Two: Sequentially
Sighing loudly, I fall onto my couch and flip channels on my teeny twenty-something inch TV, a hand-me-down from my parents. I find a random double feature of the two Tron movies, one over thirty years old and the other within ten. I watch it mindlessly, nothing else very interesting on. I wish they'd show re-runs of the Tyra Banks Show. I used to watch it all the time when I was younger.
My cat suddenly leaps up onto my yummy, purring moderately. I remember when I first got him: he was one of those "free kittens!" offers, and I melted when I saw his cute little face. Nearly entirely black, he has two patches of cream on one paw and the end of his tail. His eyes are large and green, a thin rim of orange around the edges.
"Hiya, buddy," I murmur as I stoke the soft fur along his back. His butt goes up in the air, tail erect. I laugh and scratch where his spine meets the base of his tail. He nearly falls forward, but catches himself enough to lie down on me, heat radiating from his tiny feline body. I smile as his purring grows, my hand rubbing his chest and under his chin.
"Meerwow," he mews. He's gotten bigger, but not by much. He's like a teenage cat right about now, not fully grown but no longer a kitten, either. He runs his face against mine, and snuggles under my chin, into my neck.
"Stop that, Figgles," I giggle, his fur tickling me. His name is one of those silly ones that evolved from a different name entirely. Originally, Finn and I decided to poke fun at our old principal by calling him Mr. Figgins, but then we realized the cat was too cuddly and happy to be that old stick-in-the-mud, so we changed it a little to simply Figgles.
My cat doesn't obey. If anything, he rebels by kneading dough with his clawless paws against my chest, tickling me further.
"Ah! Stop, stop!" I laugh, and he doesn't like the earthquake of my laughter rumbling beneath him, so he hops off with a bored expression on his furry face. Tron being neglected, I click the TV off and head into my kitchen. Sitting on my miniature table is the script. I know most of it by heart, I'd like to think, seeing as how I know the movie and all of it's extended scenes like I know the back of my hand. But as I flip through it, I realize that it is in fact quite different. There's more going on; more songs, more dialogue, etcetera. I sigh as I leaf through the pages some more and finally toss the packet down onto the table again. I run my hand through my hair, the gel just about dissolved.
It's eight o'clock and I don't know what to do with myself. I purse my lips in thought, one hand coming up to tap them idly. Shrugging, I whip out my cell phone and text Mercedes. She doesn't live nearby at all, but we keep in touch frequently. Some high school friends truly do last forever.
Hey girl, I write, How was your day?
A response pops up on the screen within seconds. Uhg. The worst. That guy I was dating decided to get some elsewhere behind my back since I wasn't putting out. I swear, life is just an extension of high school, with even MORE intense drama! I hate it, Kurt.
I laugh a little at the irony and truth in her statement. Yeah, well, at least you dumped his ass, right?
Oh, you bet your cute white ass I did! What about you, though? How was your day?
Can I call you and tell you about it? It's something I think you'd want to hear, Merce.
'Kay.
I hold down the five key; she's on speed dial, naturally, after Carole and my dad and Finn and my old college roommate, another BFFL (best friend for life). It barely rings before her voice says, "'S up, Kurt?"
"Hi," I reply. "Um, you're not going to believe this, Mercedes. Like, seriously not believe it." I sound both excited and reluctant, and I think she hears both in my tone because she immediately understands.
"Oh, this has to be good. Tell me, tell me! – Wait, did you get the part? Is my angel gonna be Angel?"
I laugh at her calling me her angel. "Well use of a pun, my dear," I answer teasingly. "And yes, I did! But that's not the juicy part. Things only get weirder."
"I'm so happy for you! But what d'ya mean, things get weirder?" she questions, and I can picture the frown on her slim face (she joined a dance group and lost a ton of weight from doing all of its gigs. She's still as voluptuous as ever, but without the excess chub. It's adorable).
