July 1, 1956

"So that's the exhaust manifold. That's how exhaust gets from the motor to the tailpipe."

"Wait, I thought that was the starter."

"No, the starter is over there. You are paying attention, aren't you? If you're going to waste my time, I've got customers I could be helping."

"Will you quit being so impatient? I'm trying, okay?"

"Well, try harder. God, I must've been insane offering to teach you this in the first place."

"Fine, you want to quit?"

"What? Fuck, no. I don't quit, not on anything. You're going to get this into your thick skull if it kills me. Or you. Preferably you."

"You keep it up, and I may be the one who kills you."

"I'd like to see you try, hamhock. Size ain't everything, you know."

"That's something only little guys say."

"Oooh, score one for Karofsky! You've got a mouth on you."

"I've got a good teacher."


July 4, 1956

Kurt rolled his eyes, lighting up yet another cigarette. His gaze barely flickered at the passing float, a tri-colored monstrosity cobbled together with paper mache and ribbons. "Yay, America. Woo." He waved his little American flag with a bored look.

"Not having fun?" Dave asked in an innocent tone.

"Oh, yeah, loads. I just love patriotism. The ultimate conformity. You know I'm all about that, right?"

Dave snickered. "Sure, and hoods know what 'conformity' means."

"I do. And that's good enough. Besides, I would've thought jocks—"

"Okay, okay, you've made your point. We're both unusually smart." The local Masonic lodge marched proudly by. "I like the hats."

This time it was Kurt who snickered. "Me too." He turned towards Dave, heedless of his arm almost hitting the sparkler being held by the little boy next to him. "So, you still coming to my Dad's barbecue?"

Dave nodded. "Good call on getting him to invite my parents. I don't think I would've been able to come without that."

"Why?"

"Well, you're kind of..." Dave coughed. "'The wrong crowd' to them."

Kurt looked entirely unsurprised and unaffected by the news. In fact, he got a nasty grin on his face. "They're right."


The barbecue took place in Burt Hummel's back yard. It was nearing twilight, the oppressive heat of the day finally starting to inch its way down into something tolerable. Friends, garage staff, and a few select loyal clients, including the Karofskys, were in attendance. So were Finn Hudson and his mother, to Dave's surprise. Finn gave a cheerful wave and a "Hey, Dave! How's it going?", then made a beeline for the food.

Kurt, in the meanwhile, was sitting alone in a lawn chair on the far side of the yard, away from the clusters of conversation and laughter. Dave strolled over, munching on the burger in his hand. "Hey."

Kurt's head jerked up, then relaxed. "Hey." He watched as Dave sat next to him on the grass. "What, you aren't going to ask why I'm not being sociable? That's what Dad or most of them..." He waved towards the adults. "... would say."

Dave shrugged. "Nah. I know why you're not being sociable. Because you're not the sociable type. You're a hood." His voice deepened, taking on the portentous timbre of a movie trailer announcer. "You're a rebel. You're a cool loner, standing alone in his fight against the rest of the world."

Kurt laughed. "Exactly! Finally, you understand!" He looked up at the sky, running red from the sunset. "Besides, we have a great view of the fireworks show at the park from here. This is the best seat, and I'm not giving it up for anyone."

"Of course not." He paused, his face twisted up, before he finally decided to ask. "I saw my folks talking with you."

"And?"

"And... I was surprised, that's all. I didn't think they would."

"Oh, they were very polite."

"They usually are. They never say stuff to people's faces. They just wait until dinner."

"And say it in front of you." Kurt's eyes remained on the darkening skies.

"Yeah." Dave shoved the remaining shard of burger into his mouth. After he swallowed it down, he vomited up words. "If they say anything about you, I swear to God I'll...!" He fell silent.

Kurt turned to him, not a hint of jocularity on his face. "You'll what?"

"I...!" Dave sagged. "I don't know. But it'll be something. And I'm not sure it'll be pretty."

Kurt cocked his head. Dave felt his stare drilling into his skull. "Thanks." The word was quiet, almost whispered, but it almost screamed sincerity.

"Sure. No problem."

They sat there, mostly in silence, until the fireworks started — quite a while, all things considered, but the adults were mostly too wrapped up in their own conversations to notice. Finn cast a puzzled glance their way once, but didn't approach them. It wasn't until the show started that the rest of the party gathered around them, oohing and aahing as multicolored lights played on their faces.

"Beautiful," Kurt muttered.

"Yeah," Dave said.

It was America's 180th birthday. Time to celebrate.


July 8, 1956

"A-and when he came out of that barber shop, the sides of his head were completely shaved, but he had this strip of hair just running down the middle!"

Kurt burst out laughing, holding his stomach in his arms. It felt like he'd been laughing forever; his entire body ached. "Oh... oh my God! H-how did I miss this?" Sometimes Dave marveled at the difference in Kurt when he was like this. When he was relaxed, when he was open... It was like he was another person — though not entirely. There was always a fine edge to him that never went away, no matter what his mood was.

"Someone must've made him shave it all off before you saw him." Dave wiped tears of mirth from his face. "But oh, man, you should've seen him... I wish I could've taken a picture."

"That sounds exactly like something Puck would do! How the hell did he convince the barber to...?"

"I wish I knew! He can be kinda charming when he wants to be."

"Brother, don't I know it!" Kurt happened to glance at his watch. "Shit! It's almost 2 already!"

Dave started. "What? Where the hell did the time go?" That had been happening a lot lately. They'd get to talking over lunch or some ice cream at the drugstore counter, and all of the sudden, bam! Hours passed.

"I gotta get back to work!" Kurt swept up his leather jacket as he scooted his way out of the diner booth.

"I gotta go too." He dropped a few bills on the table. "Keep the change, Shannon!" The waitress waved acknowledgment. As the two left, she gave them both an odd look. Dave frowned, wondering for the rest of the day just what the hell she was thinking about.


July 12, 1956

"BEER!" The chorus of shouts roared through the clearing the second Dave appeared. Soon he was being swarmed over by leather jackets and slicked-back hair, hands plucking cans and bottles out of his arms until the crate was empty.

"See, I told you he was cool!" Puck crowed as he flipped his bottle cap into the darkness.

Though the entire gang of hoods was there, hanging out under the stars, Dave noticed Kurt first, the flickering light of the campfire playing on his face. He approached Dave with his hands in his pockets, lips upturned in amusement. "That's not all of it, I hope?"

Dave grinned, shaking his head. "Nope. The rest is in the car."

"Good. Then I'm going to get one." He vanished. Dave watched the other hoods drinking, talking, and laughing until Kurt returned; he heard a sharp crack, then the gurgling of a throat. "How do you do it, anyway?"

Dave smiled mysteriously. "I have my ways. But here's a hint: Mr. Ryerson makes me do everything these days."

"Well, aren't you going to have one?"

"Maybe later."

"And you don't mind providing alcohol to a bunch of hoods?"

Dave shrugged. "I think I've been hanging around them long enough by now. They're a bunch of pussycats, just like you." He chuckled as he felt Kurt's fist slam into his shoulder. "Besides, if they act up, I know you or Puck would kick their butts until they cried for mommy."

"Damn straight."

"You're half my size and you're scarier than me."

"You speak the truth."

"Hey, Hummel! Tell your trained gorilla that he did good!"

Kurt gritted his teeth. "Wish all of them were as smart as you."

Dave squinted into the glare of the firelight. "Which one was he again?"

"Sebastian Smythe. The blond. God, I hate him. I hate his hair and his stupid smirk and his oh so expensive car..." He threw his empty beer can at the ground, as if Smythe's face were right underneath. "Hate the bastard!"

