Shoot Out The Lights
i.
The first time it happens, Dave's just got home after a trying school day. Both his parents are out, he has the house to himself and he wants to relieve some tension. So, he lies back on his bed and jerks off.
He starts off thinking about Santana Lopez. She has nice tits, but it's actually her ass that he prefers. He thinks about her taking off her uniform, one piece at a time, slowly unhooking her bra and sliding down her panties. Her back's turned to him.
He gets close thinking about her ass, about the long, lean lines of muscle in her arms and legs, her narrow waist and hips. He imagines her turning her head to smile at him over her shoulder -
- except, by some freakish twist of his imagination, it's Kurt Hummel's face. It's Kurt Hummel stood there, naked, looking at Dave like he wants to get down on his knees and suck his cock right there -
The image stays in his mind as orgasm hits suddenly - Hummel naked in front of him, Hummel on his knees, Hummel sat on his cock - and leaves him shaking.
He lies there, on his usual blue duvet and looks at his old posters on the walls. It all looks normal. He looks normal - but the come drying on his stomach is because of a boy.
He feels sick. But he can't stop thinking about it.
ii.
Every Thursday, the football team have practice right after the hockey team. This is how, two Thursdays after Hummel's face invades his jerk-off session, when Dave has just sat down on the bench to tie his shoes, he looks up to see Hummel naked.
It's only for a split second before he turns away to pull on his underwear, but it's enough to make the blood rush in Dave's ears. He'd been pale and skinny, with long legs and a defined waist, strangely graceful in a changing room full of Neanderthals.
He'd seen Hummel's cock. He feels dizzy.
It shouldn't even be such a big deal - he plays sport, he's seen his teammates' junk more often than he'd cared to count - but. But. Dave gets dressed mechanically, says goodbye to the guys, drives home without putting the stereo on as usual. He gets home and there's no-one in. That's fine by him.
In the basement, they have a selection of gym equipment. Included is a punching bag. You're meant to wear gloves, Dave's pretty sure, but he doesn't bother: he wants this to hurt.
He takes one deep breath before going for it, starting out with just punches then progressing to kicks as well, then just throwing himself at the bag with everything he has. For as long as he can keep fighting, he can stop thinking. He's screaming, he realises, but quietly - a hoarse, breathy scream like he can't get enough air in his lungs.
As soon as he realises this, he stops. And as soon as he stops screaming, he feels suddenly exhausted. He collapses against the bag, wrapping his arms around it, swaying with it with his feet on the ground.
Abruptly, he also realises that he's crying. How long has he been crying for? There's tears all down his face, but he's only just started sobbing.
He thinks of Hummel, thinks of his big doe eyes and his full lips and his naked white body, and is horribly, shamefully aroused. Shaking, still crying, he gets himself off there and then, eyes closed, forehead pressed against the bag and Hummel filling his mind. Coming doesn't feel like release.
Panting, he slides to his knees on the floor. There's semen spattering the bag - he'll clean it up later.
He's still crying.
iii.
He doesn't let himself jerk off thinking of Hummel after that, but it doesn't stop the dreams.
They're not usually coherent, but they're vivid - he wakes up in the early hours, clutching the sheets, that brief glimpse of Hummel's nakedness in his mind. Weeks pass, and the image becomes imprecise: a collection of shapes and curves that suggest a human figure, but the details are hazy and the colours muted, like an old photograph that is constantly taken out and it's lines traced.
Nevertheless, this phantom image gets Dave off more than anything he has ever known. He becomes accustomed to waking up with a hand on his dick, the stark white lines that make up Hummel's body to him now in the forefront of his mind.
Sometimes, in the hazy half-dreams of late mornings, he forgets who he is. He thinks he is someone who has fantasies about Kurt Hummel pressing his white, slender body against his, twining their ankles, resting his head on his chest or in the crook of his neck. Drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind and body forget that they are not allowed this.
When he wakes up at last, he turns the shower up as high as he can stand, burning his skin as he tries to burn away his depravity. If it hurts, he tells himself, that means it's working (he hopes, God, he hopes).
iv.
Hummel becomes a cheerleader and performs '4 Minutes'.
Dave hides in the emptiest bathroom he can find at lunch to jerk off, and swears that the two aren't connected.
v.