"I mean, there was this hot guy there. He plays my better half. He's everything that's my type: manly, brunet, built, and gay. But it's someone we know, Merce. It's someone from McKinley."
"Get out," she gasps, obviously astounded. "Who, who? You have to tell me who, Kurt! The tension is wearing on me."
I pause for dramatic effect, and I stifle a giggle when she groans in frustration.
"Out with it, boy! Seriously!"
"All right, all right; I'll spill. Don't get your Victoria's Secret undies in a bundle," I joke, smirking. It's always fun to mess with her. "But I'm still in shock about it, and a tad repulsed."
"…Repulsed? God, he must be some ug-mug or nerd or something for you to be grossed out by a hottie," she teases.
I roll my eyes and switch the receiver to the other ear. "No, he was just a chubby jerk." I don't stall any longer. "It's Dave Karofsky."
I yank the cellular device away from my ear as she roars, flabbergasted, into the phone. "NO FUCKING WAYYYY!"
"Yes way," I answer when she's done. "It's him. And believe it or not, he actually has his shit together. I'm impressed, but I can't forget who he used to be to me, and the rest of the school."
"God, I know. He's the reason we had to get you a special pass to prom our senior year, even though he'd already graduated by then. Why did you stay at Dalton after he graduated, though? You never told me, and it's been approximately seven years now," Mercedes mutters, and I wince on the other end of the line. I'm not sure I want to tell her.
I sigh heavily. "I got used to Dalton. They were stuck-up, put-you-in-a-box-of-conformity type of arrogant assholes, and I even started to dislike Blaine because he was so condescending, but admittedly, I loved the teachers and the bully-free atmosphere and the fact that there weren't any slushies at the school to throw. So even with Karofsky out of the way, I knew I would never be nearly as accepted at McKinley as I was at Dalton," I confess.
"Wow. I never knew," she murmurs, but a smile soon touches her voice. "Well, anyway. This sounds interesting. How are you going to pull off all those love scenes, now? You said he changed, but no one knows how deep that runs. And what about you?" she asks.
"I'm not following. What about me?" I toss back at her.
"I mean, you're different, too, Kurt. Still have the same confidence, I know, but you're more mature about things now. So how will this affect you?"
I don't want to tell her that it already has, what with me reverting back to my bitchy high school self within minutes of speaking to Karofsky alone. Instead, I make up a white lie. "I don't think it will. I think things will go smoothly as long as he doesn't try to date me."
"…You mean he's interested in you, his former prey?" she says, cracking up. "Oh, that's richly ironic. Not to mention a bit creepy."
"Not creepy, per se," I sniff. "Just… uncommon. It was unlikely enough that he and I even met again. And in Chicago, of all places! Why didn't I stay in New York?"
"…Because you hated the smog and over-population and assholes and the giant competition for parts," Mercedes responds immediately, knowing me and my experiences in New York all too well. "Besides, Chicago is nice. You like it there, aside from the winters."
I nod. "True, true," I agree. "But still. Karofsky. I mean… Dave. Him. Yeah, what am I supposed to do with that?"
"I thought you said it was fine as long as he doesn't try dating you," Mercedes counters with evident shrewdness and smirking in her tone.
"…Well…" I hesitate, scuffing one of my socked feet on a cat toy, "Yes, but… uhg. I dunno. It's all just so awkward."
"It's only awkward if you make it, hun," she reminds me. "And it's only awkward to you because you find him attractive now, am I right?"
I groan in a whining sort of way. "Mercedes, you've got to stop rummaging through my thoughts. It's like you live to pick my brain or something."
She laughs heartily. "I knew it! You already kind of like him because he looks and acts different, and yet you don't want to like him because of your history with him!" she says in conclusion, as if she'd just figured out the greatest riddle of all time. Or a Rubix cube; there isn't much of a difference between the two.
I grit my teeth agitatedly. "Shut up. That couldn't be further from the truth. I said he was handsome, and it's true, but that doesn't mean I like him."
