A/N:Real original title, I know. #frowns#

Anyhow...

Due to episode 2x09 and it's filler-feeling disappointments and other things that angered me about it I'd rather not rant about here, and also because of pAt-ThE-bAkEr's request for something happy (she's my pal on DeviantART, if y'all don't recall), I decided to write this. The inspiration came to me seemingly out of nowhere, so be prepared. ;D

This takes place in the not-too-distant future, written in first-person POV. As to whose… well. It should be obvious as soon as you read it. And yes, this will be a Kurtofsky/Karomel/Kurve (LOL I love all the pairing names people came up with) ficlet. I dunno how long this will be, so bear with me.

BTW: I'm using this picture of Max Adler to describe how older!Dave looks (please remove spaces): http: / / tinypic. com/r/1589j01/7

Without further ado, enjoy!

One: Initially

I inhale briskly, the slicing, biting, moisture-that-ices-your-bones cold seeping into my lungs as I step out of my apartment. Going down the street to the Starbucks on the corner is a journey in and of itself. I instantly can't feel my skin, or whatever is showing of it (like my face). The slapping wind rushes up my coat and violates my skin like an unwanted hand. I shiver violently and find solace in the small furnace that is the coffee house as soon as I step in, the door closing behind me.

A sigh of relief escapes my dry lips. I whip out some lip balm to prevent them from chapping (I hate that peely, crusting feeling that comes with chapped lips; and mine always seem to bleed, tasting constantly of yucky salt and metal). I pace up to the counter, and the sweet black-Asian girl behind the counter automatically rings up my order. She knows me well by now; I come here every morning during her shift, so she at least knows what my favorite drink and usual vanilla bean scone to go with it.

"Here you are, Kurt," she says as she hands me the order minutes later. We're on a first-name basis as of late, since this past week has made me giddy and friendly beyond reason. She giggles. "Damn, it's cold outside. Your nose is all red."

I laugh bitterly. "Yeah, and I have to confess, Alicia: I hate it. Ohio got pretty cold, but this? This is insane. I never thought Lake Michigan made winters here this extreme."

She shrugs where she leans over the counter. As she brushes some hair back from her cheek to tack behind her ear, I admire her skin tone. I love her complexion; not a single trace of acne scars, and there's a slightly olive, slightly caramel tone on her skin, a perfect blend of her heritages. Her eyes are slanted, but her lips are full, and her nose is caught between the African and Korean traits. She's lovely in her own way, and she reminds me of Mercedes and Tina.

"Well, get used to it, singer-boy," she teases lightly. "Your life is part of Chicago, now, people and weather and work and all." And she smiles. "Just like me."

I laugh a little, taking a bite of my scone. After I swallow, I wave my circumstance aside. "Yes, well. It's not so bad. At least the theatre is warm. Call-backs are today, you know."

She grins broadly. "Oh, I hope you get the part, Kurt. You're so talented, and so attractive! You deserve it," she says, but before she can say more, she's called over by another employee; some nerdy young guy who doesn't know how to handle the coffee machine just yet, and has far too much acne. "Um, I'm sorry," she says with a sigh, "But work's calling me. I'll see you tomorrow morning, okay?" And she dashes off, sending a cute little wave in her wake.

I smile, my mood completely sunny despite the dismal, grey-and-threatening-snow cloudiness outside. I finish off my scone, sip some warming coffee, and soon, I'm ready to face the world.

.o0o.

The Oriental Theatre in downtown Chicago is probably the most extravagant and lusciously decorated theatre I personally have ever been graced to be inside of. The intricate, Asian-inspired designs and complex architecture all across the walls, stairs, and ceiling, and even into the main hall is just… mind-blowing. I gape at it a little, not one for buildings as much as I am one for interior design. It's indescribable. And it's also the same theatre I initially visited about a decade ago, when I was still a teenager, to see Wicked with Burt and Carole (yes, we dragged Finn with us).

That had been the absolute best day of my entire life. Everything about that play had been flawless, even the African American Fierro (which came as a mild but pleasant surprise, since I always pictured him white due to the fact that he's the Scarecrow, and in the original Oz, everybody was white). It was so magical, so memorable, and since then, I've seen Wicked twice, making a total of three times of watching the spectacular play.

