A/N: HOLY SHISHKABOBED SPONGEBOB ON A SKEWER! 28 reviews, 33 favs, and 60 alerts ALL AFTER ONLY #ONE# CHAPTER? Are you guys trying to kill me? I seriously had a heart attack this morning when I saw that I had 95 e-mails, and throughout the day when I only got more and more. Mind you, some of them weren't for this story and even fewer weren't FF.n at all, but STILL. Still... just... DAYUM, GUIZ. I fucking love you ALL.
...Speaking of cussing, should I up the rating of this story to M for all the swears and planned violence? Because there won't be any sex in this. So yeah, I dunno. :/
ENJOY. This chapter is about 1,000 words longer than the last. C:
(I have so much plotted for this story that I have a headache, sheesh... D: )
It's funny,
The scattered, random thoughts
That drift into your mind
When you're caught between the Dream Realm and Reality,
Sitting on the fence, teetering, tottering, not quite conscious yet
But conscious enough to think a little,
The thoughts, in retrospect, ones that make not a scrap of sense
But somehow seem fine and normal when they float into being.
I'm there, now,
Trying to wake up, trying to remember who I am
And what's going on currently in my life
As I shake off my dreams.
I remember dying,
I remember my name,
I remember Kurt Hummel's face,
I remember how easy it was to slip back into my high school routine,
I remember little else.
Only that things move by quickly,
And nothing seems to faze me;
Not after death,
Not after getting a second chance at life,
Not after all the pain and bliss I never thought I could experience,
And yet here I am,
Experiencing it.
My eyes startle open as a loud snort wakes me. Had I been snoring again? Must have. I do that sometimes: wake myself from whatever hazy, sleepy stream of consciousness I was having by snorting awake, cutting my sleep off mid-snore. It's a jarring habit, but whatever. I deal. It's just how I am sometimes, I guess.
Yawning, I have no recollection of what I had been thinking of. I know it was something, but for the life of me, I can't recall. Whatever it was, it must not have been very important.
Idly, I roll out of bed and hop in the shower, humming to myself like I usually do. When I get out, dressed and ready for some breakfast (man, am I hungry), my mom is at the table with a mug of coffee in her hands and one of her fingers playing with the smooth glaze over the handle.
"Good morning, David," she murmurs, and she gives me a waning smile. I frown at her for a moment before shrugging my shoulders and pouring myself a bowl of cereal.
"Morning, Ma," I reply easily. I sit down and start crunching away, almost forgetting how much I love having breakfast without going straight to work.
"David, I've been wondering… you're different lately. Did something… change?" she asks, and I swallow hard, blinking as I connect my gaze with hers. Her face is calm, her expression unreadable, and there's a knowing curiosity in her voice.
"Uh," I begin, sitting up straight and setting my spoon in the bowl, "Aside from me telling you the truth?" I say, referring to my sexuality.
"Yes, besides that," she remarks with nothing in her tone. I can't tell if there's an edge or not, or if she's about to smile or not. It's a little unnerving, not being able to read my usually-wears-her-heart-on-her-sleeve mother. She clears her throat mildly. "It's just, you seem so very… matured all of a sudden."
I eye her suspiciously. What does she know? Something I don't? "Not really."
"No, I think you are. You're doing your homework, you haven't played any video games – which is strange, because you're usually a junkie – and just yesterday when I asked you how school was, you actually told me what happened that day. Ever since you came out to me, you've been… different. More cooperative, more responsible, and generally more adult. So, being the caring mother I am, I wonder if hiding your sexuality from us was holding you back and making you volatile, or… maybe, instead, you've recently made a huge jump."
Okay, this is getting beyond weird. I take my spoon and shove another bite into my mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mom," I say cautiously, because is she insinuating that she knows who I really am? That I'm not high-school-David, but that I'm actually grown-up-David? How would she even begin to guess, or know, or –
"Well, my mistake, then. Sorry if I'm confusing you," she says with a soft smile. She takes a sip of her coffee before standing from her seat to finish getting ready for her job. "Have a nice day at school, sweetie." And then with a pat on my head to muss my hair, she's gone.
