A/N: I know this probably feels unrealistic, but this is fanfiction and, well, meant to be a total feel-good story without much conflict (some, but not much) and meant to lift the spirits of the Dave/Kurt fans since the show and many-a-fanfic is so damn angsty. Mind you, I ADORE the angst, and actually prefer writing it to the fluff sometimes, but let's face it: sometimes, cotton-candy fluff is just cute and yummy. C:

Here's chapter three! I still dunno how many this will wind up being, BUT I will state something that may interest some of you: once this fanfic is finished, I plan on writing a oneshot sequel to this story that is pure, loving, epic SEX. Hurray! 8D (I'm not adding the sex in this story because I want to preserve it's T-rating. XD )

Three: Chaotically

"Think we should put on the movie as a reference?" I pose, walking over to my fridge (another hand-me-down appliance like my television) to get myself some water. I remember my manners and ask Dave if he wants something to drink. He waves it aside, claiming not to be thirsty.

"I think the movie helps with a bit of the imagery, yes," he agrees tonelessly. "For the non-directed actions in the script, anyhow. But you're can't mimic it too much; you have to throw in your own flair and moves." And he grins at the word 'moves,' and I shudder to think why.

Lazily, I mosey on over to my DVD player and slip the disc in. I select the scenes we need, the two of us standing in the living room, checking for similarities to follow in the script while simultaneously brainstorming ideas silently to ourselves about how to go about our parts.

I notice, however, that Dave's not concentrating nearly as hard as I am. Mainly to glance at my cat, I peer over at him, and find him watching me. As soon as our eyes connect, he looks away, down at my cat weaving between his legs.

"She likes me," he smiles, eager for a distraction. The film continues, but we aren't focusing on it any longer. "Normally I'm not a cat person – I like dogs – but your cat is kinda irresistible." He bites his tongue, and I wonder vaguely if he had been about to add, 'like you.' But that might be my wishful thinking. (Wait, why am I wishing that? …It must be because I'm such an attention whore.)

"It's a 'he,'" I correct with a smile. I crouch down – careful not to get too close to my guest's body – and pick up Figgles. "And I don't know why he would like you; you're so not his type," I say, and a small voice in the back of my head plucks at my brain, insisting that I'm not only referring to the cat, but to myself as well. I hastily shove the slithering thought away as I hand my pet over to Dave's arms. A piece of me worries he might hurt it, but I try to remind myself that Dave wouldn't do that, he's not quite the bully he formerly was.

"Aww," Dave says sarcastically, "He has your father's eyes."

"Shut up," I retort, an unexplainable flush coating my cheeks. I brush a hand over my face to cool it. "We should get working. We haven't done much, and you've been here for, like, half an hour now."

"Are we limited to merely sixty minutes?" he murmurs, nonchalantly scratching my cat's head and behind its ears.

I suppress the urge to utter something I might get heat for. Instead, I respond slowly, "No, not necessarily…" I purse my lips again in thought, and Dave's eyes flicker once again to my mouth. Back at my eyes, he waits for me to finish. "I guess it's not so bad if we need more time. It's not like I have anything else I need to do, like you probably assumed by my boredom earlier today."

He chuckles shortly in reply. "I hoped so. But you know, my offer still stands to go out to eat afterward. They have some great Italian food places around here."

My stomach growls lightly at the notion. Deep-dish pizza happens to be one of my favorite things about Chicago. But going out to dinner on what is technically a date with Karofsky? That notion I am not as fond of. But… some pizza would be so good after exhausting myself over lines…

I sigh, inevitably yielding to his oddly powerful (over my rumbling tummy, at least) offer. "Yeah, all right. Except this isn't a date, got it? I'll pay for myself. I'm just craving deep-dish pizza."

I think he's aware that I'm only chalking up my reasoning to be hunger when in fact a tiny piece of it is to spend more time with him. While I still refuse to trust or befriend him, it's true that I'm curious to witness more of his changed self.

"Awesome," he remarks, and sets my kitty onto the floor again. "So, want to read some lines back and forth?"

