Author's Note: Second day, second chapter, as promised. I know it's short, but it would be awkward to cut further into the story. Enjoy! I'm really looking forward to the next one, tomorrow can't come soon enough.
It could have definitely turned out worse. The pair looks as good as new, and it hasn't cost a tenth the money he would have given to fix them. Dave catches himself petting the smooth fabric and scowls; he folds them carefully and goes to call his boyfriend.
He goes by Kurt's two days later, when only Carole is home. When the three of them cross paths on the stairs, she smiles fondly and gives them a playful reminder of "Door" – which they choose to interpret as leaning it almost shut. Dave is aware that he needs to make up for the last day; he hasn't stopped thinking of ways to actively give back, so he's quick in putting those thoughts to good use by pulling Kurt down on top of him on the bed.
He is getting good at this rolling around without falling off business, even if it's really fucking hard to concentrate when Kurt's tongue is stroking wetly alongside his, and Kurt's hands are running feverishly up and down his chest, making him squirm and change their positions whenever those ninja-fingers linger too long over his stomach and sides. Kissing Kurt is nothing short of glorious, but he needs a clear head or else he'll be sure to ruin it spectacularly. It comes close on a number of occasions, as when he moves to press Kurt to the bed and the smaller boy lets out a sort of trapped noise that heads straight for his cock and makes him almost give in and hump Kurt like a fucking rabid dog, desperate for some sort of release.
He keeps in mind the three-dates rule at all times; he just isn't sure what consists in a real date for Kurt. They have gone out a total of four times now, and the first one did feel like a date, if only because Dave had wanted it to be one so badly, planning it to the last detail. Then, in a strike of some delayed karma, the French movie marathon had been pulled off thanks to a termite infestation in the theater, and they had ended up going to the old ice cream place on the other side of town. Kurt had smiled shyly when Dave insisted to pay for it; he had climbed all over him and kissed him senseless after finding out the healthy movie-snacks Dave had hid in the back seat. The sky was cloudy that night – karma, you see, has the worst fucking timing of all bitches in history –, so all those hours Dave had spent looking up constellations and memorizing star-charts had gone to hell, but the blanket was still warm and soft when Kurt spread it by the swings in the park; they had just lain there for a while, kisses drunk with the excitement of being in plain view of whoever decided to take a late night stroll.
That had been a date, and Dave didn't think it had sucked that much on Kurt's end, French movies and stargazing aside. But the other times had been just them, out in places where they thought they could get away with being together by using Santana as an obscure, whip-holding figure looming in the background. And yes, Dave had known they would be good together but he hadn't known how good, this good, this unbelievably get-on-your-knees-and-beg-for-more kind of good.
Considering how much he has to lose, it's no real wonder that every time they are alone together – and he has Kurt arching up into him and breathing his name, his hands restless to explore every inch of Dave's body he can reach – Dave eventually has to take a deep breath, center himself and get it though his goddamned thick head that this isn't about the finishing line, but about the race, and that there's actually no race and he can very well take care of his own business himself, and that if he fucks this up with Kurt his brain can come up with awesome and terrifying ways to torture him with memories for all eternity. And then he pulls back.
Kurt will give him a look that plainly says "What a strange and unusual creature you are", but always goes with it easily enough. He will get up gracefully and offer to go fetch them refreshments, and Dave will refuse, because even worse than being too close to Kurt is being away from him.
This time, however, he is a man with a mission. As soon as he hears Kurt padding softly down the stairs, he unzips his bag and pulls out the pants, smoothing them out anxiously. He opens the closet door, wincing at the muffled creak of wood, and blinks twice, taking in the obscene amount of clothing his boyfriend owns. Every piece probably has it's own zip code, for fuck's sake. They look color-coded, which is a win, but are probably also brand-coordinated, which fuck. He can hear Kurt moving around in the kitchen; he hastily grabs an empty hanger, hangs the pants, squeezes them amidst similar light-colored pairs and shuts the door. He can feel a bead of sweat sliding down his forehead onto his nose as he sits back on the bed, knees trembling.
