It continues the week following Sectionals.

Kurt's new Glee Club won second place after his old Glee Club. Blaine, ever the saint, seems unfazed by this. He knows that they still have a shot during Regionals, and he's psyched for it. He informs the Warblers of their new list of songs, to start practicing the next time they meet (which is tomorrow). And Kurt smiles plainly as he accepts the list.

It's a fine mix of show tunes and new songs and two mash-ups, plus three '80s tunes. One song in particular amuses Kurt, as it hails from none other than Little Shop of Horrors. 'Feed Me,' naturally. To be sung by who, he hasn't a clue, but it appears to be mainly a duet like in the film, but with no music whatsoever; all background vocals. He smiles wryly, and stuffs the packet of music into his shoulder bag.

"So, what do you think of my song choices?" Blaine says with a coy smile; ever the leader, ever seeking approval.

"I think 'Feed Me' is a stretch, Madonna is so three decades ago and already too familiar with me from a rampage Sue Sylvester went on, and that you need to pick a less dull Katy Perry song than 'Firework.'" Kurt replies, brutally honest and yet flirtatious at the same time, as always.

Blaine chuckles. "Well, all right then. Let's talk about it and change it."

Kurt raises an eyebrow. That's not something he's heard often before. "Really?"

The tall, dark, and handsome gentleman nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, of course! I love getting feedback from my Glee members, and I like honoring their opinions with results."

The new kid blinks, mouth agape lightly, then smiles and offers a cordial nod. "Well, all right. But not now; my creative juices aren't flowing. Maybe over coffee before school tomorrow morning…?" he hints, trying to squeeze in a date. He and Blaine are merely friends, but Kurt honestly wouldn't mind being more than that.

Except Destiny seems to be on vacation in the Bahamas with Oprah, because Destiny sweeps Kurt's chances away, under the rug and forgotten.

Blaine makes a sucking-in noise through his teeth, then says, "Ooh. Sorry, Kurt. I'd love to, but I'm already going to meet up with Zachary tomorrow for coffee. It's our thing, you understand," he mutters shyly, giving Kurt a sideways glance. "Maybe after school tomorrow? We can hold off practicing the ones you want to change so that there's still –"

"No, it's fine," Kurt sniffs, abruptly concluding the conversation. He stands and clutches his bag to his chest. "If you don't mind my asking," he says softly, "Do I know Zachary?"

Blaine laughs a little our of nervousness. "Uh-hum, no, not officially. I was going to introduce you two soon… I mean, my new best friend and my long-time boyfriend should meet, right?"

Inconsiderate asshole! Kurt bristles as Blaine so casually says 'long-time boyfriend.' He stiffens and starts to walk toward the hallway. "Right. But not too terribly soon, I should hope." Didn't Blaine notice Kurt's flirting? Didn't he feel the same connection Kurt had when they met on the stairs, and Blaine took his hand? Doesn't Blaine even care about Kurt's feelings (for him, but that's irrelevant)?

Kurt storms down the hallway in a huff, but just as he rounds a corner, he stops dead in his tracks.

Someone looking very out of place for Dalton (if he clothes could talk, they'd scream, "McKinley jock!"), and seemingly lost (if the crumpled map in his hands is any indication), is pacing down the opposite end of the hallway toward Kurt. He stops and turns toward a teacher in a doorway. She points on the map and then down the corridor (in Kurt's direction, at the way he just came, he notices). The jock nods in appreciation, smiling briefly, before looking up to follow her instruction.

And that's when their eyes meet.

"Karofsky," Kurt breathes, and fear and the unanswered questions from Sectionals both rise at once to meet Kurt's eyes, prickling them with tears of frustration and conflict and fright.

"Hummel!" Karofsky gasps, startled, but soon an expression of sheer deliverance crosses his face. "There you are. I've finally found you." There isn't a hint of malice in his voice.

Kurt takes a step backward, despite the fact that the athlete hasn't moved and a great distance is between them, a distance of at least fifteen feet or more.

"Keep away from me," Kurt says defiantly. "Why are you even here?"

"Please don't run, Kurt," Karofsky murmurs, a heartbroken look on his face. He takes a few steps closer, a hand reaching out. "I… just want to talk. Can we talk?"

Kurt debates with himself. Karofsky clearly has a decent reason for coming all this way. And he did watch Kurt at Sectionals without making fun of him or calling out obscene things. So perhaps it wouldn't be too terrible to talk to the bully. "Fine, we can talk. Follow me; I know somewhere. But I swear to God, if you try to pull anything –"

"I won't!" Karofsky assures quickly, jogging to lessen the distance between them. He remains two feet away, clearly out of reach. "Honest. I… I'm not the guy I used to be, Kurt."

Kurt eyes him up and down. Yes, that much is evident; he lost more weight again, his square jaw line strong and prominent, his middle appearing firmer. But what for?

In the back of his mind, Kurt wonders if it's his fault. He had called Karofsky chubby that one time, back in the locker room…

Kurt leads his former tormentor into the same room Kurt had chatted with Blaine in the first time Kurt visited this school. The room is deserted, and dark. Kurt clicks on a lamp and gestures to a seat at the same table he remembers. Karofsky sits down without so much as a peep.

The soprano sits opposite the older boy and stares him down. "So what do you want?" he snaps, cutting to the chase. He wants to spend as little time with Karofsky as possible.

"I…" the jock starts, but his voice cracks lightly. He clears his throat. "Um. I mean, I just wanted to, uh, apologize. I'm sorry, Kurt. For… well, all of it. All of the horrible things I did to you. I can truthfully say that wasn't me. Er, at least, not who I was. You heard my dad in Sylvester's office, didn't you? I used to get A's and B's, you know. I was a model student. I never talked back, I always turned in my homework on time. But once I met you, I started… slipping."