"Read or sing?" I rephrase. "This is a musical, after all. Half of the dialogue is sung."

"Good point," Dave amends with a single nod. "Sing, then. Like… 'I'll Cover You'?" he asks. And I refrain from rolling my eyes at how eager he looks. Honestly, he's got to stop shamelessly hitting on me. I get it; he's interested. Fine, whatever. His feelings never left or something. He wants to start over. I get the message! It doesn't mean I entirely want to cooperate. I just have to because of the play, I tell myself. But it feels as green and fuzzy as a log of moss in my gut. (That's how lies feel, if you didn't already know. At least, that's how I see them.)

"Sure," I reply as I stop the movie in the background. I'm only agreeing because we both know this is our biggest number together, so the more practice we have on it throughout all the time before the play, the better. It needs to be flawless.

Angel opens the song, so, naturally, I'm the first to sing.

A tad nervously, I begin (not even glancing at the script since I know the song by heart), "Live in my house, I'll be your shelter; just pay be back with one thousand kisses… Be my lover, I'll cover you…" My voice is a hair too low for my tastes, but Dave looks mind-blown.

He clears his throat, trying to hide a blush I think, and enters the currently music-less song. "Open your door, I'll be your tenant," he begins shakily, but quickly gaining confidence. I blink in surprise, realizing that his voice is silky and rich in sound, and I'm mortified to admit, but a bit of a turn-on. "Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet. But sweet kisses I've got to spare… I'll be there, and I'll cover you~."

My heart speeds up in the slightest. Together, our singing voices mingle in a way I hadn't thought possible, and even though this is our first time attempting a harmony, it's undeniably magical.

"I think they meant it, when they said you can't buy love; now I know you can rent it, a new lease you are my love… my life, be my life~… Just slip me on, I'll be your blanket; wherever, whatever, I'll be your coat."

I can't believe this. We actually are perfect for this, at least that's how it sounds to me. How do directors do it, when they never see people work together, and yet they select them and somehow know it will all work out? Crazy. Simply crazy.

I smile as I sing solo again with, "You'll be my king, and I'll be your castle –"

"No, you'll be my queen, and I'll be your moat," he counters, smiling as well. I think he has the same amusement I do in the two metaphors.

Once again we've reached a point we must sing together, and my ears suddenly long to hear it. I absorbs the chime of our mixed sound as we harmonize, "I think they meant it, when they said you can't buy love; now I know you can rent it, a new lease you are my love… my life… All my life~!" We pause, then: "I've longer to discover something as true as this is…" and it's onto Dave for a moment, and I sit back, observing, listening, and admiring.

"So with a thousand sweet kisses~, I will cover you –"

It's my turn now, the part where we bounce lyrics off of one another. I sing, "If you're cold and you're lonely…"

"With a thousand sweet kisses~, I will cover you –"

I almost don't want to finish the song; this is too much. It feels impossible, and I never even considered it probable, to be singing with Karofsky of all people, and actually sounding remarkable. I feel my fingers quake with shock and excitement as a new type of electricity spikes through my nerves.

At the same time, I don't want this to end. Singing is my passion, my one true joy, my ultimate career. And to be doing it with someone else, and for something as grand as a Broadway musical…

The full force of the situation impacts me suddenly, and my voice falls short, just before I have to sing once again to overlap the man in front of me.

Dave drifts off, looking at me. "Something wrong?" he mutters with a barely visible tilt of his head. "Why'd you stop?"

Unlike Blaine's superficial care, I take note that Dave is genuinely curious over why I'm no longer participating.

I inhale shallowly. "I just… realized something, that's all," I mutter quietly, shaking my head to wave off the situation. I offer a weak smile. "Let's stop there for now, okay? We don't want to overdo it the first time we attempt the song."

"Oh… um, okay, then." There's a pause, as if time has slowed to creep to a snail's pace. Seemingly out of nowhere, a devious grin overtakes Dave's face. "Should we try dancing instead?"

Oh, now he's just trying too hard to get closer to me. I frown. "No."

"Why not?"