"Uh oh."

"What?"

"If you hate the guy that much, you're gonna do something about it, aren't you?"

"It's scary how well you know me."


July 14, 1956

"Hold the light steady! I can't work if you keep moving it around like that!"

Dave groaned. Of all the things he'd been planning to do with his evening, sneaking out of the house in the dead of night and driving to an unfamiliar town with Kurt Hummel wasn't exactly at the top of his list. "Remind me how you got me into this again?"

"I didn't tell you what I was planning until it was too late for you to back out."

"Oh, yeah. Right." Dave waited, only moving when Kurt glared at him for letting the flashlight droop again. "And you needed me because...?"

"Backup. And for your car. Mine is too memorable; Smythe would figure it out in a heartbeat if he ever found out it was anywhere near here."

Dave sighed. "Are you almost done?"

"Almost! Stop trying to rush..." There was a light snapping sound as the padlock opened. "There!" Practically beaming with smug satisfaction, he pocketed his tools and pulled the garage doors open.

"I'm not even gonna ask how you learned to pick locks." The flashlight played about a perfectly typical looking, albeit large, garage, until it fell upon a familiar red Thunderbird.

"Puck again." Kurt rubbed his hands in wicked anticipation upon seeing the Thunderbird; Dave almost felt bad for this Sebastian guy. Within minutes, the hood was open, and Kurt was waist-deep within the motor, humming to himself when he wasn't ordering Dave to shine the flashlight this way and that.

"What... exactly are you doing?"

"It's very complicated. It'd fly over your head."

Dave wanted to take it as an insult, but if there was one thing he'd learned in his weird friendship with Kurt Hummel, it was that he was still out of his depth when it came to cars. So he didn't press. "This isn't going to... hurt him is it?"

"What? No! I hate Smythe, but I don't want him dead. Besides, making him some kind of martyr would just make him even more insufferable. No, the pain I'm inflicting is even worse than making him crash into a tree. He loves this thing; it's like an extension of him. If it hurts, he hurts. And holy shit, is this car gonna hurt."

The sheer gleeful venom in Kurt's voice chilled Dave's soul. He looked about nervously. "Look, you may not mind being put into juvie — again — but I've got a clean record. My parents would just let me rot, and I'd deserve it too, for going along with this..."

"Oh, quit your whining! Look, I'm done. Happy?" He slammed the hood shut, which made Dave jump. Fortunately, no spotlights turned on, no sirens started blaring, no guard dogs started barking. "Now let's go. And turn off that flashlight already, before someone sees us! Do you want us to get caught?!"

Dave snapped the flashlight off, muttering darkly under his breath.


July 15, 1956

Paul Karofsky cleared his throat. "So, David..." Dave's fork froze in midair. He knew that tone of voice. It was the "we have something very serious to talk about" tone. And "serious" was rarely anything good. "I understand you've been associating with Burt Hummel's son lately."

"Where have you heard that?"

"That's not important," Paul said simply. "Is it true?"

Dave tried to will as much calm as he could into his face, into his voice, before he said "I suppose I've been hanging around with him a little. Why?"

"Oh, David..." His mother shook her head. "You're such a bright boy. You're going to do such great things. But being friends with that kind of person..."

"'That kind'?" He tried to keep the growl out of his voice; he wasn't entirely sure he succeeded.

"Your mother's right," his father said. "Kids like Kurt Hummel aren't good influences. And if any potential employer saw you two together, it might give the wrong impression. I don't think you should be around that boy anymore." He took another bite of chicken before continuing. "He's beneath you."

Dave carefully put down his fork onto his plate. He needed the slow, deliberate motion to calm himself, to keep himself from jumping to his feet and yelling. That would only make everything worse. Sucking in a breath, he finally trusted himself enough to say something. "I thought you said Burt Hummel was a good man."

Paul raised his eyebrows. "Yes, he is, but—"

"So you don't think he's a good father?"

Paul and Diane exchanged glances. "I'm sure he is, but I don't see what that has to do with—"

"So shouldn't I be safe with his son?"

Paul frowned. "Now, David, you know what I mean. People like Kurt are no good. They think they're rebelling against an unfair system, but all they do is rock the boat for no good reason. Society has its rules. Without them, we're no better than animals."

"You never used to argue with your father like that before you met this boy," Diane said gently. "Please, David, think about yourself. Think about your future. What could Kurt Hummel bring you but trouble?"

Dave regarded his parents for a long moment. No, they hadn't changed appearance or personality all of the sudden. But somehow, in that moment, they seemed... different. They seemed... human.

They seemed to be people Dave shouldn't be afraid of.

He nodded slowly. "Don't worry, Mom, Dad. I know what I need to do."

His mother sighed in what sounded like relief. His father smiled indulgently. "Good. I knew you'd see things our way, David."

They returned to their food. But Dave didn't pay much attention to his food — he was already planning how to meet up with Kurt in ways his parents would never find out about.


July 18, 1956

"... so you're a... 'right guard'."

"Yep."

"And a right guard... guards."

"Right... I mean, yes. We guard the quarterback from the defensive line and linebackers. We can't receive forward passes, though, but we can recover fumbles, which I've actually done a couple of times..."

Kurt rubbed his head. "Okay, that's enough detail for me, thanks. Sports and me are like you and cars — it's just not my thing."

Dave shrugged. "Fair enough. But I sat through your trying to teach me cars; the least you could do is learn about what I like."

Kurt's voice gained a lofty tone. "Cars are important and valuable machines. Sports are boring time sucks for cavemen."

"Oh, so I'm a caveman now? That's a new one."

"I can't insult you the same way all the time. That'd just as boring as sports."

Dave shook his head, a smirk playing across his face. It was night, and the two were sitting on a hill overlooking Lima, the perfect place to "do some drinking away from the prying eyes of parents and cops," as Kurt put it. Dave was still nursing his first beer; Kurt had already gone through three. Dave was surprised how well the slight-looking Kurt seemed to hold his booze; a slight blush to his cheeks was the only sign he gave, physically or mentally, of having consumed any alcohol whatsoever. But then, he supposed hoods had more practice.

Dave stared down at the twinkling streetlights of the town below him, the town that had given birth to him and his entire world for seventeen years. He tried to imagine other places, other people, beyond the blackness that surrounded the island of illumination. It was hard — almost impossible. It was as though all the vistas and people he'd learned about in history and geography class were... abstractions. Nothing real. Nothing seemed real, except Lima.

And, well, maybe Kurt. Kurt was far too real for his own good.

"Thinking deep thoughts, Karofsky?" The sardonic voice that interrupted his musings was a case in point.

"Kinda. I was just thinking about the future."

"Well, stop. It's not healthy. Look at me; I'm perfectly happy just living in the now." Kurt grinned, but the grin slowly disappeared as he regarded Dave's faraway look, still focused on the town below. "So what about the future? You can't be actually worried about it, can you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're the all-American boy that most of the parents around here dream about. You're a football star, you get good grades..."

"Wait, how do you know about my grades?"

"Finn told me."

"Finn? Finn Hudson?"

"Yeah. His mom's seeing my dad. They met when Finn brought in his car a couple of months ago. Finn's dad is dead, same as my mom, so they started talking, and..." Kurt shrugged.

Dave remembered Hudson at the 4th of July barbecue. He shook his head. "Yeah, well... I hate to disappoint you, but I'm hardly an all-American kid." He looked down at the remnants of his beer, lip curled; he hurled the bottle into the bushes as hard as he could. "I'm nothing but a big stupid fucking fake."