Thus, here I am again, except this time, I return not as an audience member, but as a potential actor. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest like a jackhammer on concrete, sending waves of electric thrill through me. I'm nervous. I'm so nervous that I've started nibbling at my cuticles, which isn't attractive in the least, but it helps me cope.

I slip into the main theatre, a pass dangling around my neck. They hand them out to all the try-outs, so that they can return without having to pay admittance or be accused of loitering. The theatre is mainly empty, save for a few directors and actors lined up on the stage.

One of the actors catches my eye; he's as tall as I am, with broad shoulders and a strong demeanor, his jaw lined with tasteful, rustic stubble. He's a brunet, just my taste, and he even has shaped eyebrows. He's in a neatly pressed business-like button-down shirt, caramel-colored, with a sleek, silky, striped tie hanging down his front. I smile at him, because damn, even I can't deny that he's handsome. His build is just right, too; muscular, firm, masculine. He stares at me in return, something lighting in his eyes as if he's seen me before. Heh, I get that often. I'm just one of those faces, I suppose.

"Ah, Mr. Hummel," one of the directors states. "You're on time, and yet one of the last to arrive." It isn't said out of irritation, thankfully. He looks amused. "Take a place on the stage with the others, won't you?"

"Of course," I murmur softly, mortified that I drew unnecessary attention to myself by being one of the last to arrive. Maybe I shouldn't have stopped for coffee…

I plop my bag down where I see some others have theirs, in the velvet seats in the first row before the stage. I then step up onto the stage and take an empty space that somehow morphs into being next to stubble-chinned guy. He smiles oddly at me, and I can't place why the smile looks so odd and vaguely familiar. But his eyes… His eyes are a molten brown, like hot chocolate. I feel a little warmer just looking into them.

"Hello," I greet in a whisper while the directors speak to us about how callbacks work. But I already know; I've auditioned about three times in two different theatres in Chicago already, over the course of the past five months. This fourth one is no different.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is smooth, and oddly just as familiar as his smile. "Hummel, was it?" he says, and there's that smile again, like he knows something about me that I don't. What, do I have a coffee foam moustache on my upper lip or something?

"Yes, that's right," I reply. "Kurt Hummel."

I wait for him to give me his name. However, he's cut off by one of the directors. "All right, everyone, now it's time for the moment you've been waiting for: casting." And he starts listing off character names and corresponding actor names, down and down a list, until I hear the character I tried out for. "And Angel will be played by… Kurt Hummel." And I feel ecstatic. Oh my Glee, I made it! my mind screams as my dimpled smile dares to eat my face, I MADE it! But the director goes on, "And Angel's lover, Collins, will be played by… David Karofsky."

I stop dead in my tracks, my entire body tensing and freezing. I know that name. I could never forget that name. I left the person with that name back at McKinley high school, staying at Dalton (a school I came to hate just as much but for a different reason) until I graduated in order to avoid that person and that name.

"Aw man, he stole my thunder," the guy beside me says with a nervous bubble of laughter. "I was going to introduce myself, and he goes and ruins the surprise." He's joking, but mainly out of fear. I can feel it rolling off of him: fear of my reaction.

I turn to face him, staring. "You…! You can't be him, you simply cannot be the exact same person who harassed me during high school –" I am a twenty-five year old male, a grown adult, and I feel sick to my stomach over high school. It's pathetic, really.

Karofsky looks like the perfect definition of 'uncomfortable.' He fidgets, his eyes not looking into mine any longer. "I know how you must think about me, and really, the odds of us meeting again outside of a class reunion is remarkable, but please, Kurt, don't jump the conclusion that I'm the same person. It's demeaning, and not true at all. Besides… we have to work together, now. We're playing matching parts in this play. And I don't know about you, but I need this gig. I don't have much else income to go on."

The play. Rent. It has returned to Chicago for the first time in at least five years, and it's one of my dreams to be in it, and one of my fantasies to play Angel with some cute guy as Collins. Only… this isn't at all how I imagined it. I thought I was with strangers, but I see now that there is one familiar face here, and it's the guy next to me, a nightmare from my past brought to the present to torture me. Why can't I truly escape Lima, Ohio? Why is it so difficult for destiny or Fate or Karma to let me be free?