Then he hears something crumple beneath him with a sound that hasto qualify as sickening. He holds his breath for as long as he can and then gets up slowly, actually praying under his breath.
There it is. Dave isn't even sure what the fuck it was supposed to be before he dropped his fat ass on it, but it's stripped? Kind of like a horse and, okay, it's a zebra, a zebra pin, a zebra head pin with the clasp dangling from the side as he picks it up gingerly.
He feels nauseous; he wonders if he's about to pass out. Then there are Kurt's steps on the stairs and he shoves the broken pin deep in his pocket, his mind already running through his options.
"Dave?"
Kurt is staring at him strangely from the doorway, holding a tray with drinks, homemade cupcakes and a blue plastic bowl overflowing with chips and that's just too much for Dave. He hisses a half-assed apology, grabs his bag and breezes past Kurt who is apparently struck dumb and doesn't stop him.
Safe again behind his locked door, Dave settles the pin on his desk and drops into his chair, exhausted.
He isn't what you'd call handy with this sort of thing. He downright sucks at it, really: while every other kid in his class was upgrading from macaroni frames to paper bouquets, or some other shitty bamboozling craft-project like that, he got stuck washing paintbrushes and banging erasers. He isn't about to attempt any rescue mission on something that looks like it could detach altogether and crumble to dust if he dared touch it again.
After glaring at the thing for a solid half hour – he normally enjoys whatever Kurt wears, especially now that he's allowed to check him out and will sometimes get a kiss for his leering, but honestly, what –, he finally gives up and goes out to knock on his sister's door.
She takes one look at it and nods, then whips out their chores chart and instructs him to check the ones he'll be doing in her stead. He grumbles but checks a generous number, hoping it will encourage swiftness and perfection under pressure. She shoots him a disdainful look and smirks, ushering him out of the room straightaway.
"Salt, Dave."
"Yeah? What's the magic word?"
"Whipped."
"You little –"
"Alexis? What's going on?"
"Dave was just passing me the salt."
"David?"
"Salt. Fine. There."
"Good boy."
"Just kill me now."
"Thanks. Looks good."
"It looks perfect. He won't notice a thing," says Alexis flatly, waving him away from behind her book.
"Look, Alex –" He pauses, unsure.
She looks up, setting the book aside.
"If – Look, if you need any help, you know, homework and stuff, or just anything –"
Alexis bites her lip thoughtfully.
"What about…"
"Yeah?"
"Boy troubles?"
Dave grimaces and holds up his hands defensively.
"No. Just no. Hell to the no way."
"But Da-ave –"
She giggles when he mimics a shot to the head.
"Ask Em or something."
"Right."
Dave sighs and shakes his head.
"Sorry, sprog. Gotta deal with that yourself." He smirks. "I did, and it turned out alright, didn't it?"
She shoots him a half-incredulous, half-horrified look.
"I mean now. It's great. Now."
"Not for long if you just keep breaking his stuff." She waves a finger at him; the way her mouth his set reminds him of their mother. "Be careful. I like Kurt."
"Yeah?"
"I like what he does to you."
"What do you mean?"
She shrugs and turns to her book again. The conversation is clearly over, but he can't resist messing with her a little more.
"Hey!" she squeaks, feeling his arms closing around her in a bear hug. "What is with you lately, God."
They haven't hugged since before he started middle school and she was a precocious toddler following him around the house. He can't remember the last time he spoke to her without one of them telling the other to shut their big fat mouth and yes, she's his little sister and a gigantic pain in everywhere, but she's also his little sister.
He kisses the top of her head and lets go, smiling as she huffs and mutters about mental cases and white jackets.
"Hey, Alex," he says from the doorway.
"What."
"I'd pick you."
"What?"
"You know. You used to ask Em and me that, if we could pick someone else instead of you, or no kid sister at all, whom would we choose. And I always said –"
"That you'd be an only child," she completes, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah. But that would suck. And I'd totally pick you."
"Dave."
He nods seriously.
"Please tell me you can control your innate lameness around Kurt. I do like him."