I hesitate, trying to think of a legitimate reason. Not a one comes to mind. Dammit. I sigh, "I guess I have no reason."

"Is it because you don't want to be remotely intimate with me? Is that it?" Dave comments, and his tone is low and almost pained, his expression unreadable. If this had been back in high school, he would have sounded angry, defensive. He would have been the definition of intimidating.

I take a half-step back as a reflex. "No, no, it's not… that… I mean, we have to be quasi-intimate anyhow, because of our characters…" I fumble with my words the way a pre-pubescent child might fumble with how to throw or catch a football. "It's just… uh…"

Dave takes two steps closer, reducing the space between us to just under a foot. I suddenly can't breathe as well as I was able to milliseconds ago. "Then what is it, exactly?" he utters softly, clearly offended.

I blink. I nibble my bottom lip. Then, without saying a word, I offer my hands. He takes them, and something feels out-of-place, like a time paradox sending me back to my parents' wedding when I felt bubbly as I danced with Finn; not the same sort of bubbliness as this instant, though; back then, I hadn't crushed on Finn in a while, so the happiness I felt was a sort of awe, a sort of warmth that comes with newfound friendship (or, in our case, brotherhood). This time, though, I feel…

Something. I have no clue as to what, but it's not easily ignored.

My partner leads, naturally, and I follow. I find that I've gained the last two inches or so on him from our high school days; we're precisely the same height now. We do a few moves around one another, trying to keep up, and I randomly picture koi fish. Our pace picks up, and a small laugh escapes me as Dave goes over-the-top, throwing me out on one arm before twirling me back, like a yo-yo. He drops me down, my back resting against his thigh.

If we had never met before this week, this would have been awkward. If we had actually been friends or dated in high school, this would be silly and friendly.

But as he has me linger nearly nose-to-nose with him for a few seconds too long, the sexual tension I hadn't recognized in high school but know all too well now that I'm older suddenly becomes as thick and solid in the air between us that one could cut it with a knife.

He yanks me back up to my feet, tucking me against his chest.

"David Karofsky," I playfully admonish, my words breathless, "Are you trying to woo me?"

"That depends," he answers, swinging me around and sidestepping with my back against his chest.

My heart races. "What on?" I whisper.

His breath is in my ear, sending shivers down my spine. He releases me, a funny, lop-sided smile on his face that reminds me of my step-brother's, only slyer and showing a sliver of tooth as opposed to Finn's closed lips. "On whether or not it's working."

Okay, I'll admit it: Karofsky has most definitely been working on his charm factor over the past few years. And it's damn effective. Whyyyy does it have to be so effective?

I offer a smile of my own. "It might be. In fact, it might have worked enough that I'm going to permit you to pay for my dinner."

"Like a date?" he says with a hint of hope, but there is mostly a sort of dubious undertone to his voice, as if he doesn't believe me. To top it off, he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Yes, like a date," I say, barely believing the words myself. "So what are you waiting for, Dave? Grab your coat and let's go eat. You can attempt to woo me further with your wit and a brief catch-up on what you've been up to since high school, and how in the hell you managed to become…" I puzzle over how to describe him. I shrug. "Well, like this. Calmer, more open with your sexuality, a bit more intellectual… etcetera."

"Hummel, you've always been a pushy, wordy bastard," he retorts with a chuckle. "But you're right. Let's go. And you know, it's not what you think, really. But I'll get to that after we have food in frnt of us."

"Smart choice," I agree with a nod. "Because honestly, I can't think or respond as well on an empty stomach."

"I don't think anyone can. Not on little sleep, either," he adds. (I assume from his own experience with concentrating while delirious from lack of sleep.)

And so we're off, this evening slowly turning into the strangest I've had in a long while, this is also one of the most thrilling and intriguing I've had in an even longer time. I'm smiling despite myself, I'm eager when I don't want to be, and it's like I'm finally putting pieces together that I've been missing: being in a play, having someone to work with on what I know will turn into a near-daily basis, and possibly building a relationship stronger than chatting it up with Alicia at Starbucks or occasionally visiting and often talking on the phone with Mercedes.