But Karofsky's right. I need this part, too. Without it, all I have is my meager job at an establishment I'd rather not name. The point is, I'm screwed without this, but also a bit screwed because of it. I nearly want to march up to the director and say, 'Really, Mr. Director, REALLY? Dave Karofsky? Is he really such a good singer and dancer that you had to pick HIM?'

But that's the intriguing part about all of this, isn't it? The fact that Karofsky got a part proves that he must have been holding out in high school, because he's talented enough to land a relatively major role in this production. My curiosity sparked, I say as casually as I can, "So this means you can sing?"

He blinks for a moment. Then, slowly, he smiles. "Well, yeah. Of course I can sing. My forte is closer to crooner-music, but hey, I can pull this off. At least, the director seems to think that I can."

I give him a quick up-and-down with my eyes. He doesn't look like he can belt notes with skill or live up to the part as portrayed in the film (I never got to see the actual play for myself due to money issues, which makes me wonder how it differs), but at the same time, he is, admittedly, attractive enough, and his voice sounds like it's changed some.

I smirk at him. "You do realize, Karofsky, that you're playing a homosexual character, don't you?"

He grins deviously. "And you do realize, Kurt, that you're playing a cross-dressing one?"

"Ooh, quick and clever," I retort, and I wonder if this counts as flirting. I sure as Hell hope not. "But yes, I realize. And I only said it out of shock. You can't expect me to simply accept the fact that the same person who was homophobic toward me in high school is suddenly all for acting gay."

"Hey, the 'lover' I have in this play is supposed to look like a girl, so it doesn't seem too far-fetched. Besides, it seems you've forgotten that I was a closet-case."

I allow my surprise to show on my face. "Was? As in, you're out now?"

He makes a gesture I can't decipher the meaning of just before he says awkwardly, "Um… yes. Yes, I guess that's what I'm saying. I mean, I don't broadcast it to the world in everything I do, but tons of people know. My family, my newest circle of friends, and even Mr. Director over there."

I shake my head. "Consider my mind officially blown. You weren't lying. You have changed, Karofsky."

"Yeah. So much so that I wish you'd stop calling me by my last name. it makes me feel like high school all over again, and let me be the first to say that I'd rather not relive that particular chunk of my life. It wasn't pleasant for you, either, I know, but… well. Give me a break, I was stupid then." And he sighs, running a hand over his hair.

"Sorry, uh… Dave," I say, the name strange in my mouth. "And I suppose I can give you a break, considering the fact that I have no choice." With a sly smile, I add, "After all, you're my lover now."

He blushes. He actually turns red in the cheeks, and glancing away. Clearing his throat, he says off-handedly (or at least an attempt at sounding like such), "Only in the play, Kurt. Don't make this weird."

I laugh. "How can I not? It is weird. Beyond so."

He shrugs. "I guess…"

The director calls out the final role and passes out scripts and rehearsal dates to each of the actors, the rejectees being offered stage crew positions if they stated in their audition packets that they were capable of the work needed, their skills refined enough for the tasks.

"Hey," Dave says suddenly, his packet rolled into his hands. "Do you… want to rehearse some time soon? Outside of this schedule, I mean."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Dave Karofsky, are you asking me out already?"

He makes a face. "No," he says immediately, defensive. Nearly reverted back to high school, but not quite. There is still a gentle edge to his tone. "I just… this is the first professional play I've been in. I want to make it the best I can."

I nod, understanding. "All right. Fine. We can practice together for our main songs, 'Today 4 U' and 'I'll Cover You.' But outside of that, you'll have to deal with the planned rehearsals."

He looks relived and seeming to suppress excitement at the same time. "Great. When?"

I pretend like I don't care. "Anytime. Today, tomorrow, whenever. Just not on Wednesdays through Saturdays from nine to two."

"You have to work?" he assumes, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Yes," I sniff, a little irritated. I really hate my job, but it was the only one I could land at the time.