"Uh-huh," Mercedes pretends to concur with me, but I know she's just playing. The air of a musical undertone to her hum makes it clear to me.
I open my mouth, about to convince her further, when she abruptly cuts me off.
"Anyway, back to the good news. You got the part! You're gonna be Angel! That's so fabulous, Kurt. I'm overjoyed for you. But you better not let this fame get to your head, or I swear I'll knock you down a couple pegs," she warns.
Chuckling, I put her on speaker while I get my cat some food. His dish is empty. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," I respond idly. A frown adorns my features. "But it doesn't feel as fabulous, seeing as how I now have to practice with Karofsky."
"Him again? Boy, can't you just let things be? It is what it is. Unless he breaks his arm and his understudy fills in for him, you're stuck with him."
Dammit. I hate it when she makes good points. An idea occurs to me, however. I grin wickedly, leaning into my phone while I pour the dry cat food to say slyly, "Now that you mention it, it wouldn't be too difficult to accidentally push him down a flight of stairs, ultimately breaking his leg or his arm or both, and sparing me the trouble of having to work with him… Or, you know, there's always the cursed M-word of theatre."
"Macbeth?"
"Gaspeth, Mercedes! You said it!"
"Yeah, but I'm not in the play, so it's all good," she retorts, thinking herself clever. "And don't go getting any ideas. To be honest, I think this is a great way to settle your leftover high school bullshit," my friend says, and I can just hear the amusement in her voice.
I scowl at her. "Mercedes, I swear, sometimes you are the absolute most infuriating –"
"Oh!" she interjects, her voice startled. "My soon-to-be ex-boyfriend's calling in. Time to go dump that cheating bastard," she remarks with vengeful vigor. Hell hath no fury like a black woman scorned. "Tootles, Kurtie!" she coos, and in seconds all I hear is the fuzzy silence of a deal line.
I sigh as I hang up the phone and toss it aside. I put away the cat food bag, glance at the clock, and suddenly, I feel a worn out and tired as a retired construction worker.
Peeling off my clothes to sleep in my underwear, I curl up in my warm bed and force myself not to make up imaginary possible instances as to what might happen tomorrow. I hate my over-active imagination. I just want to sleep.
Figgles hops up onto the bed and slides up against my back where I lay on my side, a body pillow tucked between my legs. The sound of his purring and soft breathing lulls me into a semi-dreamlike state, and finally, into blissfully unaware slumber.
.o0o.
I slowly blink myself awake, my cat gone from my side and the early morning light nearly blistering my eyes. I wince, and as I stretch – making those bizarre-but-totally-human-and-necessary squeaks and grunts as I do so – I quickly run over my mental to-do list for the day.
First, I wan to look out the window to check the weather I need to know what it's like out there if I want to plan the correct (and fashionable) outfit for it.
Second, I need to shower. Badly. I hate that greasy feeling of all of the oil that rose to my skin over the right.
And third, I need to run some errands. Thank goodness I don't have work today; that would royally suck.
(I don't even want to remotely think about practice at five tonight. Tch. I'm still debating on whether or not I'm excited for or entirely dreading it.)
It's sunny outside, a fresh layer of snow on the sidewalks, the streets already reduced to grayish-brown slush from all of the cabs and busses and other vehicles. If the violent swaying of the trees and blowing of the snow is any indication, then I think it must be best to dress with multiple layers today.
I rush through getting ready, grabbing an untoasted bagel on my way out the door. I glance at the clock; it's just after ten thirty. I stop for my usual coffee, stir up some small talk with Alicia (leaving out having to act with my former high school bully, but including excitedly that I got the part), and proceed to the nearest place of errand-running on my mental list.
I grab the essentials; hair gel, toilet paper, paper towels, lotion, a fresh pack of disposable razors, and the like. I use my debit card, run back out into the bone-scrapingly frigid air, and plow onward to my next location: the dry-cleaner's. I pick up my clothes, tuck them under my arm, and head out again. I get some food from the convenience store near a comic book shop, getting the simple, cheap things like instant noodles (also known as ramen) and some impulse buys (such as sour cream and onion Lays chips). Nothing very healthy, I realize a bit guiltily, so I also purchase some clementines. I adore those cute little seedless oranges.