.o0o.

When we're finally seated at the popular pizza joint, the first thing Dave orders is an iced tea with lemonade. I had expected a dark soda of some sort, so when I make the remark, Dave retorts, "I'm trying to cut back on the soda. I recently got another cavity, and let me tell you, one of the things I hate most in the world is getting my teeth drilled into for fillings. I did it a few times as a kid and a teen and I fucking despise it. So if drinking less pop and brushing my teeth a little more spares me the trouble, I'll gladly do it."

I smile. "Yeah, I can understand that. No one really likes dentists, huh?"

"Nope. They even have the highest suicide rate for community-based professions." My eyes widen, and Dave suddenly sputters. "Fuck. Did I just say that? I'm such an idiot. Pretend you didn't hear me blurt that out." He shakes his head at himself. As if to brush off his inappropriate dinner conversation, he offers, "I blame my sociology teacher from college. He taught us that."

"You took sociology?" I say to change the subject to something safer than suicidal dentists.

"…Yeah," Dave says, and I think he might be relieved for the change of subject. "Psychology, too. I wanted to see if I could figure myself out, since I was still kinda… okay, more than kinda. I was extremely confused with myself. I dug myself into this deep hole and even extended it into a rut until I was trapped in this… muddy pit of bullying, hiding myself and others from my sexual orientation, and taking out all of my frustration and self-loathing on others in multiple ways. So… I dunno, I decided it was time to grow up. In my sophomore year of college, I took those two classes."

Our drinks arrive, and while I sip at a strawberry daiquiri (I made sure to ask for a half-shot; I don't really want the alcohol, only the cool, fruity sweetness), I inquire, "And did they help?"

Slowly, he nods around a slurp of his own drink. "Yeah. After a year of studying things like mob mentality, counter-culture, dreams, and mental disorders, I came to a conclusion."

"And what was that?" I prod. I can tell that it's not easy for him to open up to me, and I don't blame him. But I think the fact that there used to be a link between us in the past helps push us along now, despite the fact that said link had been negative.

He nods firmly. "I realized that all I needed to do was talk to someone. If I let it all out, I could start accepting myself and breaking the chain I made for myself, start to dig my way back out of the rut." He smiles at his own clever metaphors. "I wound up joining one of those therapy circles for depressed people. I made sure it wasn't an openly gay one, merely a depression one. But I met a girl who was terrified of telling her parents that she was a lesbian, and so she turned to cutting herself to punish herself for her feelings. I was the opposite of her in how I reacted – I lashed out on others instead of myself – but the fear was the same. She and I would stay after the sessions sometimes to talk quietly, politely, to each other. Sometimes one of the therapists would join in. it was… freeing," he finishes, and takes a long drink of his beverage.

"Wow, Dave," I murmur, in utter awe with him. "You did all this by yourself?"

He grins ironically. "I know what you're thinking, Kurt; you always had me pegged as a bully and a coward, and you were right. I was that way. But in college, I found that people are a lot less judgmental than in high school, and almost everybody gets along, even if they don't know each other at all. Lima was just too small. I went to school in Michigan, and discovered that, well… things get better, you know? I met some really good people that helped break me out of that stupid dumb-jock shell. One girl got me reading, actually. She said that books are the best coping mechanisms. She was right."

I've never heard him speak so much at one time before. But I'm beginning to grasp the concept; he went through a process of trial and error, of losing and finding, and lots and lots of mental dispensation of all of the information. And in the end, the final result is this man across the table from me.

I reach over and lightly touch his fingers on his glass. He glances up from his lap to look me in the eye, at my fingers when I retract them, and then back at my eyes.

"'Inspirational' is not something I thought I could ever associate with a Neanderthal, but you've proven me wrong, Dave. You were just keeping a better version of yourself locked up inside because you fell into a bad crowd and an even worse state of mind."

"Once again, you say just the right things," he mumbles, but a smile is on his face.