Kurt gaped; Dave wasn't sure whether it was at his uncharacteristic expletive or at the overall idea of what he was saying. "A fake?"

"Everything about me is fake. I'm not..." His throat started to close; he cleared it, twice. It didn't feel like it helped. "I've been a fake so long that I'm not even sure what I really am." Long silence followed.

"Oh, come on, you can't say something like that and not explain it..."

Dave's mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He struggled to form the words... but how could he, when he didn't even know exactly what words he wanted to say? "I just... I just am!"

Kurt stared for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The tip glowed red as he inhaled; his exhaled smoke drifted towards Lima like a patch of fog. After a second long drag, he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth between his fingers and turned back to Dave. "You... are a fucking moron."

Dave glowered. "Fuck you!"

"No, really, you're a complete and total idiot." Kurt took several short, breathy puffs on his cigarette, as if hyperventilating into his smoke, before he continued, his face twisted in anger. "Because only an actually mentally retarded oaf like you would think he's some kind of fake!"

"W-what?"

"You're really going to make me say it? Fine. You are about the least fake person in Lima I've ever met. You... you've got actual layers. You know things. You know big words. You have this wicked sense of humor, and you've actually got this streak of kindness to you. You defied your parents to stay friends with me. If you're a fake, it's only because you seem to want to hide. How many people know all this about you?"

Dave stared, his mouth working silently. Finally, he seemed to manage to push words past his throat. "I... um... I don't know what to say about any of that."

Kurt shrugged casually. "I've always thought my friends deserve the truth from me. And... you're one of the best friends I've made in a long time."

"I... Same here. I mean, there's the guys on the football team like Hudson, but..." Dave's head bowed. "All that stuff you said about me? Even if it is true, I... I couldn't show them any of that. I'm just big bad right guard Dave Karofsky to them. That's all they know, and... that's all they need to know."

"That sounds like a sad life," Kurt said quietly.

"You know it," Dave replied, equally quietly.

"So you don't want to go to law school like your dad. What do you want to do?"

"I... I don't know. I like writing... Journalism stuff, I mean. I've written a couple of articles for the school paper..."

"Really? I'd like to read 'em sometime."

"Oh, I bet. You probably have a red pen all ready."

"Damn! You guessed!" Their chuckles were carried on the warm air. "But seriously, don't your friends read the paper? Can't they tell from your articles what an amaz— that you're a writer? And smart?"

"Uh, no, because I don't have a byline. All my articles are anonymous... and they're going to stay that way."

"But... why?"

"You wouldn't understand," Dave said quietly. "You put yourself out there every day. Guys like me... it's just easier to play the role, y'know?"

"So instead, you just bitch and moan about how helpless you are. I thought you were better than that."

"Hey, I didn't ask you to—" Dave blinked as the words started sinking in. "Well, I'm not. Sorry to disappoint you."

"You only disappoint me when you act like this. You could stand to be a little more like us hoods, you know."

"You can afford to be rebels."

"And you can't? What are you gonna do instead? Be the way your parents want you to be, screw what you want? What the fuck kind of life is that?"

"I can't imagine anything else," Dave said in a near whisper.

"Maybe that's why we're such good friends," Kurt said with a smug smile. "Because I help you imagine it."

Dave looked up at Kurt, silent for a moment. Then: "Yeah. Yeah, maybe so."

"And I'm gonna keep hammering at you until I make a break in that thick head of yours. I'm damn persistent that way."

"You sure are. Hand me another beer?"

"Here."

"Thanks." Dave opened the bottle and took a deep swig. He turned it over in his hand, the condensation dripping down his fingers. "Still, you're just as big a hypocrite as me."

"What?!" Kurt cried out in a perhaps not quite completely sincere tone of outrage.

"You say I'm a better person than I think. But I remember someone thought I was just a big stupid meathead jock for a long time."

"Fine, I was wrong."

"Ooh, please repeat that. I may never hear anything like that from you again."

"You're pushing your luck, Karofsky."


July 19, 1956

It was the first time Dave had returned to the abandoned road since that fateful day he first met Kurt Hummel. Heat shimmered off the asphalt in waves, the late afternoon sun low but still intense. Dave wiped his forehead, then used his hands to shield his eyes from the dazzling light.

Puck was leaning across the hood of his Corvette, chatting with Quinn Fabray. She was the head cheerleader at McKinley, one of the most popular girls in school. No one knew about her little... thing with Puck, which surprised him, considering how much McKinley girls loved their gossip. Still, she had a lot to lose if anyone found out, her perfect reputation shattered just because she was hanging with a crowd that wasn't supposed to be "hers"... Dave gulped, telling himself there were absolutely no parallels to his own life. He began looking around for Kurt before he could feel just what a huge lie that was.

"Fuck you, asshole!"

The shout was quickly accompanied by many more. The gathered hoods suddenly began sprinting towards one of the cars, forming a crowd around it. Dave saw that the car in question was a red Thunderbird, and he knew where Kurt must be.

Dave wormed his way through the knot of people, and his guess was confirmed. Kurt was leaning over the hood of the Thunderbird, glaring at the blond smarmy hood on the other side. Only the blond wasn't so smarmy at the moment — in fact, he looked as angry as all hell.

"I know you did it, Hummel! You just can't stand that there's someone around here who doesn't buy your bullshit!"

"You must've been dropped on your head as a baby, Smythe, because I have no idea what you're talking about. Unless you want to give your dentist a little payday..."

Smythe's hand slammed onto the hood of the car. "That does it! Race! You and me, Hummel! Right here, right now!"

There was an "oooh" from the collected hoods; one of them gave a low whistle. Dave had no idea what this reaction meant, but he knew it had to be significant.

Kurt's glare could've pierced the hull of a battleship. "You're on," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

The smarmy grin came back to Smythe's face. "In fact... Why don't we make it a little more interesting?" He drew a small wad of bills out of his pocket and dropped it onto the hood between them. "A hundred dollars."

There was a strangled gasp over Dave's shoulder. He remembered Kurt mentioning that Smythe's family had money, but the way he just tossed in that hundred bucks, as if it weren't even worthy of a moment's thought... He had an intellectual conception that some people lived like that, but to see it in person...

Kurt's eyes flickered towards the money, towards Smythe. Somehow, Dave knew just what he was thinking: That's a lot of money. I can't afford to bet that and lose. But if I don't, Smythe will win. I can't let him win, but... Kurt dug into his pockets, frowning a little at what he found. He threw it onto the pile with Smythe's money anyway. "This is all I've got right now."

Smythe barked out a sharp, contemptuous laugh. "That's it? Uh-uh, Cinderella. When I win, I want a better return than that. Or maybe you're just looking for an excuse not to race me? Maybe you're afraid of showing everyone just how much of a little bitch you—"

"Here." The word was out of Dave's mouth before anyone could react. He slammed a crumpled up wad of cash onto the hood with the rest of it; both Kurt and Smythe jumped back, startled. "I just got paid. That should cover it."

Smythe stared at Dave for a moment, eyebrow raised in suspicion. He smoothed out the wad and fanned out the bills. He shrugged and threw it back. "Yep, that does it." He gathered up the money and handed it to one of the other hoods; Dave couldn't remember his name. Jeff? Nick? "Here, you hold onto this. Be sure to have it ready for me when I win."

Dave watched as the crowd dispersed, eagerly chatting amongst themselves. Then he felt an iron grip latch onto his arm and yank him away with startling strength — startling because he knew exactly who was pulling, and he didn't think he was quite that strong.

"What the fuck was that?" Kurt demanded.

"You've got your race..."

