When Dave comes home that evening, Paul Karofsky raises an eyebrow and glances up from the book in his hands to start over at his son walking through the front door. "You're home earlier than I thought. Doesn't Prom end at midnight?"
"Yeah, but I left. It was getting boring," Dave lies, because it wasn't boring at all; it was the opposite: completely and utterly dramatic.
"Really? What about your date? Did Santana want to leave, too?" Paul asks, and he is just making conversation, he's genuinely curious (as a father naturally would be about his son's Prom), but the words sting nonetheless.
Dave winces. "I… No. She wanted to stay, so I let her catch a ride with one of her friends. She, um. She didn't mind," he says, which is nearly what happened. He actually doesn't know how Santana feels or what she knows, but he assumes that she might understand. Like him, things hadn't gone according to plan for her tonight, so perhaps she might be empathetic about his act of leaving her at the Prom.
"Oh, all right," his father nods, "As long as she's safe; it's dangerous on Prom night, you know. But did you at least have fun before it got boring?" he wonders, because how could Prom get boring? Tiring, maybe, if you like to dance too much, but boring?
"Oh, uh, yeah. Plenty of fun. Santana and I danced a lot. We talked with a few people, and… and I won Prom King," Dave remarks, because the crown isn't on his head. It's clutched in his hand low at his side, hidden by the open, dangling flap of his jacket draped over his arm.
"What? That's fantastic! I'm so happy for you, son! And I bet Santana was ecstatic; it always means more to the girl than the guy," his father chuckles, standing up and setting his book aside. He places his reading glasses next to it. "So, tell me all about it."
Dave makes a face. "Actually, Dad, I'd rather go to bed. I'm, uh, really tired. But, um… just so you know… it wasn't Santana who won Prom Queen." And he can't lie, can he? He has to let his father know before someone else tells him.
His father smiles. "My son, The Stud. So which girl did you get to dance with, then?"
Dave looks away. "I didn't. Kurt Hummel won as some fucking sick joke. Whosever idea it was to do that to him… handwrite his name on the ballot, gather together and choose to do it enough so he'd win… it's just wrong. I did stuff to him that wasn't great, Dad, but that… that was just… cruel."
Paul Karofsky is instantly changed. His demeanor shifts from open, happy, and curious, to angered, confused, and disgusted. "Are you kidding me?" he says lowly, "That… Why didn't anyone do anything about it? The principal, surely –"
"Figgins looked confused, Dad, but he didn't name the runner-up instead or anything. He let the people decide, and they chose Kurt," Dave grumbles, coming to sit down on the couch. He undoes his tie and tosses it onto the coffee table. "And I wouldn't dance with him, of course. I mean, why would I? That'd just be weird. But the fact that he took the crown anyway is… gutsy. I know I could have never done it if I were in his position."\
Paul nods firmly. "The boy is respectably strong for someone his age. But still, David, why didn't you do something about it? You're in that anti-bullying program –"
"It wasn't my place since it wasn't physical or something that could be easily taken back," Dave mumbles, because he does feel a tad ashamed for nearly going along with it, acting like it was normal and fine and not the awful prank that it was. "Besides, he… he seemed like he could take it. I mean, he left when it was first announced – he might've been crying, I dunno – but he came back. He even said something like 'eat your heart out' about some actress or something, I dunno. It's just… he didn't seem like he needed my help."
"I suppose I can see that. But still, I bet Mr. Hum– Burt will be furious. It's precisely that sort of pain he tried to avoid when he was re-enrolling Kurt back into McKinley, I'm sure," Paul remarks, because in his mind, that's the sort of thing he would feel it if were his son. He would feel protective in every definition of the term "papa bear," and he would call the school immediately and make complaints, or simply yank his son out and homeschool him if he had to, because that sort of bullying is… intense. Worse than locker shoves and slushies like his own son did, in Paul's opinion.
"Yeah." Dave feigns a yawn. "I'm heading to bed. I'll talk to you more in the morning, Dad," Dave murmurs, and makes his way upstairs, unbuttoning his vest and shirt to reveal the wifebeater tank top underneath.
"Okay, David," Paul says, and he can sense with that fatherly intuition that more went on than his son revealed, despite how much he already told. "Goodnight. I love you," he adds, because somehow, he knows it must be said.
Dave pauses at the base of the stairs, his back turned, facial expression hidden, but his tone saying it all. "…I love you, too, Dad. G'night." His voice is tight at the end, and yes, Paul knows, there is something more there. But he won't pry; he'll let his son tell him when he's ready.