I spend most of my day like this, bouncing between stores and waving at some passersby who smile at me and my arms full of bags.
Nearing my apartment around three o'clock, I drop off everything, putting away each little item, and I grab something small to eat. By this time, I'm not sure what to do with myself. I make a majority of my money from my miscellaneous gigs (I've sung at coffee shops and little clubs and such) and my part-time job. But on days when I'm not working, I don't know what to do. It's like I have too much free time on my hands.
If I were an artist, I'd spend it drawing. If I were a nerd, I would probably be on the computer doing something as pointless as browsing DeviantART or stalking people on Facebook or Twitter or surfing through Tumblr and LiveJournal communities and forums, or I might even read or write fanfiction. But I am none of these things, and I'm too broke to go shopping as much as I'd like to, and I don't have that many friends here yet.
Sort of makes me miss college. I always had something to do back then; go out with friends, go to a party, smooze people, flirt with cute guys that were questionable in their orientations (such as bisexual or possibly homosexual like myself), and even do homework or a project that was assigned to me. I was part of all of the theatre and singing classes and clubs, and I went to a lot of independent and Hollywood-popular films at the small, student-exclusive theatre built as part of the school.
Always something to do.
But now… well. I never know where to start. Hopefully, Rent will consume my life for a while and I lose some of this free time. It's boring as Hell.
Shrugging on my coat again, I decide to blow time until five by wandering around the city, maybe going to Millennium Park. That Bean statue-thing never ceases to amuse me with the way it warps how people look and at the same time, reflects the entire Chicago skyline. It's especially nice on says like this one, when there's snow on the ground.
Halfway to the park, I take a detour to a quaint little art supply store near Roosevelt University. It looks sleek and modern and even though I can't draw or paint to save my life, the look and feel of art supplies has always drawn me in. Must be the musical artist in me, appreciating other forms of the arts.
As I step into the store, the smell of oil paints and brushes and wood greets my nose, lightly laced with the pungent scent of turpentine. It's like art class in high school all over again, but better.
Smiling minutely to myself, I wander the aisles, admiring all of the various sizes of sketchbooks, ranging to the size of about my foot or hand to something taller and far wider that I am. There are canvases and rows of colored pencils and copic markers and India ink with styluses and calligraphy toppers. I run my hand over some cloth in another aisle, and lightly fan the hairs of a fat brush.
Over in the corner before many of the wood supplies, there's a canvas set up with some acrylics on a pallet beside it, four or five old, used brushes next to it, along with a small jar of water. Grinning, I pick up a brush, rinse it, and select a dark teal hue. I doodle a heart with stitches down the middle beside a rather artistic tree.
Setting the brush down, I turn to leave the store again. But as I move to, an employee in a forest green apron with the store's logo in the corner stops dead and gapes at me. I gape back, and the employee fumbles, nearly dropping a stack of chalk pastels in boxes in his arms.
Slowly, a wry smile touches the edge of my lips. "Fancy that: you work here of all places," I state as I place a hand on my hip, my bag swinging back slightly where it rests against my side. "And here I expected you to be a buss boy at, I dunno, the Cheesecake Factory."
"Actually," he replies a hair sardonically, setting the pastels in their proper place without looking at me, "I did work there, as a waiter, over the summer. I got fired for being a jerk to a group of five snobby Canadian tourists that kept ordering almost every damn thing on the menu."
Ah, so he still has his moments of being a bully. Doesn't surprise me. I roll my eyes. "Gee, Dave, I don't know how much more predictable you can get."
He finally looks at me, his dark russet orbs burrowing into mine. "And I don't know how much more unpredictable you can get," he counter smoothly. He takes a step forward, dusting some of fallen pastel dust from his apron. "What are you doing here?"