I stare after her for a long moment, but then decide to brush it off and finish up breakfast so that I can get to school at a respectable time. I'd hate to ruin the new reputation I seem to be gathering these days: that I'm some sort of reformed bully, someone turned into an average jock-who-isn't-always-a-jerk, and I kinda like it.
.o0o.
"Since we're on somewhat decent terms with one another, may I inquire as to why you harassed the Glee Club for so many years? I understand singling me out, but what about the others?" Kurt approaches me almost immediately when he enters the cafeteria later the same day.
"First my mother's asking weird questions, and now you?" I snort, rolling my eyes a little as I shuffle in the lunch line to get some pizza.
"I don't know what your mother asked, but this isn't a weird question. This is perfectly a reasonable inquiry, seeing as how you're not half the dumb, asshole jock I thought you to be. There's more to you, and since my father constantly likes to remark what a stubborn mule I am, I'm playing it up by getting to the bottom of the endlessly mysterious pit that is you."
"…Was that a fat joke?" I scowl, because I really hate how people reference to my build. I'm a little stocky, I know that, but I'm not fat. I don't have a bottomless pit for a stomach, and I don't need Kurt ragging on me about this again.
Kurt rolls his eyes at me, and throws a hand up in the air. "No! Gaga, why do you take everything so personally?"
"Why do you refuse to say 'God' and instead name some freaky chick who sings?" I retort. "And why do you toss in so many words when all you want to say is that you're stubborn and demand answers from me? Seriously, Kurt. Lighten up a little, and at least try to act less high-and-mighty."
He makes this flabbergasted noise before huffing and placing his hands on his slim hips. I pretend that my eyes don't follow the movement before I turn and pay for my food.
"Okay, fine. I'll try to simplify my speaking a little for you, since you seem incapable of understanding anything more. But as for the answers thing? Yeah, it'd be real nice to have some," he remarks as he follows me to my table. My friends send me a look, but know not to say anything this time.
"First of all, tons of jocks pick on Glee kids. It just happens, okay? It's how things are done around here, and I just hopped on the bandwagon because it was easy, and because I didn't want to lose friends or be called a pussy. And secondly, maybe I did have a deeper reason, Hummel. Ever imagined that there are plenty of vocally talented kids in this school, but most of us don't have the balls to show it, so we get jealous and hide behind slushie facial deliveries?" I relay with a little bitterness, but plenty of truth. And the other jocks at the table shift uncomfortably because they know that what I just said is more than any of them would ever have the courage to own up to.
"…Are you telling me that you can sing? And you're jealous that the Glee members and I can perform with the confidence you lack?" he repeats, his face and tone more than surprised.
"Yes, thank you for summing up exactly what I just said," I retort. I send him a glance around a bite of pizza. "Man, do you people need to read some psych books. It totally explains the mentality behind what I just said. I mean, really: why didn't you figure it out?"
"…So… you can sing."
"Yeah, I pretty much implied that I could. What does it matter? And dude, you're seriously grating on my nerves with your pushy bullshit," I say, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Cue my defensive reactions. I don't like the glint in Kurt's eyes; that spark of intrigue over the fact that I can sing. I mean, so what? I'm not half bad, and I know it, but it's not something I want to pursue. And the fact that he keeps insisting all these things – like being 'acquaintances,' and my singing, and following me around – it makes me wonder if he's just looking for attention because he knows I like him, or if he's trying to do the world a favor and reform me or some shit. It's seriously annoying, and sort of attractive, and I really, really hate it. But I'm getting back into the flow of being a teenager again, and if it means dealing with this petty stuff – and if it means getting a chance to be closer to Kurt – then I can deal. But he's got to stop being so forceful. The dude's strong, in a sense, and it kinda freaks me out (but in a good way. Huh. Wonder if this is why Hudson is dating Berry?).
Kurt's feathers ruffle like a bird that got tremendously offended, but he's soon exhaling and shaking his head minutely. "I suppose I have to get used to your lack of tact and your tendency to get pissy when you're flustered."
"Who said I was flustered?" I retort sharply, because all the guys around us started snickering at that. I can feel my face heat up; blushing being something normal and awkward since puberty, but still having memories of being twenty-three makes it feel unnatural on me. Dammit, why does Kurt get to be the one person on this entire fucking planet who can make me react so strongly? Like that whole… kissing thing. I probably could have skipped doing it again, but I just had to, because of him.
