Number 27

Dave Karofsky was really only good at one thing: hockey. He loved it fiercely, loved the contradictions of it, the way it broke through all the false dichotomies the rest of the world constructed, the limited notions of what a person could be and could do. Grace and power, aggression and control, precision and chaos. Ice and sweat. When he played hockey, he didn't feel expectations and assumptions pulling him in a thousand different directions; he was just Dave, just number 27, just doing what he did and doing it damn well.

As he swerved to barely avoid being checked against the glass by an opposing player, sailing the puck past the opposition's goalie like he wasn't even there, Dave caught a glimpse of something very colorful, very out-of-place among the cheap rust-colored foam fingers, waving madly in the stands. He didn't have to look to know it was a silk scarf, cranberry-colored, and that the hand waving it would be slim, long-fingered, and pearly-skinned. Dave mentally shook himself, and focused his energy on the game.

Okay, so maybe Dave Karofsky was good at one other thing, loved one other thing so much that life without it would be superfluous. Maybe there was something he loved so much it would even make living without hockey bearable. He grinned as he and the other team's center lined up for the faceoff, and he thought he detected a hint of nervousness from the other player. He grinned wider, turning the expression into bared teeth. Heh, still got it, he thought as he watched the other player's eyes widen just a little. Then the staring contest became a moving test of skill and strength again, and he narrowed his eyes and sharpened his focus, all his senses trained on the game.

All but a sixth sense that tingled, feeling the pair of wide, blue-green eyes that followed his every move as he streaked across the ice. How had it happened? How was it even possible? Even in his most astute and quiet moments, Dave had no answer. He had spent his teenage years in a paralyzing state of fear-hate-hunger that drove him to lash out against everyone around him, even the people who cared about him, and most especially the ones he cared about most. But things changed, the way they often do; everything changed forever with a single moment of unguarded passion and naked honesty that split Dave right down the middle and crumbled his resolve to hold on to the false persona that was Karofsky: the bully, the jerk, the Fury.

God, what a stupid nickname…even for a fist.

Another voice in his head piped up, with that level of creativity you could easily become assistant manager at a rendering plant.

He had to smile at the memory. At least Fancy had given him enough credit to make him as management material. He went for another goal…and grunted as someone body-checked him, hard, into the boards. Ow. Dammit, Kurt, stop distracting me.

He forced himself to focus on the game again. He loved it when Kurt came to watch him, but it was just so damn frustrating trying to convince his brain to focus on his second love when his first was screaming his name in the stands and jumping around like a kid, no dignity at all. He loved it when Kurt lost his poise, even for a moment. He had no idea how sexy he was when he wasn't trying, and that just made him sexier. Focus, Dave. Seriously.

He was back in the game, he was dodging all further attempts at a repeat of that body-check—he even managed to give a little back to the other team as far as that was concerned—and then…they won.

It was the championship game, and they'd won.

Dave suddenly found himself in a mass of sweating, roaring bodies, sticks raised in the air, bodies banging clumsily and painfully against one another as they screamed their triumph to the rafters. He raised his hockey stick in the air, squinted his eyes against the salty burn of his own perspiration, and parted his lips in an ecstatic grin. They had won.

He broke away from his teammates, skating toward the glass, not even bothering to stop himself…he just skated right into it, banged against it, hard, looking up at the beatific face of his own personal angel.

Kurt shoved his way out of his row and down toward the glass, mindlessly dodging and pushing against the cheering crowd. He flung himself at Dave, stopping just short of slamming into the glass himself, bracing his hands against it, the cranberry scarf still clenched in one. They stared into each others' eyes, gold-flecked hazel into indefinable blue-green-grey. Kurt's eyes were shining, his cheeks were flushed, and a lock of his auburn hair had fallen across his forehead. His chest was heaving in a way that made Dave want to start climbing right over the wall. He restrained himself. Barely.

"I love you, David Karofsky!" Kurt yelled through the glass. Dave could barely hear him over the cheering crowd, but he read the words on his lips and in his eyes. His expression softened, but his eyes hardened to a laser-point intensity, boring into his lover's as his hands pressed harder against the glass, willing it to just disappear already.