"Did I ask for your money?"

"It's my money. I can do what I want with it."

"You complete numbskull! Now I have to be responsible for your money! I didn't ask for that! You think that's going to make me a better racer, because I can tell you—"

Dave gripped both of Kurt's shoulders. Kurt stopped talking. (Dave made a mental note to remember that the next time the hood was running off at the mouth.) "Hey. Calm down. You've got this."

Kurt finally seemed to get a hold of himself, shaking off Dave's grip. "How would you know? You've never even seen me race."

"But I know you know that car of yours like the back of your hand. And aren't you 'H-Bomb' for a reason?"

Kurt's face screwed up. "I told you not to say that name in front of me ever again."

"Go with it; I'm making a point here. I wouldn't have thrown that money in if you weren't a sure bet."

A dozen looks seemed to flash by Kurt's face in that moment. "Well." He seemed unsure whether to take the compliment or yell some more. "Thanks for putting even more pressure on me."

"Like I said, it's my money. But I'm not worried."

Kurt opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He shook his head. "Fine. Your funeral." He stalked off towards his car, just as Puck appeared and grabbed his shoulder.

"Come on! We'll watch from the finish line!"

He and a bunch of other hoods took up a position a little over a quarter mile away. In the distance, he could see Smythe's Thunderbird and Kurt's Mercury take up positions, their motors grumbling. A pink figure that had to be Quinn Fabray took up a position between the two cars, holding a piece of cloth in her upraised arm. Both Mercury and Thunderbird revved their motors. Quinn dropped her arm, and the cars rocketed forward with a chorus of high pitched rubbery screeches.

The cars were racing directly towards them, so Dave couldn't tell who was ahead. The impromptu track was lined with screaming and jumping hoods, so they weren't any help either. Despite his expressed confidence (and it was 100% real), Dave found himself biting his lip in anxiety as the cars came closer and closer, the reflected sun off their chrome and steel dazzling his sight.

Even when both cars roared by, streaks of color and a blast of dirty air in their faces, Dave still couldn't quite tell who'd won, though he imagined he saw Kurt look out the window, directly at him, as he drove past. The hoods were cheering, but he couldn't tell for whom. The cars glided to a stop several feet away. Kurt and Smythe got out, and glared at each other. Dave held his breath.

A roar erupted from the hoods. They streamed like a pack of wild dogs on the hunt towards their quarry. There were whoops and back slaps and shoulder shaking. Jeff/Nick stepped forward and proudly handed over the money while the defeated watched with crossed arms and sour looks.

Kurt waved the cash in the air. "Beer's on me!" he shouted.

Everyone cheered. Dave nearly went hoarse joining them.


"Easy does it... Damn, you're heavy... Okay, sit... There you go." Kurt slammed his car door. Dave's head hit the window with a soft thunk. Kurt shook his own head. "You'd think a guy your size would be able to hold his booze better."

It was already nightfall, and the party was still in full swing. Still, both Kurt and Dave had their parents to worry about (though Kurt had no idea how Dave would be able to explain his hangover tomorrow morning; not his problem, though), so they were leaving early. The rest would drink and carouse until almost dawn.

Dave barely stirred as Kurt started the car and began to drive. He glanced over at the insensate form and decided to dare turning on the radio. "Memories Are Made of This." Not exactly Kurt's kind of tune, but it'd do as a distraction.

The car jolted as it ran over a bump in the road. Dave snorted, his eyes blinking open. "Hm? Wha-?"

"We're in the car now," Kurt replied. "No thanks to you. We're on our way back to Lima."

"Mmm, okay." He rubbed his eyes with an open hand. Dave fell silent, but his eyes didn't close again.

"You're lucky I was around," Kurt said loftily. "If it weren't for me, the others would've pickpocketed your share of our winnings the second you passed out."

"I told you you'd win," Dave said with a small smug grin.

"So you did. Not that I doubted it for a second either — I mean, it was Smythe I was racing against — but you just complicated things."

"Uh... sorry?"

"You should be." He barely heard the DJ on the radio over his words, so he was only mildly conscious of the song changing.

Keep a close watch on this heart of mine...

Dave's eyes lit up. "Oh, man, I love this song! Turn it up!" Kurt did so.

I keep my eyes wide open all the time...

Kurt shrugged. "It's not bad, I suppose." But then, to his shock, Dave started singing along. His voice was rich and deep, entwining with Johnny Cash's so perfectly that it was almost like the two shared vocal chords.

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds...
Because you're mine, I walk the line...

Kurt looked over at Dave. His body was wedged in the corner between the edge of the seat and the car door, his left leg stretched across the space between them and his right on the floor. His arms were splayed messily across the back of the seat or his lap, his eyes looking at Kurt, yet unfocused. He smiled warmly (at Kurt? at nothing in particular?) as he sang.

"You're pretty good," Kurt said quietly. Dave's smile widened, but he just kept on singing. Without even thinking, Kurt joined him. His own voice was softer and higher (much to his annoyance), but he liked to think he kept up with Dave, their voices mixing in harmony along with the radio.

As sure as night is dark and day is light...
I keep you on my mind both day and night...

And happiness I've known proves that it's right...
Because you're mine, I walk the line...

A loud bang punctuated the end of the line. Dave jumped, his eyes wide. The wheel spun in Kurt's hand; he gripped tight to keep control as the car swerved right. With effort, he slowed down and pulled to the side of the road.

The tree-lined lane wasn't far outside Lima — less than a mile — but the town's outskirts were invisible behind a layer of darkness and shadowy shapes. Kurt rounded the front of the car, briefly illuminated in the headlights, before kneeling down next to the front right tire. He shook his head.

He heard a car door open. "What's wrong?" Dave's voice asked.

"Flat tire. Looks like we ran over a nail or something. Dammit." Kurt went to the trunk and opened it, pulling out the spare and jack.

"Need any help?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I'm a mechanic, dummy. I can handle this. But you should at least get out, so I don't have to jack up your weight along with the rest of the car."

"Fine," Dave huffed. He got out and simply watched, hands in his pockets, as Kurt placed and cranked the jack.

The car now partly suspended in the air, Kurt removed the hubcap and threaded the lug wrench onto one of the nuts. He turned the wrench; the nut barely moved, if it moved at all. Dammit, he thought, I didn't think they were on this tight. He turned the wrench again, vocalizing his strain in a prolonged grunt. Nothing.

"Need any help?" Dave repeated, and goddammit he sounded smug.

"No," he snapped. "I told you, I can handle this."

"Suit yourself." Even with his back to Dave, Kurt could see him shrug. Bastard.

This time, Kurt straightened himself up from his crouching position, putting his weight onto the lug wrench. Come on, come on... There was a slight shift... yes...! But the shift was actually the wrench slipping off the nut. It clanged to the ground, sending Kurt with it. "Goddammit!" Kurt yelped as a shock of pain shot through his right hand.

Dave was crouching beside him in the next moment; Kurt wasn't sure how the man had moved so fast. Must be that football crap. I suppose it had to be good for something. "Are you okay?" he gasped, concern evident in his eyes.

Kurt nodded, rubbing his hand ruefully. "Fucking thing slipped. Sprained my hand a little. Just give me a minute."

"Here." Without asking for further permission, Dave grabbed Kurt's hand, massaging at the tightened muscles. "Let me help. We get these all the time on the field."

"No, I'm fine, I..." But Kurt couldn't get himself to say anything else. Dave's rough fingers were warm and somehow comforting over his. He gulped.

