Dave wasn't entirely sure why he'd agreed to go into the auditorium with Santana. If any of the guys on the football team asked him, he could say that it was simply so he'd get a blowjob tonight – Santana wanted to support her friends in the Glee Club, and she'd dragged him along for the ride. But, of course, that wasn't true. The closest he and Santana had got to sex was holding hands and one chaste kiss in the hallway – and if he was being totally honest with himself (which was a change) then even that was uncomfortable and downright awkward.
"What's with the shirt, San? Denying your heritage as well as everything else, now?" Dave asked with a smirk, gesturing to the word 'LEBANESE' that was printed across his girlfriend's chest. Expecting a torrent of Spanish insults or a barbed comment, he was surprised by the silent glower offered to him. "Jeesh, I was joking. What's got you down?" He rolled his eyes and made to stride ahead towards the auditorium door, but was stopped by a hand gripping his arm. "Ow, ow! Get your fucking hands off me! What the hell are your nails made out of? Titanium?"
Dave felt Santana spin him around so that his back was against the wall and her hands were pinning his arms. "Looking for a make-out session, Lopez?" He raised one eyebrow suggestively.
"Cut it, Karofsky." Santana's words were as sharp as her nails, and right now Dave didn't want to be on the receiving end of either. "I'm not down. But, if I was down, it would probably be because my friends and the girl I – I love are all in that auditorium, on that stage, singing about acceptance whilst I'm stuck out here with a closeted jock and fucking 'LEBANESE' printed across my chest." She released his arms and averted her gaze – for a moment Dave thought that she might cry but then cool, calm and collected Santana was back.
"Come on. The song's going to start in a minute."
Dave followed Santana almost instinctively. He tried to tell himself that he didn't want to see this, that the singing and dancing was of no interest to him, but his feet spoke differently as they hurried behind Santana into the auditorium. The two of them were silent as they went in, and they took seats near the back so as not to be noticed by the rest of New Directions.
However, as they sat down, there was only one person on the stage.
Of course. Of course it would be Kurt Hummel.
It was Kurt Hummel with mussed hair and tightly fitting jeans, no less.
Dave felt his mouth twist bitterly at the opening line of the song. It doesn't matter if you love him? Sure it does. It matters a whole fucking lot. Especially when you're supposed to love a her, not a him.
'LIKES BOYS'
The phrase wasn't a surprise, not on Hummel's t-shirt. But Dave was suddenly struck by how easy it seemed for him. The jacket was ripped off without preamble, as though the words underneath were of no significance.
To Kurt, it was just something he was born with. Something he accepted about himself – hell, maybe something he even loved about himself. He was on the stage showing the world that his sexuality was part of him and nothing to be ashamed of.
It suddenly made sense to Dave. Santana wanted to watch this because she wanted to have what Kurt has, or what Brittany has. Acceptance. Dave could tell that she wanted it because she was wearing the 'LEBANESE' shirt (it hadn't taken him long to work out what it meant to say). Santana wanted to be able to dance on the stage proudly, but the best she could do was sit at the back wearing her shirt.
And Dave? He had been practically dragged here and forced to watch the performance. He was pretty sure that he didn't want anyone to know – he didn't want to accept this shitty part of himself. But watching Kurt and watching Kurt act like his shirt was nothing made Dave feel odd.
Who the fuck was he kidding? Dave was jealous. He was jealous of Kurt Hummel, because even though society and the school may not have accepted him, Kurt had accepted himself. The boy on the stage could fall in love with who he wanted; he could comment on guys rather than nodding along as his friends made vulgar comments about girls who passed them in the hall.
'Baby, you were born this way.'
Did that mean that this was it? This was Dave's lot in life? Was he born to fucking hate himself, to hate people like him?
Because, whilst watching the performance, Dave felt like he hated Kurt more than ever. It was worse than any of the times they'd 'met' in the hallway, it was even worse than the locker room. He hated Kurt for the way he made Dave's eyes follow him, for the way be breathed a little bit quicker when Kurt's jacket was tossed to the floor, and for the way his own pants felt uncomfortably tight as Kurt's hand travelled down to his own crotch area.
Yes. It was safe to say that right at this moment, David Karofsky loathed Kurt with a passion. It wasn't right that this prissy bitch could make him feel this way when even Santana couldn't. He'd kissed girls, danced with girls, and felt nothing. Yet, just watching Kurt Hummel thrust his hips forward was enough to make Dave squirm uncomfortably.
"I have to go," he suddenly muttered, jumping to his feet and squeezing past Santana. The Latina didn't even turn her head, and Dave spared a glance to see that her eyes were firmly trained on Brittany who was dancing at the front of the group. Once he was past her, Dave practically fled to the door at the back of the auditorium and leant against the corridor wall, breathing hard and fast.
He hated Kurt Hummel.
He hated that he hated Kurt Hummel, and he hated that he felt as though he had to hate him.
But most of all, Dave hated the fact that no matter how much he loathed Kurt, he would always, always hate himself more.