"Easy, Fury," he says with a smirk, noticing the way my hand is curling into a fist. I immediately release it, and return my gaze to my food. I'm not hungry anymore (shocker!), but I bring the slice of pizza to my mouth and take a bite anyway. Meanwhile, the prissy little singer is going on to say, "It just surprised me, that's all. And it's made me understand two things: one, that most jocks are hypocrites. And two, that you're not a bad guy anymore. You're telling me the truth, and often. And if I can tell the truth in return, I can honestly say that these surprises I keep getting from you aren't entirely dismissible; in a good way."
I'm not entirely sure what he means by that – is he saying that he likes the fact that I'm some closet-case queer who can sing and is half in love with him? – so I just shove more pizza into my mouth and ignore the onslaught of remarks coming from the others, things about Kurt flirting with me and how I should do them all a favor and relieve the sexual tension by either making Hummel leave or just molest him already.
"How about the lot of you shut the fuck up? There's no sexual tension, okay? I-I'm not – I mean, why would I ever –?" and I'm red-faced again, and this pizza really isn't sitting right with me, so I just take my tray and dump it, marching directly out of the lunchroom. Thank God Kurt doesn't follow.
But I'm beginning to get the feeling that this second chance at life thing? Yeah, it's not going to be easy. Getting a redo is all great and fine, but this is my life now, which means it's going to be just as fucking difficult as it was the first time around. Which sucks. And I hate it. And while I love correcting a few of my mistakes, resolving some of my regrets…
Maybe it would've been better had I died. Because this, right here? Being in high school again, with the teasing, immature student body and the irritating, droning faculty and all of the complications of raging hormones and conflicting, explosive emotions?
Yeah. Not fun. I almost miss the simple challenges of construction working.
.o0o.
As I'm walking home one evening after about a week of Kurt's pestering me to try out for Glee Club because he thinks it'll bring me full-circle and everyone closer together and can act as therapy or some shit, I come into the house with all this on my mind to find my father holding a bag of ice to his eye.
I freeze in the doorway, tossing down my backpack and striding over to the couch. "Dad, what the hell is this?" I say in regards to his black eye, and as I come closer, the busted lip to go with it.
My mother sighs languidly, angry tears in the corners of her eyes.
"Your father – acting like a fucking fifteen-year-old – got fired from work today when his boss started rambling up a storm about how all homosexuals should 'get AIDs like they deserve and die.' And, knowing that his own son is one of those aforementioned individuals, he got defensive and into an argument that resulted in his boss getting a few good swings in, and your father retaliating. So here we are, currently living on a single income, and your father and his boss are both at home getting nursed by their wives for their arrogant testosterone-fueled rages!" she rants, drilling out each word like a military sergeant.
I blink rapidly a few times, guilt sinking into the pit of my stomach, stilling my heart on its way. "This is my fault. If I hadn't told Mom, then –"
"Are you insane?" my dad says calmly, a smile making its way onto his usually stern face. "That was the most fun I've had in a while. I forgot what it was like, getting into a fistfight over heated words. Felt good; felt like I was a kid again. It also felt good to stand up for my son and all the people in the world who are like him. Because the world is cruel to gays sometimes, I realize. Even I was one of those people, not two weeks ago. But David, I love you, and if taking a few punches and dishing out a few of my own will prove a point and help protect you, then I'll gladly do it. So don't even try blaming yourself, son."
I… I can't form the words. I try, even mentally, but all I want to do is cry. When I came out to my parents years later in what feels like another universe, they weren't this supportive. Maybe it's because they figured I was an adult and I could "make my own choices." Maybe it's because they didn't see how much I struggled. But this time, they actually…
"Thank you," I mutter, and turn and exit the room before I can do something stupid, like bawl in front of them. It's too much, really. Too much. I'm used to simpler things, more distance, and all of that. I'm not accustomed to this, any of this: Kurt, Mom, Dad. All of it is just… a lot to suddenly have thrust upon me in this weird, new version of my life; I've dealt with it for the week and a half or so that it's been happening, but now it all seems so…
I shake my head and press my face further into my pillow; my bed, the little save haven I escaped to. I roll over onto my back and exhale loudly.