Suddenly, the massaging stopped. Dave's hand was now still, clasped over Kurt's. Kurt looked up. Dave was looking at him, mouth somewhat agape, with an expression that was blank for being too emotional. Kurt knew how he felt; it was like a hundred different thoughts and feelings were hammering at his brain all at once. He couldn't sort them out; the second he grasped one, another whirled him away. All he could feel was Dave's hand — all he could see were Dave's shimmering eyes. His heart was pounding in his ears, he couldn't breathe, and he would've wondered what the fuck was happening to him if he could think at all clearly.

He felt his face lift, even though he hadn't thought about doing it. He felt his body move towards Dave's, even though he hadn't thought about doing that either. And when his lips pressed against Dave's, moist and warm, he told himself that he hadn't thought about doing that either.

Whatever the truth, whatever he thought before, he was doing it now.

Kurt closed his eyes; he didn't want sight to distract him from what he was feeling: warmth, flesh, breath. He leaned forward, trying to capture more of Dave's lips in his; the other did the same, and Kurt felt strong arms wrap around his torso.

God, how long did they do that? How long did they stay that way? Hours? Years? Kurt would never remember, no matter how hard he tried. He only knew that he had to stop for breath eventually. When he did, he opened his eyes, just in time to see Dave's own eyes open... and widen in shock, alarm, and... disgust.

With a roar, he shoved Kurt away from him so hard that both boys stumbled backwards, falling on their asses onto the hard dirt. "What the FUCK?!" Dave's voice seemed to echo in the trees.

"Dave, I—"

"You... You...! All this time, you were just trying to—?"

"What? No! What the hell are you talking—?" Kurt scrabbled to his feet; Dave jumped back, pointing a shaking finger at him.

"Don't... don't come near me! You... you sick pervert! Don't ever come near me again!" He turned and ran, lurching on unsteady feet into the night.

Kurt just stared after him, too overwhelmed by his shock. By the time his voice, his muscle control, returned to him, it was far too late. "Dave! Wait!" He ran a few steps in the direction Dave had taken off in, only to see quickly that the other boy had completely vanished. There was no way to catch up to him now. Tearing at his hair, he slammed a fist into the hood of his car. "Fuck!"

Fifteen minutes later, the tire was changed. He drove the rest of the way into town slowly, hoping to see a hulking, slouching figure walking along the road or crossing a street.

He didn't.


July 21, 1956

Kurt tried to get back into the routine the first day after the... event, but he was just a ghost, haunting the Hummel garage, mindlessly mimicking the routine he had in life. So the next morning, when he told his dad, "I need to take the day off today," he just got a nod in reply, without question or hesitation. He wondered how shitty he looked in that moment, freshly out of bed, his hair probably a mess and probably bags the size of bowling balls under his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to look in a mirror or otherwise give a fuck.

So he did what he did whenever he felt lost or lonely or confused: he drove. He just got into his car and drove. He didn't particularly pay attention to where he was going, other than to stay on the road. He didn't turn the radio on. He didn't notice or care about the cars that had to pass him when he went too slow or that sent dagger-glares at him when he went too fast. He just drove.

He came back to himself when he realized he'd entered a small parking lot. Kurt looked about; he was still in Lima, but he didn't recognize this particular area. He turned to his left and let out a bitter laugh.

A church. Of course he would've wandered directly to a church. He hadn't been inside one for years, not since his mother's funeral. He had little use for the "God" fiction, and thankfully his dad didn't press the issue. But now that he was at one of his lowest points, obviously the universe directed him to the one place designed to give false hope and comfort to the grieving so they could extract cash and inject stiffened, stifling morality.

Oh, what the fuck. It was a Saturday, so the church would be quiet, and God knew that he needed a quiet place to gather his thoughts.

Within minutes, he was gently pushing open the front doors. It was stiflingly warm, only the barest cross breeze offered by the open windows. But the building was silent, the pews were empty, and the pulpit bare of life. Perfect.

He sat in one of the pews near the middle of the left row, the hard wood cool underneath him. He leaned over the back of the pew in front, his hands clasped. Kurt looked up at the front of the church, at the large crucifix hanging over the altar. He wondered if God was laughing if He actually existed.

"Hey!" Kurt started; a hefty black boy about his age emerged from a door near the back. His head was almost bald, covered by only the barest fuzz of hair, and he wore only a white sweat-stained t-shirt and jeans. The boy scowled. "What're you doin' here, white boy?"

Kurt wasn't at all afraid — more like startled. He hadn't realized he'd wandered that far from his usual haunts. It wasn't that he had anything against blacks — it wasn't like he didn't know what it was like to be ostracized for no good reason — but in a small town in Ohio, the races certainly didn't mix easily. "Sitting. And thinking," he replied, trying to put his old imperious look on his face. "Isn't that what churches are for?"

The boy approached, looking him over, looking his hair and clothes over. He apparently didn't like what he saw. "You don't want to cause no trouble."

"No, I don't."

The other guy frowned. "You making fun of me, boy? 'Cause I could fuck you up, easy." He raised his fists to demonstrate.

Kurt rolled his eyes, which fortunately couldn't be seen through his sunglasses. No matter the race or the background, typical male posturing was always the same.

"This ain't your kinda place," the boy continued.

"I know that."

"So you'd better leave, before—"

"Azimio!" Both turned at the shout. A black girl with bobbed hair wearing a simple yellow dress appeared at the same door her compatriot had. Her arms were crossed, and she glared at the boy — Azimio — with a look that instantly quailed him. Kurt himself was a little uncomfortable just looking at it. "You aren't done cleaning the sacristy, are you?"

"But...!"

"No backtalk! It has to be done by tomorrow, or my dad's gonna skin your hide! Now march!" She pointed towards the open door. Azimio cast a last glare back at Kurt before he stalked away, disappearing through the door. The girl waited until he'd gone, then approached Kurt, a warm and genuine smile on her face. "Sorry about that. He's not too bright. But at least he can lift heavy things."

He couldn't help it; Kurt laughed. "No problem."

The girl sat on the pew behind him, positioning herself just to Kurt's right. "Mercedes Jones." She offered her hand.

"Kurt Hummel," he replied, giving it a quick shake. He turned back towards the front, finding himself wishing the altar candles were lit. He always tended to lose himself, lose time, staring at dancing flames...

"Do you want to talk to someone?" Mercedes asked quietly. "My dad's the minister here; I could get him if you want."

Kurt shook his head. "No. I just... I just need to think." He turned halfway back towards her. "You don't seem to be worried."

"About what? You?" Mercedes laughed. "I know you hoods got this reputation, but I know a little about having reputations that aren't deserved. Besides, I know people. I see 'em come in and out of this church every week since I was a baby, so I got a lot of practice in reading 'em. And you..." She regarded him for a moment. "I don't think I have to be scared of you." Kurt didn't answer, so she continued, her voice turning soft and gentle. "If you don't want to talk to my dad, I'm here. I can just... listen."

Then she too fell silent, following Kurt's gaze towards the altar. He didn't know how long they sat there. He was expecting (maybe hoping) she'd give up and go away, but she didn't; he didn't know if he was annoyed or grateful. Finally, he spoke. Why the hell not? Maybe it'd do him some good to talk it over with an uninterested party. "I... I'm in love. I think."

Mercedes' face brightened. "That's wonderful! When?"

"I... A couple of nights ago, I guess. But I think... it started a lot earlier. I just didn't know it."

Mercedes nodded sagely. "It happens like that a lot. It just... sneaks up on you sometimes. It hides and waits until your heart is ready." She leaned her head against one upraised arm. "So what's she like? Pretty?"