Kurt watches as Karofsky looks away, feeling shame and guilt again. He coughs idly into one meaty, long-fingered hand. His nails look like they have been bitten off recently. Kurt waits in silence, giving Karofsky permission to continue venting.

"When I thought I was expelled, my old man was a little tweaked. He called the board, argued for my sake, and assured me that I was going to continue school because I deserved a second chance. I didn't think of that chance the way he did; he was thinking academically, but I was thinking socially."

Karofsky's voice keeps wavering, and his eyes keep darting between Kurt's face and their surroundings. He doesn't appear to be comfortable with spilling his guts to Kurt, as if he doesn't know how to spill his guts.

"I heard you left. Hell, I even threatened Puckerman and Hudson to talk you into coming back. At first, I got even more violent. I wanted everybody to hate me. But then, I thought, what's the point? You would've been even more sure of your decision to attend this place," he spits out, clearly despising the private school, "Instead of McKinley if you heard that I got worse without you there. So I decided to change."

Karofsky licks his dry lips. He must be thirsty, his mouth not used to talking so much all at once.

He goes on, "I stopped eating. My mom worries, thinking I'm depressed. I dunno, maybe I am. Whatever. I don't care. It's not so hard, and I don't mind only snacking on an orange or something every now and then. And then I dropped out of football. It's not my thing anyhow. I'm more of a hockey dude; I love the feel of ice beneath my blades, and my body gliding across the slippery surface. It's like the only graceful thing my lumbering body can do, you know?"

Kurt nods numbly. This is almost too much. But he does know; he remembers ice skating with his aunt as a child, and always watching the figure skating portion of the Winter Olympics.

Karofsky laughs without humor. "Yeah, I bet you know. You seem like the type who likes figure skating. Um, not that that's a stab at your sexuality! I-I don't do that anymore. It's just, um… I know you enough to know that you might like it, that's all," he digresses. He breathes out slowly. "Uh… Hurm. Well. Anyway, I got my grades back up. Dropped French, though; I suck at it, really. I only took the dumb class in the first place because…" And he cuts himself off, cropping the sentence a little short. He glances around. "Fuck. I might as well say it, since I'm the only one talking." He takes in a sharp breath. "I only took French… because of you, Kurt. It was a sad excuse to have a class with you, something easy I could switch out of my schedule. But anyway. Um… yeah. I'm not really sure what else I wanted to say if I found you today and you let me talk." He wince-smiles. "I was hoping you would, though, and… you did. Thanks."

"Karofsky –"

The jock waves the name aside as if it disgusts him. "Dave. Please, just… Dave. I know you know my first name, so call me by it. No one's called me 'Karofsky' in a while. That's a bully's name. And I… I really don't want to be the bad guy anymore."

"Dave, then," Kurt amends. "Dave… what spurred this drastic alteration?"

Dave makes a face. "Come on, man, be gentle with me. My brain's in no shape to translate fancy words. Can you just speak, y'know, first-grade English?"

Kurt actually smiles. "And how do you think I sound normally?"

"Like fuckin' Edgar Allan Poe. All poetic and shit," Dave grumbles, but there's a smile tugging the corners of his lips.

And Kurt laughs, he actually laughs. It's a small, breathless giggle that slips out unintentionally. "Wow. I don't know whether to be flattered or offended."

"I'd go with flattered. Poe was an awesome writer, even if I barely understand his words at first glance."

Kurt's smile oddly doesn't fade. "Okay, then, I'll rephrase: what brought on this change of yours?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Dave mutters quietly. "You. You left because of me. You up and vanished, all because I was an idiot who wouldn't let up. So I fixed things, in case…" and he hesitates, his mouth forming words without sound as he falters. "W-well, in case you ever came back to McKinley," he says at last, the words sputtering and then coming out in a rush.

"Why do you even care?" Kurt says softly. "I thought you hated me."

A lopsided, sarcastic smile makes its way onto Dave's lips. "Do people kiss people they hate?"

"Oh, so you're finally admitting to what you did?" Kurt retorts teasingly.

Dave makes a face. "Yeah, I guess I am. But like I said, I'm not the same man I was. So that's why."

Kurt feels suddenly more comfortable around the jock. Admittedly, Dave Karofsky is attractive, before and after his suddenly weight loss. And also admittedly, Kurt's type is a jock. He only said that Dave wasn't his type because that's when Dave had been a sadistic bastard, and sadistic bastards are certainly not Kurt's type.

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm… proud of you," Kurt says as last. "Whew. That was hard to say. But in all seriousness, I am oddly proud. I never thought you'd apologize to me, let alone open up a little and be so… different. That's earned you major props, Mr. Dave Karofsky," Kurt commends, and claps his hands together at the end. He stands. "I'm not afraid of you any longer, actually. And it's nice."

"Well…" Dave murmurs, his mind officially blown. "Great!" And he stands as well, offering a hand to shake. "So… I guess I'll see you 'round? Hopefully?"

Kurt is a hair reluctant to touch the former bully, considering their past moments of contact. Nonetheless, he relents and shakes the slightly taller boy's hand. "Yeah… see you around." And as he releases Dave's hand, something is triggered inside of Kurt, though he can't place what it is.

Dave seems to have felt it, too. His face takes on a mild expression of mixed surprise and – daresay – lust, but it quickly dissolves and Dave faintly flushes pink before turning on his heel and marching off, a curt 'bye!' falling from his lips as he dashes out the doorway and down the hall.

Kurt blinks, shakes his head, and dons his bag. As he, too, steps out of the room… he feels lighter, a burden lifted, an issue resolved, and the beginnings of something fresh like the blank side of a sheet of paper when you turn it over stirring in the pit of his belly.