him, had been an incredible release, had just been more torment for the other boy. He wanted to deny it, but the proof was etched in Kurt's terrified eyes, his gaping, frozen lips, the defensively upraised hand. The sense of release—nothing had ever felt quite so right—disappeared, leaving behind an empty, cold feeling filled with the words Kurt had spoken just moments before. He didn't want to kiss David. He hated and feared him. He found him laughable, stupid, sweaty and chubby…repulsive.

He did the only thing he could do then; he ran.