"Not exactly the word I'd use, but... she's attractive, yeah." He had no qualms about lying to this girl he barely knew; if there was one thing he knew very well, it was what the Bible said about men... like him. With feelings like his. He'd seen the short films in health class, just like everyone else.

You... you sick pervert!

Kurt closed his eyes for a moment to chase away the memory. "She's... uh... smart, surprisingly sweet, actually," he continued. Mercedes was focused on him, on his face, as if he were revealing the eleventh commandment to her. Somehow, that gave him the courage to go on. "Funny, compassionate in h— her own way. I... I haven't felt as safe around anyone... maybe ever."

Mercedes nodded. "So... what's the problem?"

"It's... how do I put it? It's like... if I was in love with you."

Her eyes widened. "Oooooh." Kurt was almost amused by her enlightenment, how much sense it made to her, even though it was completely wrong. "So what does she think of all this? Does she love you back?"

Kurt thought about the moments before and during the kiss: the look in Dave's eyes, the gentleness of his touch, the willing meeting of their lips, the arms wrapped around him. "I think so. But she's... scared. Really scared. About what would happen to us if we were to be together."

"What about you?" Her question, as quiet as it was, almost made him jump regardless. There was a probing edge to it that felt like it physically cut him. "Are you scared?"

Kurt swallowed and nodded. "A little." He laughed bitterly, turning away in case the tears that threatened became reality. "You must think that's funny, huh? The tough rebel hood, scared of what society thinks."

"Well, I'll admit you don't seem like the kind who cares what society thinks," Mercedes replied slowly, "but that doesn't mean you can't be scared. But then the question is, is she worth it?"

Kurt started, turning back to her. He hadn't consciously decided that a preacher's daughter would be stupid, but... Then the question sank in. It was one he'd been considering in many roundabout ways since that night, but it had never been put into his mind so directly before in any form. He thought for a moment — but only for a moment. It was a little scary how easy the answer was.

"Yes."

Mercedes nodded sagely. "Then I think you owe it to yourself to try."

"But... she's really scared. She said she doesn't want to be with me, she's so scared. I don't know if I can beat that." His voice was foreign to his own ears: weak, frightened, mousy. What the holy fuck had Dave turned him into? No, it wasn't Dave who did this — it was his old enemy, society, that had done this to Dave, and to him. Made them afraid.

But even knowing that, it still felt... wrong, the feelings he had. On some level, Kurt knew it was just what he was taught, taught by a society he knew was screwed up and judgmental, but...

"It's the same with me." Kurt blinked; he'd almost forgotten Mercedes was there. "There's this boy, and we... It's hard. It's really hard." She brushed a lock of hair off her cheek; her eyes were bright but dry. "But I figured, what else could I do? Could I really just go on without him, live my life, be married to someone else five, ten, twenty years from now, spend all that time trying to seem happy when I'm not?" She looked straight into Kurt's eyes, as if trying to will understanding into him. "Love is a great thing. Maybe the greatest thing. You can't give it up, not without trying. Maybe it'll hurt bad after, but that can't be worse than spending the rest of your life wondering 'what if,' can it?"

Kurt could think of a lot of ways it could, but the basic message still struck home. It couldn't be that simple, Kurt thought. It couldn't be that easy... But no, no matter what he did from here on out, it would not be easy. But simple?

Simple was the person he became when Dave was around: so much less cynical, so much more open, so much... happier (he hated using that word, but no other seemed to fit). Simple was the way he felt when Dave held him: safe, warm. Simple was the way he felt when Dave kissed him, a complex rush of emotions that nevertheless boiled down to one simple one with four letters.

Kurt had a lot of four letter words that came to mind for this entire situation, actually.

"Looks like you've made up your mind." Mercedes looked so... smug. God, did he look like that when he was right? If so, it was a wonder that Dave hadn't punched him in the face weeks ago.

Dave. It was a revelation, once he thought about it and paid attention, how much he thought of the guy.

"I have." Abruptly, before he could even think (because if he did, he knew he wouldn't do it — it just wasn't him), his arms shot out, and embraced Mercedes tightly. "Thanks," he whispered in her ear.

"My pleasure," she replied. They separated, and stood at the same time. "If you ever feel like coming one Sunday, we'd love to have you."

"Maybe." Which meant no, but Mercedes deserved at least that much consideration. For her part, all she did was nod in response. "You know... Mercedes makes some halfway decent cars."

She laughed. "Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should." It was remarkable, how different he felt now that he'd made up his mind. Gone was the fog of confusion and despair. "I should go."

"Go get her," Mercedes said. "God bless you, Kurt Hummel."

He couldn't help but smile. "God bless you too, Mercedes Jones."

It felt like the first time he'd ever said those words... at least, said them and meant them.


July 30, 1956

It wasn't until over a week later that Kurt felt like he was ready to take some action. Not that the time had been wasted; in fact, it was spent on something vital: recon.

He knew his own feelings — knew them for a cold hard fact. It was funny how readily he accepted them when he had no other choice. But Dave's? That was another matter entirely, especially when it could all blow up in his face even if he did feel the same way. Though the more Kurt thought, the more he remembered all the time they'd spent together, the more sure he got that there had to be something there...

But he couldn't just trust his own assumptions and feelings, not on something this important, and especially not when his homosexual tendencies seemed to be hibernating up until a few nights ago. Until he did that, talking to Dave — even risking getting anywhere close to him — would probably do a lot more harm than good.

The first stop was to Finn Hudson. Their parents had been growing ever closer of late, and Finn was making efforts to ingratiate himself to the Hummels, and especially Kurt, rather like an overeager puppy. It had annoyed Kurt at first, but now it proved to be quite useful.

The second was to mutual friend Puck. Dave hadn't been to any hood gathering since that night, of course, but Kurt knew better than almost anyone Puck's sneaky ways. Those would come in handy, he was sure.

Neither quite understood what Kurt was looking for, but both promised to help anyway, much to Kurt's relief; it helped that both of them also knew, and were concerned for, Dave.

Kurt's recent "time off" had caused the garage to fall behind a little, and Kurt was pouring every waking hour he could into helping catch up. It wasn't until now that he had time to relax a little and think. Fortunate timing too, because Finn and Puck reported in. Their stories matched perfectly, painting a picture that both told Kurt everything and troubled him greatly.

Dave was completely falling apart. He was "home sick" for two days following the incident on the road. When he finally left the house, he was pale and haggard. He practically sleepwalked through his shifts at the grocery store. Otherwise, he only emerged from his room to eat and use the bathroom. Finn reported that Brittany wasn't sure if he'd even showered during all that time. Puck had apparently spent an evening or two hanging around under Dave's third story bedroom window (how long, he refused to say). Since it was summer, the window was open, and Puck swore he could hear Dave crying late at night, sometimes for what seemed to be hours. Finn had talked to a friend of a friend who overheard the elder Karofskys talk at the post office about possibly taking Dave to a doctor.

On one hand, it was a slight reason to hope; surely Dave wouldn't be this badly off emotionally if he didn't feel something for Kurt, right? On the other hand... Kurt couldn't find any excuse to put off action any longer, not after this. If nothing else, even if he was wrong about Dave or he was too scared to do anything, he knew he had to free his friend from this hell he was stuck in.

Even as he got into his car and drove to the grocery store where he knew Dave would be working that afternoon, he realized he wasn't sure exactly what he could say, what he could do. Dave was a lot more conformist, even if it wasn't by choice. With the family he had, he couldn't help but absorb what was expected of him, what he was supposed to do, and more importantly, be. Could one person, even someone as bold as Kurt Hummel, break through that kind of shell?