"I love you too, Kurt Hummel." His voice was quiet, but Kurt knew the words by heart. He said them to him every day.

Later, just as Dave was leaving the locker rooms, freshly showered and with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, feeling tired but accomplished and looking forward to nothing so much as a very long sleep—the after-party he could skip, he had already done the part he loved the most, the rest was just extra—he was tackled and nearly knocked over by someone smaller and slimmer and achingly beautiful. He dropped the duffle bag and wrapped both arms around Kurt, crushing him against his chest and spinning him around in midair, laughing at his protestations before gently setting him back on his feet.

"You are such a grizzly bear, David. I think you cracked one of my ribs!" Dave rolled his eyes and leaned in to kiss Kurt fondly on the temple, whispering in his ear.

"Oh c'mon, Fancy. I've been rougher than that with you before, and you've never walked away with any broken bones." His boyfriend shivered and leaned into his embrace, looking up at him coyly.

"Are you referring to high school, when you used to routinely use me to test the fortitude of the lockers, or did you mean the other night when you were—"

Dave groaned and shut his perverse boyfriend up with a kiss. Then, getting a sly idea, he grabbed Kurt by the elbow and pulled him back toward the locker rooms.

"Dave? Where are you taking me off to? We're going to be the last people to arrive at the party!"

Dave spun Kurt around and pressed him roughly—but carefully—up against the row of lockers.

"Screw the party," he growled, attacking Kurt's lips and pressing him harder against the cold metal. Kurt pushed back, sliding his hands up Dave's chest and grabbing a fistful of his shirt at either shoulder, trying in vain to reverse their positions. Dave groaned into the kiss; despite the fact that Kurt was physically unable to make him do anything, it was hot as hell when he tried. And of course, if he had asked, Dave would have walked right off the edge of the fucking earth for the boy. For this boy, and nobody else. He reveled in the smells and tastes of Kurt—honey, strawberries, coconut, and that delicate scent underneath that was completely unique and all Kurt. He loved even more that he knew where each of the flavors came from. Honey lip balm, strawberry chewing gum, coconut milk lotion for his soft, perfect skin. He loved that he knew Kurt so well, knew every little thing about his body and knew his mind like nobody else ever would or could. And he loved that they could talk about their shared, unpleasant past…joke about it, even recreate it to some extent in this room where the lockers were painted a darker, richer burgundy color, but still red. He loved that Kurt had eventually forgiven him so completely, grown to love and trust him so much. And he loved how he had taught Dave to truly forgive himself. After all, how could he continue to despise himself when Kurt looked at him the way he did? Anything Kurt Hummel turned that soft, adoring gaze on must be worth something.

He kissed down Kurt's jaw line, savoring the taste of his smooth skin and the feel of the firm muscle beneath it. In response, the smaller boy rolled his head and let out a low moan. It sent pleasant little shockwaves down Dave's spine, and he forgot how tired he was just moments before. He didn't remember much of anything, to be honest; the taste of Kurt's kiss, and the feel of his body under Dave's hands—they tossed him over a precipice in his mind, and his instincts took over.

Whirling his boyfriend away from the lockers, Dave bent him backwards onto the nearest wooden bench, his lips leaving Kurt's jaw to explore his neck. The high collar of Kurt's shirt interrupted his ministrations, and he groaned in annoyance and brought his lips to the boy's ear.

"Your pretty clothes are in the way, Fancy," he said, his voice ragged and breathless with lust. Kurt answered with a frustrated little noise in the back of his throat, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt for a moment before Dave took over, wrenching the offending collar out of the way and resuming his fervent kisses, nibbles and licks down Kurt's neck and past his collarbone. Relieved of their task, one of Kurt's hands made its way around Dave's neck, slender fingers tangling themselves in his dark hair. The other snuck across that broad back, hard with muscle under the soft fabric of Dave's jacket, to grasp his shoulder and pull him closer. Their bodies were flush against each other now, Dave still supporting his weight on his forearms and the balls of his feet, trying not to crush Kurt beneath him while simultaneously aching to touch more of his skin.