"It looked inviting," I reply indignantly.
He grins what can only be described as ruefully. "Damn. And here I was hoping you were doing the flattering thing and either stalking me or waiting for my shift to end."
I frown at this. "There are two problems with that theory: one, I am not at all skilled in stalking, nor do I care to ever dabble in it, and two, you never told me where you worked, so how was I supposed to know to wait here for your shift to end?"
He shrugs, dismissing my tone. "By stalking me, of course," he replies, and there's that other smile again, the one that might just so happen to be flirtatious. I shake the feeling off with a roll of my shoulders and my hand to my bag.
"Your hopes are too high," I say stiffly. I move to walk past him to exit the store, but he catches me by the strap of my bag as I pass.
"And what's wrong with that?" he questions with a slight edge to his voice. His face softens a second later, his hand releasing my possession. He sighs through his nose, one hand rubbing a temple. "Sorry. I didn't mean it to come out that way."
I send him a puzzled look. What had just happened there? I honestly don't know if that was meant to be a slight reversion to his old self or…
His voice distracts me. "Anyway. Where are you headed? Maybe we don't have to meet at Barnes and Noble after all."
I blink to focus. "Er, the park just across the street. I was going to look at some of the sculptures again. I don't have much money for a museum visit, and I'm bored, and for once, the sun is actually out, so I thought I might as well enjoy it while I can."
He nods, as if he's done the same thing before. Maybe he has. "Okay. Do you mind if I joined you in an hour and a half, then?"
I purse my lips in thought, one finger tapping the seam of them. I take notice in the back of my mind that Karofsky's eyes are tracking the movement, his brows relaxing again. "Sure, I guess," I say at last, giving a twitch in my left shoulder as a half-shrug. "We can go through the script someplace else, though. It's too cold to stand out there forever. Hell, I might retreat to warmth now and go out there later to meet you," I add absentmindedly. I wave it aside with one hand. "Anyway. By the Bean?"
Dave offers another brief nod. "Yeah, that works. See you soon, then."
Soon. Right.
(I ignore the uncomfortable air between us as I wave goodbye and leave. Again, I ask myself: why did it have to be him?)
.o0o.
"Kurt!" someone says, grabbing my attention with a none-too-subtle holler. It's dark outside, now, since December brings with it a sun that sets at, like, four-forty or so.
I whirl around just as teeny little flakes begin to cascade from the sky. I glance up, not at all having noticed the rush of thin clouds that came with the wind to cover my sunny day just as the sun had gone down.
Dave Karofsky jogs over to where I stand before the looming, reflective Bean. His breath is coming out in short bursts, the puffs of white air in the streetlamp light looking like tiny snow clouds. I smile a bit despite myself. (Curse me for finding his current appearance appealing!)
"Hey," he says, his voice not breathless but his chest rising and falling more than normal under his thick coat.
"Hey," I return, adverting my gaze. "So," I start cautiously, "Where should we go?"
I can hear the smile in his voice, even though I'm looking out at the falling wisps of dandruff-like snow.
"Well, there's always one of our apartments," he offers, and I know that it's meant to be suggestive, even if his tone sounds entirely innocent. I want to smack him on the arm for even bringing one of those locations up.
"Certainly not!" I retort.
He chuckles mildly. "Don't be such a girl, Kurt. I didn't mean it like that. It's just someplace familiar for either of us and someplace warm. And someplace where the whole world won't get spoilers for Rent."
There he goes, making inarguable points again. Fuck. I hate that this adult version of Dave is actually intelligent and knows how to flip around half of the things I say. It's irritating. (And no, it's not at all fresh and interesting and alluring. It can't be that. Why would having witty banter with this guy be any of those things?)
"Fine," I growl, "But it's going to be my apartment, because I want the home-field advantage of knowing where the exits are."
Dave laughs again, his eyes sparkling. No, wait, that must be the lighting. That's all. "You know, I kind of knew you'd say something like that. You haven't changed much, Kurt."