I feel… muddled. Happy on one hand, guilty on another, proud in some light, overwhelmed in the shadows. It's like a mixture of awesome and horrible at the same time, and I can't wrap my mind around it.
I almost want to ask, "Is this real life?" in a childish voice, partially to quote a certain post-trip-to-the-dentist child on YouTube, and partially because that's really what I'm thinking right now.
So I just smile, shake my head, and rise from my bed, keen on getting my homework done.
.o0o.
I crack my knuckles anxiously, then run my hands through my hair, then shove them into my pockets. Why did I decide to do this, again? How is this supposed to help me revise my regrets?
Oh, right. Because being in Glee Club looks good on a college application, and I need to get into a relatively nice college in order to get an acceptable degree and get a better, higher-paying job than fucking construction. Right…
That doesn't make me any less retarded-feeling, or any less insecure-feeling, or any less foolish-feeling. I don't belong here. I'm just this… lumbering lumphead standing awkwardly in the center of the room, by the piano guy (what's his name? Brian or Brad or something else with a B?), my tongue flicking out now and then to wet my dry, nervous lips, and help lube my mouth for all the singing I'm going to have to do in a few minutes.
"Okay, Dave. So you're going to be auditioning for Glee for us?" the Spanish teacher – I forget his name, too – asks to clarify.
I try not to look like I'm shaking as I reply indignantly, "Yeah, I am. Kurt goaded me into joining, so here I am. Dunno why it matters, 'cept that it'll look good on my college app."
The teacher makes a face, like he wishes I had a different, more personal reason, but shrugs and gestures to the band to start playing the song I chose. "Well then, by all means, show us what you got!" he says encouragingly.
I inwardly wince. I don't like this. I don't want to be here. But dammit, if I can change in front of other guys and act straight, and if I can play hockey and football with a bunch of people watching me, I can sure as hell sing in front of about a dozen geeks plus some band members and a random teacher. It shouldn't be that complicated. Or nearly this nerve wrecking.
I open my mouth when the music rounds the corner into the section where the lyrics begin, and I start belting out a slower, more acoustic version of 'Broken Man' by Boys Like Girls. It was either that, or 'Learning to Fall.' I feel like some of the lyrics some of the time, I guess. Most songs are like that, and it's kind of a sissy band for a guy like me to listen to.
…Wait. Maybe not. Gay and all that. Damn.
Anyway, this is all I'm thinking of as I sing what I hope is on-key, and try my best not to look at the faces in the chairs in front of me; not at Kurt especially. But fuck, how can I not glance his way a few times, especially during a few of the lyrics I could practically sing to him, they apply so heavily? And yeah, I'm not gonna lie: one of the best perks about this do-over thing is being around him every day again. I fucking love it, and I wonder vaguely if it's unhealthy to have kept a piece of my crush on him up through the twenty-third year of my life. Hmm.
As I finish up the song, I realize something that snaps me out of my singing daze: Kurt isn't afraid of me anymore. Which means he won't go to Dalton. And he has Blaine (who I'm beginning to call 'Bland' in my head) as a friend, but maybe, if I try hard enough… I can remove Blaine as a romantic interest.
Ginning to myself, I nod once in the Glee Club teacher's direction before taking a seat, a little surprised to hear clapping. I earned their applause, without too long of an awkward silence proceeding it? Either they're surprised in a pleasant way, or I can actually sing better than I thought. Huh.
"That was… surprisingly amazing, Karofsky," Kurt murmurs to me from across Hudson, who nods in agreement.
"Yeah, man! I had no idea you could sing like that. Why'd you hold it in?" Hudson asks, and he sends me one of those smiles that makes all the girls swoon.
I roll my eyes at the pair of them. "'Cause it's stupid. Singing will get me nowhere. I'm not that kind of sing and dance guy you'll ever see, like, bustin' out on TV."
"You never know," Kurt says with a smirk, and redirects his attention to what the teacher has to say.
I make a soft scoffing noise. This is unreal. But… I'd be lying if I said I wasn't totally loving it deep down inside.
.o0o.