Kurt ran his hands down Dave's sides, slipping his arms into the hockey player's jacket and inching his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, grazing over bare skin. His hands wandered idly over Dave's body, caressing lightly, his breath coming in hoarse little pants, driving Dave crazy with the sound. Dave's breath was hot against the skin under Kurt's ear, and he bit roughly at the sensitive spot, prompting the hands at Dave's sides to grasp his hips almost painfully before the hands under his shirt flew upward, taking the thin fabric with them. Kurt had Dave out of his shirt and jacket in one fluid motion, although Dave wasn't exactly certain how he had managed it. My Kurt always has been talented, he thought fleetingly before said talented person erased his ability to think altogether by pressing his lips to Dave's hot, bare chest, covering it with kisses, nips, and slightly harder bites that made Dave work hard to fight back a very undignified moan. He sat up, pulling Kurt up and into his lap, long legs wrapped around his waist, as he did so.

"Don't push me, Hummel," he murmured in Kurt's ear. The boy pulled back to look into his face, and Dave could only stare at the utter perfection that was his boyfriend in this less-than-poised, less-than-dignified state. His hair was mussed, his shirt half-off and wrinkled. Somewhere along the way his jeans had gotten unbuttoned, and his face was flushed. He grinned at Dave wickedly and leaned in to whisper into his ear seductively.

"I figured you could do the pushing, Karofsky." Dave's breath came out in a gasp as he pulled Kurt's face to his for another kiss, both boys attempting to remove as much of the other's clothing as possible without disconnecting their lips.

It was like this every time. Kurt and Dave had never yet planned to have sex; it was always spontaneous, the desire erupting out of one or both of them after a few days—or a couple—or just one. Dave couldn't remember a time since their first that they had managed to go more than three days without one of them accosting the other when they were together, usually at some very inconvenient time and place…the bathroom at this French restaurant, an empty classroom at Kurt's college, in the car on the way to see Kurt's parents…on the living room floor of Dave's apartment as they were about to walk out the door to meet friends for dinner. All the time apart while they both finished school probably had something to do with it. Once, when Dave had gone to visit Kurt for his birthday, they hadn't even made it out of the airport. The memory just spurred Dave's arousal as he entered Kurt slowly, fighting the urge to come from the sheer sensation of it coupled with Kurt's slow, breathy moan. He clutched the smaller boy to his chest as they made love, breathing into his hair, running his hands up and down his smooth skin, nestling his face into his neck and breathing in his smell, completely wrapped up and lost inside Kurt.

Later, much later, after risky locker room sex and wicked mischievous grins across the table when someone thought to ask what took Dave so long to get there, after the struggle to keep their hands off each other long enough to drive home, after falling into bed for a repeat performance, stumbling into a much-needed shower, and finally falling back into bed for that sleep Dave had been so fervently looking forward to hours before, he couldn't remember a night when he'd felt more alive, and just generally more. He was on top of the world. He was a winner, he was in love, he was pleasantly sore all over from various forms of physical exertion, he was exhausted and yet he was wide-awake to the feel of Kurt's head on his chest, his slender arm wrapped across his stomach, the minute vibration it made against Dave's skin as he hummed contentedly to himself. Dave thought his chest would explode from the way his heart swelled. Months of absence, a year of awkward avoidance, two years of even more awkward friendship via e-mails and the occasional chat session as Dave had struggled to come to terms with his sexuality and Kurt had tried to help him, and then a year of push and pull, picking fights, arguing over the stupidest things, and falling into each others' arms and making love like madmen on one particularly dark, lonely, semi-drunken night near the end of his junior year of college, and here they were. A gay hockey player and his delicate, easily-blushing, fashionista boyfriend. Living apart but staying together, visiting as often as possible, driving each other crazy half the time, a former closeted bully and his unfortunate former victim…heh, Dave thought, maybe I'm just in love with contradictions.

At least his contradiction loved him back.

Author's Note: Okay, that was a random plotbunny. Not even a plotbunny, really, just a scenebunny, if you will. Now that it's out of my system, maybe I can update Relentless and Music for a Song some more. Also, this was supposed to go completely differently, but then as I wrote it, it sort of got...well, not smutty, exactly. But risque. I don't typically write risque things, so I guess this is a test. Obviously, I didn't go into a lot of detail about the sex itself, but what are your thoughts, fair readers?

-The Raisin Girl