Well, either way, he had to at least try.

When he arrived at the grocery store, he quickly found out from a sympathetic Brittany that Dave's shift had already ended, though she told him the route he usually took home. Kurt gave her a tight hug (just like old times) and took off in the proper direction.

Barely five minutes into the route-follow, Kurt saw a familiar DeSoto parked along the side of the road. It was empty, and the hood was open. Kurt decided to risk stopping. He found that the engine was still warm, and quickly saw the problem that had caused the car's failure. He couldn't help but "tsk" and shake his head.

"I would've fixed that for you, Dave," he muttered. "If only you'd come back. If only you'd talked to me..."

He leaped back into his own car and continued on the route. This time, he went slowly. Hopefully, Dave would stay on his usual path, even on foot, if only out of habit. He was soon rewarded for his patience; a lumbering figure was making its way down the sidewalk, feet shuffling and head bowed.

Dave... Kurt could almost see the cloud of depression wrapped around him. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He had to be strong. For both their sakes, he had to be strong. He slowed the car to a near crawl, keeping it parallel to Dave, who didn't even look up, so unfocused were his eyes. Kurt leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window. "Dave!" he shouted.

Dave's head snapped up. His eyes widened, and a dark anger fell across his features. "Go away!"

"Dave, we need to talk!"

"No, we don't!"

"Dammit, will you listen to me?"

"No! Leave me the hell alone, you freak! You dirty sick freak!"

Kurt didn't feel the slightest ember of anger. In fact, his worry only deepened. He knew — knew from all the hours the two had spent talking. He'd heard it before, in different forms, in different words (like "fake" and "stupid")... Dave wasn't yelling at him. He was yelling at himself. He was calling himself all these horrible names. No wonder he was so depressed... He was convinced that there was something wrong with him.

Why couldn't he see? If he felt anything like the way Kurt felt that night... how could that be wrong?

But then, Dave didn't have the experiences that soured him on what authority told him that Kurt did. He didn't have, as Dave himself once put it, freedom.

Well, there was one way to stop him, one way to get him to listen. If he responded by running away or lashing out again, then Kurt would know that either he was wrong about Dave all along, or that his fear was too deep for anything to penetrate. Either way, he could deal with that, and try something else. But if Dave actually responded the way Kurt hoped he would...

Kurt looked up and down the street. It was one of the back roads, bare of person or vehicle. Good. Now all Kurt had to do was say it. He started to, but something stopped him; all that came out was a stutter. Dammit! Why couldn't he just say it? For his own sake, for his friend's... He had to just say it. He tried again, but all that came out was "I..." Dave shot him a dirty look and picked up his pace.

Kurt knew then why he was having trouble. Because of what it meant. Because it was, in its own way, a commitment — to action, to Dave. He'd never made a commitment like that before — hell, one of the big reasons he became a hood was to avoid that kind of shit.

But now he had no choice. Talking with Mercedes had convinced him. This was worth it. Dave was worth it.

So he took a deep breath, and bellowed some of the hardest, yet easiest, words in his life.

"I think I'm in love with you, you idiot!"

Dave stopped cold. It was the reaction Kurt had hoped for. He had to slam on the brakes to keep them next to each other.

"Do you know how worried I've been about you?" He took a deep, jagged breath, trying to ignore the heat growing in his cheeks and eyes. "Do you have the slightest fucking clue what's been going through my head, hearing about what's been happening with you? You're hurting, and I want to help you, but I don't know how! I— I'm not even sure I'm even handling my own fucking feelings very well! I know you're scared... So am I! I'm as scared as shit! You're not alone, Dave! So please... I know that you may not want to hear this and I have no idea if you feel anything for me, but I don't fucking care! You have to know that there's someone out there who loves you just the way you are, who doesn't think you're a sick freak or just there to mold into someone you're not supposed to be."

He was babbling. Somewhere in his mind, Kurt knew he was babbling. But he just couldn't stop. Not as long as Dave was still listening, not as long as he was standing there stock still on the sidewalk, staring at him. "Y-you're the best friend I have," he continued. "And I know this... what I'm feeling... I know it's okay! It has to be! I'll do whatever it takes to help you believe that too! Just... please let me help you! I don't care what you think of me or what you do to me, but I love you and I can't stand to see you like this and goddamn you Dave Karofsky you've turned me into such a fucking pussy but I can't help myself and..." He sniffled, desperately trying to wipe the tears from his eyes. Shit, why did he have to be such a goddamn fucking girl?

When his vision cleared, he nearly gasped. Dave was leaning into the open window, his own eyes moist. His mouth was trembling, and he looked like he wanted so bad to reach out to Kurt. Finally, he swallowed, audibly. "Y-you said you wanted to talk?" he asked in a weak, almost kitten-soft voice.

Kurt reveled in the well of hope gushing up from inside him.


It was the same hill on which they'd sat and talked numerous times, the one with the gorgeous view of Lima. But neither particularly noticed the view this time.

Kurt sat behind the wheel of the idle car. Dave was conspicuously seated about as far away as he could get, almost plastering himself against the passenger side door. Except for the distant whistle of a train and the leaves rustling in the breezes overhead, it was silent. The late afternoon sun, strained through the canopy of leaves overhead, dappled Dave's face with little spots of light. God, Kurt thought, he's beautiful. But he didn't say it aloud, no matter how much he wanted to; he may have been a hood, but he knew when a little delicacy was called for.

It helped that Dave just looked... fragile — pale and worn and shrunken in on himself. It wasn't just the way his shoulders were slumped, and his entire body looked like it was balling up, as if it wanted to eat its own tail and disappear — he'd actually lost a noticeable amount of weight in the past eleven days.

He knew Dave probably wouldn't say anything unprompted; he just needed to relax a little, process everything, get used to Kurt's presence. Finally, Kurt spoke — gently, since he had the feeling that Dave would jump through the car roof if he made any sudden moves. "Dave?" The other teenager's head shot up. Kurt gestured to the space between them. "You're making me feel a little like I'm diseased." The second the last word was out of his mouth, he winced inwardly. Of all the stupid fucking things to say... He was trying to lighten the mood a little, but that was so obviously not the way to do it that he was starting to think he was a little messed up in the head after all — but not because he was attracted to another man.

"Aren't we?" Dave asked quietly.

"Why? People fall in love every day."

"With girls," Dave snapped. "Guys fall in love with girls. Not..." He waved vaguely in Kurt's direction.

"Not all of them. Some fall in love with other guys."

"Yeah, and they're crazy. They're messed up in the head! It's wrong!"

"You're missing the point, David! It's not 'them' anymore. It's us now. And we're not 'messed up in the head.' Do you feel crazy?"

"Yes!" Dave choked. "Ever since you... we..." He shook his head, apparently unable to even say apparently simple words. "I've been going nuts. I can't sleep, I can't eat... My stomach hurts all the time and I can't stop thinking about you..."

"I don't think you're crazy," Kurt said.

"I am! I have to be! I have to tell my parents. They can find a doctor who'll help me, and—"

Kurt felt the blood rush out of his face. The idea of Dave being sent to some mental hospital was bad enough, but the possibility (no matter how remote — oh, how he prayed that it was remote) that word could get to his own father, and he would... "No! Please, Dave, don't tell your parents." He risked reaching over and touching Dave's arm. The other boy twitched at the touch, but Kurt noted that he otherwise didn't move or object. "Promise me you won't."

"I..." Dave trembled. "Okay."

Kurt sighed in relief. "You don't need a doctor. There's nothing wrong with you."

"Are you the one who's crazy? How can you say that? I can't... I can't be... this."