Actually, I have changed, but you being you makes me like how I was. Or something. I never took psychology, so I won't even pretend to understand what the Hell is going on here.
"You place it is, then," he says, gesturing toward the street. "Lead the way."
"Do you even have your script on you?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.
"No worries," Dave remarks. He pats his chest, and I can hear the crinkle of thick paper. "It's in a pocket in here."
I sigh and start walking. "Okay, then. Let's go."
On the way, it's mostly silent between us. Then, "Kurt, where do you work?"
"Why, are you trying to stalk me like you accused me of doing?" I answer with a bored voice.
"Naw, nothing like that. I was just curious, since you seemed to detest it when you brought up your hours when we re-met."
I make a huffing noise. "I do hate it." I pause, waiting for a pedestrian walking signal to light up. Cars whiz by over the crosswalk before us. "I work at a Walgreens. I fucking hate that store, but it was the only place hiring with decent hours and benefits at the time. I mostly stock shelves, go in back to get stuff, and sometimes work the register. It's redundant and I get nothing but a serving of crazy, weird, old people in there. Occasionally there's a young mother with screaming child on the side, but the near-daily dose is the same." I make a passing growl just as the signal changes, and we start walking again.
To his credit, Karofsky doesn't mock me. He simply nods. "Yeah, when I was starting out, I worked at a MacDonald's." He grimaces when I glance sideways at him. "Worst. Job. On. The. Planet."
I giggle. (Wait, giggle? At something Karofsky is saying?) "Yes, I'd imagine so. I personally made it a rule to never work at a food joint, especially not one I ever eat from. It's just wrong."
"At least we agree on some things, Hummel." And he smiles at me again. In that warm, flirty way.
I glance back at the path ahead of us. It's dusted with snow, the breeze non-existent where we are between the skyscrapers. I turn a corner, and Dave follows closely behind. Too close. I stop, my body tense with some emotion I can't place, and Dave bumps into me.
"What, are we here already?" he poses, purposely backing away from me as soon as he made contact.
I swallow, wet my dry lips, and shake my head. "No. Sorry. I thought I saw something," I lie, and continue walking. Dave doesn't follow as closely any longer, and relief spreads through me. I don't know if it's the history between us that makes me distrust him, or the annoyingly nagging attraction I'm developing, or even a combination of the two conflicting within me, but it keeps me on edge when I'm around him.
I fear how this will affect our soon-to-be first practice, and later, our rehearsals at the theatre, together. It unnerves me and sends shivers down my spine. I'll have to dance with him, I realize. And stage-kiss him.
I grow cold, something lighting up in the pit of my belly.
A kiss. A damn kiss is what started this whole mess, if I think about it. He was always a locker-shover and name-caller and slushier before that kiss in the locker room, and then all of the things that followed; the death threat, the wink, the stroke down my chest, the taking of my wedding topper, the meeting in Sue Sylvester's office, the expulsion, the avoidance, and once, a brief run-in at a mall just before college. I had seen him, but he hadn't seen me at first, and then when he had, he made a weird expression I still can't figure out before brushing purposely past me without looking back.
I freeze again as we approach my apartment complex. The building looks like a safe haven all of a sudden.
"Well, uh, here we are," I state casually.
Dave whistles. "Wow. Nice place. Couldda done better myself, now that I think about it."
"Whatever," I mutter under my breath. Let's just get this over with, I'm tempted to add, but I hold my tongue. We step in, and I take the stairs two at a time until we reach my door on the sixth level. I unlock the door, my cat meows, and we step onto the threshold. I still my breath for a moment.
Dave grins as he walks in past me and takes a quick overview of my mild décor (Ikea stuff; it would look nicer had I possessed more money to use) and nodding his approval. "I expected no less of you, Kurt. This is classy."
And my breath is released, and as I shut the door behind me, I know this is going to be the longest hour (and probably extended past said time limit) of my life.