After too many dreams and fantasies in which he sees Hummel everywhere, Dave decides that enough is enough. He's tired, overstressed, whatever - something is making him think that he has a crush on Kurt Hummel. Which is ludicrous, obviously. If he thinks about it properly, it'll be resolved and he can get on with his life.
With this purpose in mind, after everyone is asleep one night, he sets out to prove to himself that it's not hot.
He starts by bringing up the faded image of Hummel's body, seen for only a second many weeks ago. He turns it over in his mind, analysing it. There's nothing here that he should want - the flat chest, the boyish hips.
He imagines smoothing his hands down the back of Hummel's neck to the hard knob of bone at the base, spreading outwards to grip his shoulders, then down over the sharp collarbone, down to press against the flat pectorals, down his white stomach to his abdomen -
Dave's hard. He grits his teeth and thinks of the unsexiest thing he could do with Hummel's naked body, willing, wanting -
Suck his cock? Yeah, that ought to do it. So he imagines looking at Hummel's cock. Imaginary-him opens his mouth and puts just the head in, then slides down the shaft to the base, like they do in porn. Maybe he could let go again, just use his tongue to lick around the head and in the slit, then close again and suck until Hummel came all in his mouth -
At some point during this mental exercise, Dave's hand has drifted to his cock. He's getting himself off while fantasizing about giving Hummel a blowjob, down on his knees, Hummel's hand in his hair, making these little noises like ah-ah-ah and oh god, he's got to stop this right now.
In desperation, he casts about for something that is unambiguously Not Hot. Him fucking Hummel? No, better - Hummel fucking him. Hummel's fingers up his ass, stretching him, then his cock, hard and fast, dominating him, making him beg -
And then Dave's coming all over his hand, red-faced and sweaty and on the verge of tears because there is nothing in this scenario that he doesn't want. Coming down from orgasm, he feels hollow and angry and sick, but mostly tired. He's made a mess of the sheets, but he can't be bothered about that right now.
With a slow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he watches the picture come together.
Pushing down the rising wave of hysteria, he thinks wildly - just sex, not like I want to date him - So, naturally, he imagines what it would be like to kiss Hummel, just to prove to himself that he can't want this.
It would be gross, he thinks, chapped lips and stubble, never tender - but Hummel wears fruity-smelling lipbalm and doesn't look like he needs to shave yet, so he'd be soft under Dave's hands and lips. Dave's taller, so he'd have to tilt his chin up, exposing the long line of his white throat, to press their lips together. He's skinny, but he'd be warm and solid in Dave's arms, just the two of them like that for a while-
It's 10:53 on a Sunday night. Dave locks himself in the bathroom, fists his hands in his hair like he's trying to pull it out and cries until it feels like his treacherous heart is going to come right out of his mouth.
and.
After the kiss, Dave flees to the empty boys' toilets on the second floor. The plumbing in here doesn't work properly and nobody's ever got round to fixing it, so it's essentially abandoned.
He goes to the sinks and finds the one that he knows is broken so it has only two settings - 'hot' and 'boiling' - turns it up as high as it will go and starts to methodically wash his hands.
He thought he'd repressed it completely by now, this strange longing for what he is not permitted to want. He'd been getting better - remembering to push Hummel into lockers, slushie him when given the chance, ignoring the thrill that ran up his spine whenever their bodies connected. He doesn't jerk off any more because he can't without seeing Hummel's face. He'd been getting better, he swears.
He's crying. He'd wipe his face, but he's too busy scalding the skin off his hands where he grasped Hummel's face.
Abruptly, he realises that he can still taste Hummel on his lips and tongue. A part of Hummel is inside him. It should disgust him, but he's no longer surprised to feel his body react otherwise. He turns off the water, opens his jeans and jerks off roughly with one burnt-red hand. He doesn't close his eyes: he looks at himself in the mirror, sees the red, tear-stained face and thinks, this is what you are.
He comes with what might be a groan, but is closer to a sob. This is it - once you've had a bite of the apple, you're kicked out forever.
But, he thinks, what if no-one else knows you've taken the fruit? He can't get better, but he can cover his tracks.
Slowly, the sense of despair fades away into a kind of preternatural calm. He cleans himself up, finds a sink that produces cold water to wash his face, and formulates a plan. Exiting the bathroom, he leaves no evidence. The corridor is clear.
He throws his shoulders back and pastes a smirk on his face. Dave Karofsky ain't no fuckin' homo - now to prove it to the world.