A/N: More ANGST. But really, I'd be doing us all a disservice if I just skipped past it at this stage. It's all important for the characters and their story and, just remember, there will be a happy ending! That said, the response for the last chapter was overwhelmingly positive, so thank you for that, and thanks for all the well-wishes. This picks up where we left off last time. Please continue to let me know what you think.
Warnings: Angst, a little Seblaine.
Chapter Twenty Five
984,495
They're taking a buggy downtown – Blaine tells him it's the quickest and easiest (though apparently not the cheapest) method of travelling around the various zones of the edge. When they exit the spacious yet comfortingly familiar elevator from the apartment on floor 275 and cross the pristine white lobby to the exit, the small, bug-like automated car is already waiting for them; twin leather seats, tinted windows and all.
As they ride, Kurt's a little shocked at how surprised he is that this place is so big. He's seen snippets of it on stream all his life, but it hadn't quite prepared him for the reality. Every pathway, every corridor, is bigger, wider, brighter, than anything back in the mid-zones. It truly does feel like he's been transported to another world. The area around the pathway they're on reminds him vaguely of the main entryway between zones; it's vast and bustling with people and buggies, every inch of the sprawling wall-space is covered with ads and tickertapes and signs to other edge-zones. It all flashes by in a dizzying whir of alien color and distant sound. He feels small and slightly out of place, even dressed as he is in Blaine's ill-fitting clothes, like somehow, even at a glance, everyone will know that he's here under false pretences; that he doesn't really belong.
Blaine chatters animatedly by his side as they travel; he tells him about the alternate dashboard they use here, that it would be considered vulgar for high earners to keep so many digits on show, so their credits are cached and displayed only when requested, just like messages and alerts. Kurt has plenty of questions, but he leaves them mostly unasked. He guesses he doesn't really need to know if he won't be staying long enough to find out the answers for himself.
When they disembark at the mall, Blaine makes a beeline for the Arcade and Kurt has to make an effort to keep up with him, as well as to keep his jaw from dropping as they pass various cartoon-bright vendors and decadent looking stores on their path. It all feels surreal again; like he's been shrunk and digitised, thrown into this illusory world in place of his own Counter. Except he's well aware that this isn't a program; there's no easy escape function, no penalty he can pay to skip forward. And, as they approach the Arcade's lavish fascia, he's not sure he would skip this part even if he could.
"The Arcade has restricted access," Blaine tells him as he swipes his hand in front of a large panel, emblazoned with the tastefully elegant logo of the elite department store, to gain access. He knows he shouldn't really be here, but he can't fight the guilty butterflies he feels flutter in his stomach; the Arcade embodies something Kurt always thought he'd love about being a star, about living at the edge; exclusivity and luxury, combined. "You're here as my guest, obviously. But it'll costs you twenty-five for a pass of your own."
"Twenty five thousand?" Kurt asks as the doors slide open.
"Twenty five million," Blaine corrects and mimics Kurt's stunned expression, raises his forefinger to his chin and pushes upwards to close his slack jaw before going on, "but you'll make that in no time, if you stay."
Kurt only huffs and shakes his head in protest, fighting the blush that threatens to color his skin, as they pass through the wide, gold-rimmed entryway. Beholden to its name, the Arcade stretches out in a long, wide gallery before them. It looks like something Kurt might have seen in history class, something from the old-world but with a familiar modern twist; the high arched ceilings are supported by wide, round illuminated beams and, unlike the pristine white sharpness of the mall outside, the palette here seems more muted and warm; a creamy expanse with rich, gilded edges. Kurt bites his bottom lip to stop his jaw from dropping again as he takes in the displays at either side of walkway: vast rows of vendors show items he can't even name alongside actual rails of actual clothing, the likes of which Kurt has never seen; there's not an item of grey, stretch-jersey in sight and he finds his fingers itching to just feel the different textures and fabrics. Blaine matches his slow walk and grins at him, pointing to an immense window at the distant end, giving Kurt a moment to absorb the setting before pulling him towards an artful display of sweater-vests.
Not five minutes pass before Blaine has several item in his bag, each more expensive that the last. If Kurt once thought he had expensive taste in clothes for his Counter, Blaine makes him look positively thrifty.