"Hey Mom," I greet as I come home from my first official rehearsal for Glee Club.
Sectionals are coming up, so Shuester is cracking down on the practices. And he even gave Kurt a solo, something from a musical I've never seen, but know he will sing beautifully, because, well… Kurt has a really fucking gorgeous singing voice. Like his really fucking gorgeous everything else. Including his personality, I've found; just hanging around him, seeing how he interacts with people and how he behaves when he isn't acting bitchy… Hn. Let's just say I'm kind of more than half in love with him now.
I pause in my thoughts, glancing around the house. "…Mom? Hey, Ma, where are ya?"
I thought I saw her car in the driveway. So she's home, right? But there's no response.
"Ma? MOM!" I call out, racing around the house, looking for a sign of life anywhere.
Nothing.
But as I shakily enter my bedroom and drop my bookbag, I find a note taped to my door.
David,
Had to go with your father to the police station. Someone defaced the garage, as you probably noticed. I'm so sorry, sweetie; we try to protect you, but not everything goes according to plan.
Love,
Mom.
…The garage? I honestly hadn't seen anything. I came in from around back, only saw my mother's car in the driveway from a side-view. But… the garage, defaced? Don't tell me that means –
I duck out of my room and try not to walk as slow as I feel with my suddenly heavy legs and enter the garage through the subbasement. Sure enough, the place is wrecked. On both sides of the dented, half-ajar opening in front, there is red and black spray paint all over, even on the floor, and everything is either broken or tipped over. Ransacked without looking for anything.
The messy, ugly, offensive scrawl everywhere is unmistakable. "Faggot. Fag. Your son is queer. You're going to Hell, homo! Thanks for no telling us, pussy! Now you gotta pay. Pay, pay, pay; fag, fag, fag."
A burning, all-consuming rage rises up inside of me. Who told? Who heard? Who did this? I have a clue. 'Thanks for not telling us.' Could be any of the jocks I once called 'comrade.' Any of them; the puckheads, the footballers. Any of them. Azimio… I bet he was one of them. He spray painted 'fucking queer-face' on my car when I first came out during college, before this time-skip restart thing happened. But the others? Who knows. I sure don't. And if I ever found out, I would just beat them all bloody and go to juvie. Not cool.
Seething, I run back inside and dig my cell out of my backpack. I dial Az's number, wait for him to pick up, and when he does, I don't even think twice before shouting, "WHO FUCKING TOLD YOU, ASSHOLE?"
He laughs in my ear. "Dude, you can't say you didn't see it coming. I mean, joining that faggy Glee Club? Hanging out with Hummel? Not beatin' nobody any more, or givin' any more slushies to their faces? It wasn't hard to figure out. That, and I heard how your dad got into a fight with his boss a while back. Now, why would your dad – someone I know ain't a homo-lover – suddenly start defending the shit being talked 'bout by one of his co-workers? And that's when I got it, Karofsky: I got that you were as gay as a fuckin' rainbow. Shouldda stayed hidden, bro. Now we're after you like we were Hummel, but worse. Him? He can't help be who he is. He was born like that, I bet. But you? Dude, you were fuckin' converted. People as normal as you – that don't just fuckin' happen. You were brainwashed, man. You chose this."
"I didn't fuckin' choose anything!" I scream at him. I grind my teeth as I hurl back, "All gays are born this way, numb nuts! D'ya think I would have chosen this if I could? Fuck no! That's why I 'hid' for so long! But you know what? I don't fuckin' care. I'll hash it out with any of you bastards, and as we speak, Az, my mom and dad decided to report your vandalism. How's that feel, fuck-face? No one messes with a Karofsky's property, and now your ass is gonna get owned."
I don't give him time to form a rebuttal. I hang up and delete him from my contacts list. The only friends I have now are the people I used to harass, ironically. And ain't it just the loveliest thing in the world, how royally fucked up I'm making my so-called second chance? I bet whatever higher power gave me this gift is frowning down upon me right now.
Well, fuck you, higher power! I never asked for this. I never asked to be victimized, even if it's maybe something I needed, a lesson or whatever, since I always was the one making victims. But you know what? I'm no victim. I play the self-pity card like everyone else sometimes, but I'm no damn victim.
