A/N: Yet another based-on-art fic. I dunno what it is, the Glee fandom is just quality as all get-out when it comes to making inspiration-filled fanart. :D This one's based on the incredible
http:/ / nautilusl2. tumblr .com / post/ 5932281208/ awesome-people- mentioned-how-far-karofsky-is-in
all of her stuff is super awesome, go check her out! :D
Disclaimer: Glee is not mine. :) Narnia belongs to the CS Lewis estate, Disney, Walden media, and probably several other people who aren't me. The fanart this was based on isn't either, it's Nautilusl2's.
Dave wakes up and in that moment feels like a bubble has popped. His skin is prickly and electric as he sits up slowly and rubs his eyes with staticy hands. That odd force that pulled him here, equal parts morbid curiosity and intangible compulsion is tugging him, leading him again. Dave pulls on the thick bearskin coat that hangs engulfing the coat rack beside his door and tromps out into the Narnian snow.
It's been like somersaulting deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole since Dave found the snowdrift in the choir room. After he'd bailed on Kurt at Prom, abandoning the other boy in the middle of the dance floor like the total chickenshit he was, all he could do was run. He hadn't cared if someone followed him, hoping everyone would be too busy admiring Kurt's bravery to notice Dave's cowardice. Without meaning to, Dave had ended up in the choir room, sitting on the end of the piano bench with his cheap crown in his hands. So this was what had become of Santana's brilliant plan; she'd lost, he'd fucked everything up, and back at McKinley or not, Kurt didn't trust either one of them. Dave had squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose to force back the prickly congestion of threatening tears making his sinuses burn. He tossed the crown away, not wanting it anywhere near him now.
Instead of rolling away with a satisfying clatter, though, it had landed with a muted thump underneath the cabinet where Mr. Schue kept the sheet music. That's when Dave had seen it; the doors of the cabinet cracked the slightest bit open and a foot-high pile of melty snow beneath them. Dave had reached out, removing the crown from the drift and scooping up a handful in the process. The cold had been a shock; it was real snow, leaking from the open doors of the cabinet and drifting softly on the choir room floor. His hands had shaken as he reached for the handles, but Dave hadn't been able to stop the feeling of anticipation as he pushed the doors open.
The pine forest beyond (just as he'd imagined it as a little kid, begging his dad to crack open their aged and worn copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe "just one more time, Daddy, please?") had been still and deep and snow-muffled. Dave had wandered in awe, following the spaces between the trees deeper and deeper and hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. Finding the lamppost, though, with its missing bracket and sourceless flickering gas flame, had been all the proof he'd needed in the end. Dave, with a million emotions running through him and pulling him in all sorts of directions, had collapsed into the snow at the base of the pole, laughing hysterically with hot tears coursing down his face and his arms wrapped around the lamp for support. He hadn't known whether to be elated or insulted, so he'd just sat there with snow seeping into his pants and his breath coming in hiccups until he'd been able to move.
Breathing slowed and emotions back under stern control, Dave had gotten to his feet, brushed himself off, and walked further into the woods and away from the speck of McKinley High School still wobbling in the distance.
Until now it had seemed like it could have just been something like a new start for him. Narnia (or the equivalent he'd found himself in, anyway) had been more or less welcoming and ready to accept him as far as Dave was concerned. Soon after leaving the lamppost he'd found himself in front of a fully-furnished crack in a rock face that was a dead ringer for Tumnus's house; on day three he'd awoken to see that sometime in the night his lower body had rearranged into the cloven-hoofed, hairy, sharp z-curve of a stag's hindquarters; by day six, six-point antlers had wended their way painfully out of the sides of his head. Life had been slow and simple and quiet without the constant threat of the adolescent minefield of his high school following him around wherever he went.
It wasn't meant to last for long, Dave supposes now as he finds himself once again in the trees on the edge of the Lantern Waste. He can hear the steady crunch-swish of footsteps echoing in the trees across from him, coming from the same direction he'd walked away from almost two weeks ago. Dave lets out a slow, cloudy breath that hangs above his head. His hands flex and release in the sleeves of his coat and he braces himself for who will come out of the trees on the far side of the Waste.
Pausing in the glow of the lamppost, the intruder takes a moment to loop up at it and smile. His long fingers touch the pole almost fondly and Dave can see the bright familiarity in his eyes reflecting the sulfur-yellow light. With an effortless grace Dave knows all too well, the intruder turns away and lopes across the snow towards him. Dave swallows hard, cheeks flushed with cold and uncertainty and his heart thrumming too fast in his chest. He resists the urge to run as that sinewy body comes to a stop a few feet away from him. One pale hand sweeping up to flick a strand of chestnut hair away from his forehead, Kurt Hummel smiles as he stands before Dave.
"I thought I might find you here," he says.
"What are you doing here?" Dave asks, his voice crackling from lack of use. Kurt's smile falters for a second only, but it's long enough for Dave to see the flicker of uncertainty.
"I came to find you," Kurt says. "Everyone's worried about you."