He chuckles, "Yeah, I know how that is. I have to work on Mondays through Saturdays, but I have less hours than you."

"Lucky," I reply, definitely miffed now. He looks like he has everything so easy. How did that happen? Aren't all meathead-jock-bullies of the high school sort supposed to grow up and be complete lazy-bum-assholes that work as either mechanics (not like my dad, because he's above the rest of them) or perhaps even a gas station or two? How come he breaks the stereotype?

Oh. Right. It might have something to do with the fact that he's gay. Because that changes everything.

I roll my eyes, and Dave doesn't know why, but that's part of the fun of reacting to my own thoughts.

"Anyway," I say at length, retrieving my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, "Tomorrow is Tuesday. When do you get off work? We can loosely run through the script for about an hour."

There's that smile again. It's starting to really tick me off, how he keeps looking at me. What, did he actually used to have feelings for me, and they're returning full-force now that we've met again? Tch.

"I get off at five. I could buy you dinner before we begin, if you like."

Cocky bastard. "No, thanks," I huff, "That's too similar to a date. I still have a grudge against you."

He makes an expression I've never seen on his face before: something along the lines of a pout. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Kurt. I never hated you, you know."

"Yes, but I've always hated and been terrified of you," I counter a tad bitterly. I start walking toward the exit of the theatre, and ultimately, aim to make my way out of the entire building.

I don't know why my moods keep shifting; one minute I'm laughing about how weird this situation is, and the next I'm back to my bitchy self from high school. It must be his appearance running against his personality and all of what I remember of him from years ago; the combination is throwing me off my normal groove. I scrunch my nose at the idea that one person can trigger such a thing.

I hear Dave sigh out of exasperation and jog a little to catch up to me while he grabs and throws on his coat. "Hey, wait! Look, I know you're pissed at me for what I did back then, but I'm really, truly sorry about it, okay? I've made a new life for myself. And now that you're in it again, I'd like to start fresh."

"What for?" I ask, stopping and pivoting on my heel to face him again. He nearly runs into me, stopping just in time to keep our faces within a foot apart. He takes a step back, probably remembering how such proximity used to work out between us (which is NOT WELL).

His shoulders fall. "Because…" he starts, and there's something I can tell he's trying not to say, "We need to work together, that's why. We have to have an okay relationship with each other if we have to play the parts we were assigned."

Fuck. I hate it when people make good points I can't argue against. Pinching the bridge of my nose before smoothing out my hair, I nod. "Yeah, I can't deny a valid point like that." I pause. "Fine. Let's start fresh. If I hadn't learned your name, I daresay it would have been a fresh start to begin with, since I didn't quite recognize you at first. So…" I hold out my hand for him to shake. "Hi."

He smiles crookedly as he takes my hand in his – holy crap, his hands are warm; and strong, much larger than mine, but surprisingly nearly as soft – and bobs it up and down. "Hi," he replies lowly.

I feel my heart skip a teeny beat and my stomach lurch the tiniest bit in a pleasant manner when his hand lingers in mine for a moment before he releases it. Argh! Why does my body feel the need to incessantly react in ways I don't want it to? It's infuriating that I feel attracted to him. I shouldn't; he used to torment me and threaten me and even forcefully robbed me of my first guy-kiss, and yet I know he's different now and it's oddly intriguing. But I still hate and distrust him. Attraction has nothing to do with those two emotions.

"So, tomorrow at five?" he says, seeking confirmation.

I shrug, acting aloof. "I suppose. Where should we meet?"

His mouth tenses and his brows come together, clearly puzzled. "Um… good question. How about outside of the Barnes and Noble several blocks from here? You know, the big one near one of the colleges?"

He's so vague. It makes me wonder how long he's lived here. But since I know my way around, I nod, clearly picturing the bookstore in my head. "Yeah, okay. That works out perfectly." It's not too far away from my apartment, actually. "I'll meet you there."

"Fantastic," he smiles, and this time, his smile is sincere enough that it almost seems endearing to me. I shake off the feeling and turn with a curt wave goodbye to leave the Oriental Theatre.

What, I wonder, have I gotten myself into?