Notes: Chapters won't exceed 1,000 words. I'll try to keep the updates frequent.
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He lived for those little sadistic moments. The sound of that body hitting lockers, the gasp as ice cold slushie met face, the fear and wide eyes with every insult – they were a treat, honestly. If he didn't stamp out a bit of Kurt Hummel's soul every day, well Dave just didn't feel right. It was like not starting the morning with five McGriddles or something – balance would be lost, the entire world (his world), would be thrown askew, and he couldn't have that.
Kurt Hummel had to have sore shoulders, and ruined fruity designer clothes, and he had to be scared to death, because those were the principles that made up Dave Karofsky's gravity. If you took any of that away, Dave ran the risk of being flung into deep space, and that's why mere minutes after Kurt's balls suddenly decided to drop, and he decided to push (and push, and push) until the world ripped apart at its seams, Dave finds himself cowering in the boys bathroom's handicap stall.
In between the litany of, "oh god" and "oh shit" echoing through his brain, there's a small request to Jesus to do him a solid, and keep that cripple kid's bladder under control for the duration of his crisis. He paces, he runs his hands through his dark hair over and over, he sniffs back tears (the traitorous ones he couldn't catch form spots just beneath the collar of his shirt), and he stares at the marker graffiti lining the stall door for so long that he has memorized Brittany Pierce's number as well as the thing she is purported to do with her tongue.
Dave imagines that once Hummel's heart has recovered from the shock of it all, he will flit around in that way he does his tongue barely able to hold off on spouting the words until it comes in contact with another human ear.
"You see, I'm not the only one in this school who owns Liza: Live at the Winter Garden."
By the end of fourth period, everyone will know Dave's a liar. By the beginning of the sixth, there will be a facebook page dedicated to photoshopping his likeness wrapped around bare chested male models. By the last bell, he'll be met with whispers, and side-eyes, and smirks instead of the mixture of awe and fear he's worked so hard to maintain.
There will be disgust lined in every inch of Azimio's face ("dude, what the fuck? I've been naked in front of you! Have you been checking out my junk this whole time?), and there will be no trace of anything resembling their bro code – mercy's not for fags, especially fags that pretend to be anything else.
His head feels like its floating because there is no gravity here, and Dave puts his fist dead on the description of Brittany's wonder mouth. His knuckles loudly crack, and the pain rockets up his arm, and all he can do is, cradle it to his chest like a broken wing.