"You think this is fun for me? I may be a goddamn hood, Dave, but the idea that I could be tossed into a nuthouse by my own family isn't exactly my favorite thing to think about."

"Maybe... Maybe I can fix myself." Dave's eyes were wide with wild animal hope. "Maybe I can just stop being... homosexual." He choked out the last word as if it were physically yanked from him.

"Oh, right, it's that easy," Kurt said in a rather more sardonic tone than he'd intended. "Because men just up and decide to kiss men every goddamn day."

"How can you be so calm about this?!" Dave shrieked. "I'm sick in the head! I'm a goddamn freak!"

"Do you think I'm a freak?" Kurt asked calmly.

"I..." Dave's entire face seemed to fall. "No, I don't. I'm so sorry I said that to you, Kurt, I didn't mean to hurt you..."

"Think about what you just said. Does that sound like something a guy says to just any old friend?" Kurt didn't feel an answer forthcoming, so he went on. "You said you've been thinking about me a lot. What exactly comes to mind when you think about me?"

"I... That... When we..."

Kurt sighed. He understood, he really did, but his patience was starting to wear a little thin. "Kissed, Dave." Dave nodded rapidly, silently. "Did you feel crazy then?"

Dave's head bowed, watching his hands as his fingers twiddled and worried at each other. Kurt waited, watching a bird in a tree branch nearby tweeting out a nauseatingly happy tune. When Dave finally spoke, Kurt's neck nearly cricked from the sudden turn. "No." He took in an audible breath. "It... felt good. It felt so good... Like I was finally whole. Like I was finally happy..."

Kurt nodded, trying to keep his pounding heart contained in his chest. "I told you I dated Brittany. We went out for over a month. But... I didn't feel anything for her. I mean, I liked her, we were friends, but... I wasn't attracted to her. At all." He laughed. "I suppose that should've been my first hint, right? If I wasn't attracted to Brittany, then... But I thought maybe I just didn't like anyone that way. Or there was someone else out there I hadn't met yet... Turns out I was right — just not in the way I thought." Kurt smiled warmly at Dave. A small smile lit up the other boy's face in return, which Kurt counted as a minor miracle, all things considered. And maybe a sign that of what he felt...

"There was this boy. Summer camp, my first year in the Cub Scouts. We did everything together. Fished together, hiked together, ate together. Looking back on it now, I think... I think I felt something for him. I mean, we never did anything — we were just kids, so why would we? But we hugged each other the last day of camp, and I still think about him sometimes... But I don't even remember his name. How weird is that? I mostly remember... how it felt when we were together. I always thought it was just happy childhood memories, but now..." He grimaced.

This was going better than Kurt could've hoped. They weren't there, not by any means, but the very fact that Dave was willing to even contemplate this new aspect of his past... Still, no sense getting overconfident; he knew he still had to step lightly. "Dave... when I said I love you... I meant it. I want... to explore what that means..."

He could see the horror spring into Dave's eyes. But more than that... There was conflict there, as if that horror were fighting against something else, something not as dark, something that was pushing back against the fear... "I want to, Kurt... I want to so bad... But I... I'm scared..."

"You think I'm not? This is my first time around the block too."

"Yeah, but... It's like I always tell you: you're used to standing out. You're used to being a rebel."

"Then let me teach you. You've already been buying us beer for weeks; I've already got my claws in you."

Dave laughed. "You sure do." It was amusing, watching Dave's eyes widen as the implications of his agreement sank in. It wasn't so amusing watching the light drain out of Dave's eyes at the mere contemplation. "You make it look so easy," he muttered. "I look at you, and I think I could actually do it. I could actually... be..." He shook his head.

"Why can't you?" Kurt winced at the eagerness in his voice, but pressed on regardless. "If we make each other happy, and I think... I hope we do... then why can't we at least try?"

"B-Because I keep telling you, I'm not like you. I'm not strong. I'm not brave..."

"And I keep telling you that's bullshit! Besides, aren't... friends supposed to help each other? If you're not strong, if you're not brave... then let me help you be."

"My parents... They'd..."

"Screw them," Kurt snarled almost viciously. "If they can't love you — smart, funny, awesome you — because you fell in love with the 'wrong' person, they don't deserve you."

"It still feels wrong. I keep thinking that I'm sick, that I'm a pervert..."

"That's just society talking. And you know what I think about them." He smiled, trying to look confident. "I'm... just asking you to trust me, just a little. Give me a chance. Let me show you that our feelings are right."

Again, the war sprang up in Dave's eyes, in his face — the war between the fear and the hope, his upbringing and his feelings. He banged his head against the window as his head lolled back, groaning. Then he leaned forward again, so suddenly that Kurt instinctively sprang back. Dave twisted the key in the ignition and reached for the radio. "It's too damn quiet in here..."

"Your hand is shaking," Kurt said quietly. And it was, so hard that Dave was having trouble turning the tuning knob.

"I'm fine! I just need... I just need something to listen to. I'm fine!" He snapped the radio on.

I'm the great pretender...
Pretending that I'm doing well...

Dave looked up at Kurt in shock, as if asking, are you hearing this too? Kurt felt his own jaw drop in a rather unflattering manner.

My need is such I pretend too much...
I'm lonely but no one can tell...

Dave began to laugh. It started as a small chuckle, but it quickly swelled into a full fledged roaring. Kurt gaped for a moment, then began to giggle. Soon both boys were in hysterics, tears streaming down both their faces, Dave's open hand pounding repeatedly against the seat.

Just laughin' and gay like a clown...
I seem to be what I'm not, you see...
I'm wearing my heart like a crown...

Finally, the laughter was subsiding. Kurt was gasping for breath, his sides and chest aching. The sunlight glistened off the tracks running down Dave's cheeks. Both of them were breathing deeply between stuttered guffaws, trying to retake the oxygen lost to their crack-up. Finally, the two were relatively calm. Dave wiped his face with one meaty hand. "God damn... The world really is out to get us, isn't it?"

"Finally, you understand." Their smiles faded, and the reality weighed heavily on them again. "You're right that I've spent my whole life ignoring what everyone else thinks of me. But that just means I didn't have as far to go to accept myself — all of myself. And yes, it's been hard, sometimes very hard, especially when I see that my dad would rather I..." Kurt sighed. "But I think it's made me a better person. Then again, maybe... maybe deep down I always knew I was... different. I suppose I tried to bury it in cars and being a hood. It just took you to make me realize just how different." He put on as serious a face as he could, regarding Dave's now-blank expression; it was still somewhat disturbing, but a hell of a lot better than his self-hate or his anguish. "I know you feel like you have a lot to lose, and I know I'm asking a lot of you, but... I think you're worth it." He swallowed; this was the moment of truth. He stretched out a hand, placing it carefully on the seat between them. "I don't want to press you any more than you're ready for, but I have to know... And even if you say no, I'll still be your friend, but... do you think I'm worth it?"

There was a long silence, the music on the radio completely filtered out of their ears. Kurt could actually hear his pulse, the rapid bump-bump-bump so pressing and so loud that he wondered why Dave couldn't hear it too. He knew that there were so many obstacles in their path, and so many of them were in Dave's head; perhaps this was the true test of how Dave felt about him. Kurt tried to tell himself that whatever happened, he would keep his promise and try to help his friend be happy, but he couldn't help but hope...

Finally, Dave moved. Slowly, painfully, like an old man stricken with arthritis, but he moved. His hand carefully, gently, fell over Kurt's, then wrapped it in a gentle squeeze.

Kurt felt his face light up. Seeing that, Dave couldn't help but smile himself.