Brimming with some sort of newfound arrogance ('cause this isn't confidence; only a shallower version of it), I plow through my house and gather up a few necessities – car keys, non-diet soda, letterman, pack of gum – and head back out to my car.
I'm not stupid. I can think of some smart things when I want to. And that conversation with Az? I recorded it onto my phone. Bitch won't know what to do when I go to join my parents at the police station and bust his ass.
And I really thought he was my friend… dammit. Can I never have or be sure of anything?
.o0o.
The police tell me they may or may not be allowed to use the recording since it wasn't a consented one or a professional one, but I bet it'll still count for something. And they inform us that there's a hate-crime here we can definitely sue for if he wanted to. And being the parents they are, my mom and dad were all gung-ho for that.
By the time school starts up again after the weekend, I'm everywhere. My name, my situation, my sexuality, and Azimio and some other jocks are nowhere to be found, suspended until further notice, because the school doesn't take lightly to shit like this.
And the Glee Club – I think they're totally crazy, because they're being all sympathetic and nicer to me than they have been, as if all the slushies and insults and other shit I did to them never counted or mattered or even happened.
And while I'm still furious, Kurt is suddenly right there by my side, and suddenly I can't really think of anything else besides his soft voice talking me down, and his hand reaching out to willingly touch me. Comfortingly, telling me how he knows what it feels like, and how even with the furniture nailed to his roof, nothing compared to the threats being made against me.
And then I'm lost. "Threats?"
"They said, 'Now you gotta pay,' didn't they? There were pictures in the local paper of your garage. They left out yours and your family's names, but we all know it was you. The jocks leaked; proud of what they did, I suppose. And that's why they're all suspended," Kurt informs me, sighing regretfully, and I'm just standing here in the choir room looking probably very lost and astounded and generally floored.
"…Why am I the last to hear about my own life?" I grumble, instantly irate and turning away from Fancy to kick over an empty chair.
"…I'm sorry," is all he can think to say. "I hope you don't mind – not that I would have asked your permission anyway – but I told Blaine. He wants to help."
I grit my teeth. "Blaine? Really? What is it with you and him? I don't like him." Not that he's a bad guy; he's a far better man than I probably ever will be, but still. Him being everything I'm not and obviously possessing the one thing I want – Kurt's undying affection – is enough to make me dislike him.
"…He's a dapper gentleman and a great mentor and friend," Kurt sniffs as he folds his arms over his chest. "You could do to learn a few things from him." He smirks a little. "Like tact, or grace, or how to keep your anger in check, or even a few manners, and while you're at it, perhaps even some vocabulary that doesn't revolve around curse words?"
I plop down on the risers the chairs are normally set up on. I sigh heavily. "Fuck you, Hummel." My heart isn't in the remark. But I do mean this: "I'm not in the best mood, and you picking out all my flaws isn't helping. Makes me wanna set the Fury on you." Really. I want to punch his beautiful face right now.
"Heaven forbid you actually use your fist," Kurt says with an oddly gentle voice, coming to sit down beside me on the riser. He's trying to cheer me up, I think; his eyes are full of light, like he wants to smile, but knows not to. "Look, Karofsky… I know this is probably really difficult for you –"
"No shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue?"
Ignoring my snorted sarcasm, he presses on, "– But you truly are not alone, okay? Blaine wants to help in any way he can, even if he's all brains and no brawn. And me? I want to help you, too. It's what semi-friends and fellow-gays do. You might not be my favorite person in the world…"
"Would be shocked if I was," I retort begrudgingly. I wish I were his favorite person in the world. Especially right now, in this moment; I feel… so close to him. And I wish I could kiss him again, but I just hate seeing that look on his face, the one from before, and the one from somewhat recently. That… shocked/lightly disgusted/confused expression all rolled into a single paled and wide-eyed face.
"…But you're growing on me. You're like the Beast: cranky and not quick to trust or like, on both sides, but capable of some compassion if given the chance," Kurt relays in that weird way he does where he sounds serious, joking, amused, and know-it-all combined into one.
"Did you just compare me to a hairy Disney character?" I frown at him, glancing over. A small smile takes over my mouth when he huffs a short laugh.