Our waitress comes back in this moment, asking us if we're ready to order. We are. We decide to share the smallest size of their deep-dish pizzas, a spinach-cheese one. I'm surprised he didn't request sausage or pepperoni or something meatier, but Dave apparently likes any flavor of pizza, and doesn't mind that I chose what I did.

We wind up sharing a few laughs, talking about people from our awkward years. "Remember Noah Puckerman?"

"How could I forget? He was everywhere. In Glee Club, in the athletic department, in juvie…"

"Haha, yeah… I wonder what ever happened to him after he graduated?"

"Who knows? Maybe he's a mechanic right now. Or in prison."

"Your outlook is so gloomy, Karofsky! He could be married with kids and working a corporate job right now."

"Or he could be working a double-shift blue-collar job, trying to make ends meet for his kids after his wife left him."

"…You're just… horrible!"

"Oh, you say that, but right now you're laughing, Hummel."

"…Well, it is a little funny. But I have high hopes for Puck. I think he might be doing well right now, since Artie told me later that juvie scared Puck straight. He hasn't done anything worse than a fist-fight since. Or, at least, since I last heard anything."

"You are such a gossip queen, Kurt."

"Shut up~."

And so it goes. We exchange witty banter back and forth for the longest time, sometimes choking on a bite of pizza when the other says something especially chuckle-worthy.

And before I know it, I realize something a bit scary: I could really learn to like Dave. We could be great friends, and through this whole Rent thing, we might actually be able to pull off an epic production.

We wind up taking doggie bags of the remaining four slices of pizza, the "small" we shared actually pretty big and filling. Once we step out of the restaurant, we stare at one another, unsure where to go from here.

"So… I'll see you at rehearsal starting Friday?" Dave starts, his thumb idly flapping the lip of the foam box containing his two slices of deep-dish.

"Yes. Maybe even sooner, if you'd, you know, like to," I mutter, my face feeling warm. But that's just the sting of the icy air, I'm sure of it.

He grins. "I'd love to. When?"

"Tomorrow and Thursday are open, obviously," I say. "Aside from work, I can see you… whenever. We can go through the script again, to be prepared for Friday."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees, stiffly sucking in air. I vaguely wonder if his heart is beginning to pound as loudly as my own in his ears. "Sounds good. I'll see you when I get off at five again, if you don't mind. Your place? Or would you like to see mine?"

I laugh. "Well, I showed you mine, so naturally you have to show me yours," I reply, and dear Godga, did I just slip an innuendo into my speech? Ahrg! Stupid Kurt! Bad, bad, bad, I mentally punish myself with an imaginary slap to my own face. I force a smile to cover up my thoughts.

Dave's sending me an odd look, but not an unpleasant one. He abruptly smiles. "Naturally," he agrees. "So. Thursday, then? To keep the lines fresh for Friday?"

"Thursday," I nod.

"Right. So… goodbye," he says, and I have no idea if it's my innuendo's fault for turning this into one of the most uncomfortable departures ever, or if it's simply the reluctance one or both of us feel toward the parting. Either way, I rub the back of my neck with my free hand and finally mutter my own goodbye before we both turn and walk opposite ways back to our living quarters.

As I unlock my apartment door, I drop my keys on the counter and shrug off my coat. I exhale lethargically, and plop down onto my bed after I kick off my shoes in my bedroom.

Figgles is asleep between the two pillows on my full-sized bed. I unconsciously reach behind me to pet his head and run my fingertips over his ears. He nuzzles me, then returns to sleep.

"Did… all of that really just happen?" I mumble to myself, my eyes staring off into space dreamily. Stumbling across Dave's workplace, watching parts of Rent with him, singing with him, and going out to dinner? All with the guy who bullied me in the past?

I shake my head. This is crazy-impossible-complicated, but so completely like the randomosity of life that I can somewhat believe in.

I flop backward onto my bed, arms spread wide, legs folding at the ankles. I stare up at the ceiling, feel too tired to get undressed, and end up doing what I almost never do as a fashionista since it wrinkles my clothes: I fall asleep in the clothing I wore all day.