"I'm not going back." Dave doesn't mean to say the words so quickly, but they come out of his mouth before he can stop them. Kurt's face falls completely this time, replaced by an expression of concern.
"Dave," he says quietly, wheedling, "you can't stay here."
"Why not?" Dave asks, a little too defensively.
Kurt seems momentarily stymied by the question, as if he hadn't considered the possibility of opposition to returning. "You don't belong here, Dave," he says. "You've got a whole life back home; a dad who's worried sick about you and friends who're doing everything to find you."
"I like it here," Dave says, a strong tone of petulance creeping into his voice. "I don't—" He breaks himself off in the middle of that thought. Kurt takes a step forward and ducks his head slightly to catch Dave's eye as he looks away.
"You don't what?" Kurt asks.
Have to be scared all the time, Dave thinks, grinding his teeth against saying it. He shakes his head, shamefaced. "Nothing," he says. "I'm good with being here. In a choice of being the laughingstock of the Lima Losers and living in the woods, I'll live in the woods."
"Dave—"
"Go home, Kurt," Dave says as he takes a step back. "I said I'm not going back and I mean it."
"It's not a crime to be scared, Dave," Kurt says, reading his mind in that weird way only Kurt seems to know how. Dave snorts; the sentiment is a bit flat coming from Kurt. Kurt purses his lips, hands balling into fists for a moment as his poise almost cracks. "How do you think I found you?" he asks sharply.
Dave hesitates. He actually hadn't thought about that; he had just figured it anyone was going to find him, it would be Kurt.
Kurt twists his fingers together and takes a deep breath as if preparing to confess something terrible. "I've been here before," Kurt says, closing the last steps of distance between them and lowering his voice. His fingers curl around the collar of his shirt and he tilts his head up, exposing his neck to Dave. There, under his left ear, is a shiny dusky-pink scar Dave had never noticed before. "It was spring in mine," Kurt says, brushing a fingertip over the mark before straightening his shirt obsessively. "I wanted to hide and one of the trees took me in."
Dave's eyes widen as he realizes what the mark was; it was the kind of bark-stripping notch he'd seen squirrels making on their storage hollows. "But…why?" he asks.
Kurt's arms wrap around his torso and he breaks eye contact for a moment. "I was scared," he admits. "Finn…he called me…" He presses his lips together, shaking his head. "I came on too strong and it blew up in my face. Finn called me…a terrible word and my dad threw him out of our house for it. It almost destroyed everything Dad had with Carole and I couldn't take it. So I ran and I hid and I hoped I'd feel better."
Dave hesitates for a moment before asking, "Did you?"
Kurt shakes his head, smile rueful. "No," he says. "Hiding doesn't do any good. It just shoves the problem off to the side and makes it worse by the time you actually get to it. I went home and I made up for the trouble I'd caused, and eventually it got better."
For the first time in knowing him, Dave feels like he and Kurt are a little closer to being on the same level. It's foreign and unsettling, but at the same time something like empowering. Not quite, though, Dave amends, look down at the snow between his feet. Of course Kurt had been able to go back; he's been straight-backed and brave since the beginning. Dave's only talent anymore seems to be cowering out of the way and hoping nobody notices him. A slightly chilled hand touches his cheek and Dave looks up. Kurt's smiling at him, a little sadly. Before Dave knows what's happening he's being wrapped in Kurt's arms.
"You're stronger than you think," Kurt whispers in Dave's ear, arms tightening. Dave bites the inside of his cheek to ward off the tears threatening to come and hugs Kurt back even as his arms tremble.
When they pull apart, Kurt's smile is bright and he holds out a hand to Dave. "Ready to go?" he asks.
Dave balks, the thought of going back and facing what he'll have to face making his stomach turn. The end seems a little bit brighter now, he supposes; Kurt's willing to believe in him, and even a little backup is better than none at all. He takes Kurt's hand, quietly savoring the feeling as their fingers entwine, and the two of them walk into the trees at the far side of the Lantern Waste.
As they walk Kurt's pace picks up and Dave notices a change beginning. One after the other his antlers shed, dripping to the snow with muted sounds. He trips and stumbles as his legs straighten and hooves become toed feet once again, skin burning as the hair recedes or pulls away to become trouser legs. The bearskin around him shrinks and separates; Dave looks down to see himself once again clad in his prom tux, a little muddy but none the worse for wear. Dave's chest seizes and he starts to panic again, wondering frantically if this is really such a good idea.
The two of them finally reach the incongruous cabinet box in the middle of the woods. Dave swallows hard through a sandpapery throat and looks over to Kurt. Kurt gives his hand a bolstering squeeze before pushing open on of the doors and hopping down onto the floor of the choir room below. Dave hesitates in the doorway; suddenly the floor looks miles away and his pulse is rapid-fire in his ears. Kurt turns and gives Dave one of the tiny encouraging smiles that sets Dave's spine on fire, hand once again held out to him. The look on his face is faith beyond what Dave deserves, unshakable belief that he can do this if he tries hard enough. Kurt's fingers crook at him, beckoning him out. After a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Dave follows.