"Heh, yeah, I guess I did. Made you feel better though, didn't it?"
"Not really," I say, smiling still, "Only made me feel even more like an ugly, fuzzy bully. Besides, what would that make you? Beauty?"
Kurt makes a face. "I wouldn't step so far," he says a tad icily. He warms again as he adds, "But you're not fuzzy or ugly. A bully and a jerk, maybe, but… Are you fuzzy?"
"I can't believe you took back how ugly I am," I say, not missing it. "And yes, I'm fuzzy. Aren't most guys?"
"No. Well, at least, Finn, Puck, Mike, Sam, and I aren't."
I raise my eyebrows and lean back on my palms, looking away. "Ffft, I don't even want to know how you know that."
"Shut up! I was in football once last year, remember? I've seen the first three change. And Sam was Rocky when we did Rocky Horror Picture Show," Kurt explains hastily, his face pink and his hand reaching out to smack me lightly on the forearm to further shut me up.
I bite back a laugh. "So you do check out other guys in the locker room."
"…Don't act like you never have," Kurt mutters, and yeah, okay, I can't deny that one.
Changing the subject, I add, "You actually did make me feel better, though. This… civil conversation is kinda nice. Friendly. I'm not used to that." And I don't know why I'm being so open, but I am. "And hey, where is everyone else? Glee was supposed to start, like, ten minutes ago."
"They must be held up," Kurt says quickly. Too quick.
"…Did you ask them not to come in here while you talked to me or something?" I accuse, a defensive frown back on my face. "I don't need to be babied, Fancy. I'm no delicate flower, no damsel in distress. That's your forte."
"I'm constantly shocked at your hidden vocabulary not littered with swears," he comments idly, clearly avoiding the accusation.
I stand from the risers. "Okay, that's it. I'm leaving."
"What? Why? We have practice to do! Sectionals are –"
"Almost here. Yeah, I know. But you guys don't need me much anyway, and besides, if you and your friends are going to keep treating me like some pitiful puppy in need, then I'm out of here." And I don't know why I'm being so cruel. These people are trying to be kind and caring toward me. But I dunno, call me traditional, but aren't people supposed to hold grudges forever? And it's not like they know about the 'tragedy' that is my death that led me here, to this version of my life. So why are they all acting like my garage getting messed up is some huge tragedy of its own?
"Dave, that's not what we're trying to do, and you know it," Kurt retorts sternly, standing up, all defiant again.
And hold up, "Did you just call me by my first name?"
"Yes, and?"
"…Nothing, Fancy. It's just… different." I murmur, and I can feel my face flushing a little. Does he have any idea how amazing it sounds to hear my real name (Karofsky is just a family name; it doesn't mean anything, it's just as impersonal to me as, 'sir' or 'mister,' or the most casual, 'dude') fall from his lips.
"I should hope so. It gets tiring, pronouncing your last name all the time. 'Dave' is much shorter and to the point. And I think we're on terms positive enough to earn first names, don't you? So cut the 'Fancy' and 'Hummel' bullcrap and just call me 'Kurt,' all right? And stay. Your voice is actually a great addition to our group, and with what you're going through right now, you need to keep all the friends you can get your grubby hands on."
With his miniature speech over with, Kurt selects a seat and sits down in it, crossing his legs in that remotely sexy way before placing his folded hands atop his knees. And he looks away, toward the door, nodding at someone behind me.
Everyone files in (probably eavesdroppers, and also waiting for the signal to enter anyhow), and I don't know what to do with myself.
Reluctant, I groan and take a seat near Evans. He sends a brief smile before Shuester starts yammering away about the Sectionals set list, and whom we're up against. I already knew about Dalton.
Part of me wonders what it must have been like the first time around; how did everyone feel, seeing Kurt on stage with the Wobblers or whatever their club is called? If I had been there, I would have been pissed; not at Kurt, but at that preppy school for stealing him. Were the other gleeks here angry, too? Or were they just proud of Kurt for singing his heart out despite the odds? I wonder.
But it doesn't matter now. The only thing that matters is placing in Sectionals, getting to Regionals, praying to move on to Nationals, and then… maybe work out this homophobic problem following me around before senior year?
That'd be fan-fucking-tastic.