"That shirt costs more than I make in a week." Kurt says, more in awe than anything else, as Blaine circum-navigates several displays to swipe the back of his hand across the panel of yet another rail of spiffy, striped shirts. Kurt hasn't even seen a single item here that's priced at less than a hundred and fifty thousand. And that was only a scarf. "How do you afford all this...stuff?"
"How did you pay for your Counter Couture?"
"By pedalling."
"Exactly. I work, Kurt," Blaine says with a little shrug as the rail spins to reveal the right size of shirt, propelling it to the front of the display for him to catch, "and, people really like what I do."
Kurt only gives a small nod at that, his jaw working, not quite looking the other boy in the eye. Under the circumstances, he doesn't want to think too much about Blaine working.
"Jeez, don't be such a prude," Blaine laughs and bumps Kurt with his shoulder, "I'm good at it and I get paid well for it. People love me. I'm not ashamed of that." He pauses briefly to glance at Kurt, eyes narrowing a little before he continues, still smiling. "I don't mean to brag or anything, but I have one of the most successful solo-streams on Play."
Kurt falters. He had never really thought that the guys who do what Blaine does might be just as successful in their own field – just as well-rewarded, just as idolized and adored – as the Rachel Berrys of the world.
Truth be told, he'd always purposely tried not to think too much about these guys at all when he was...being entertained by them. These people he watched, fantasized about, jerked off to, on stream – he feels ashamed to admit to even himself as he stands here with one of them – just never seemed like real people. Kurt had kept them in the realm of fantasy characters. He had never once let it cross his mind that they could be guys like him – with mothers and fathers and boyfriends and feelings and hopes and fears and dreams – who had just grabbed their chance to get off the floor, even if it wasn't exactly what they'd always wanted.
This little peak into the world of Blaine Anderson – Porn Star was certainly going a long way towards changing that view. He feels his face flush anew, this time more from shame at his narrow outlook than from his own discomfiture.
"Do you know how many subscribers my individual stream on Puck's Play has?" Blaine stops examining the blue and silver-grey houndstooth shirt in his hands and looks up at Kurt with a wicked glint in his dark hazel eyes.
Kurt can't help but show a small smile in return. "Um...a few thousand?" He knows it's a conservative guess, but from what little he knows of Blaine so far, it doesn't sound like he really needs any help in the ego department.
"Oh, gee, thanks Kurt." Blaine swipes the shirt's tag across the panel and pops it into the proffered bag. He stills and directs on over-exaggerated pout towards Kurt. "Then I guess you aren't one of them?"
Kurt doesn't answer, just rolls his eyes as the heat remains in his cheeks. He feels a little spike of jealousy, too, because he thinks he knows who might be one of his subscribers: David. That distant flash of Blaine's face on Dave's mirrorscreen pops helpfully back into his mind as an aide memoire. His David.
"Almost five-hundred thousand. And that's just my solo stuff."
Kurt looks away, eyes an adjoining rack of knitwear and runs his fingers slowly over a particularly soft, pale blue argyle-patterned sweater. "What about...your other stuff?"
"Well, I haven't been doing that for quite so long." Blaine approaches and nods in approval at the sweater before looking at him. "That's partly why you're here. Or, why you were supposed to be—"
"Blaine..."
"What?" Blaine says and pushes him towards a full length mirrorscreen, holding the sweater up under Kurt's chin as he appraises the reflection. "You can't deny we look cute together."
"I look cute," Kurt says, after a beat, his personality breaking through his apprehension as he tilts his chin up, haughtily; eyes widening a little at the undeniably appealing sight of the azure sweater against his pale skin. He's drawn back to their conversation back at the apartments and decides to return Blaine's compliment, "You, on the other hand, look like you could use a little work."
"Oh, really?"
Kurt's feels his lips twitch towards a sideways smile as he does his best ignore the myriad images of matching items that pop up around the periphery of the mirrorscreen and turns with the intention of setting the sweater back onto the shiny golden rail. "I mean, no offence, or anything."
"Oh, none taken." Blaine says, a little too smoothly, before grabbing first the sweater, then Kurt's hand, swiping them each in turn against the panel on the display unit, giggling all the while.
"Stop that!" Kurt snatches the garment from Blaine's grasp but can't stifle a giggle of his own as a model Counter appears on the display, twirling, hand on hip, wearing the virtual version of the same sweater: *Purchase Confirmed – 250,000C*
"Oops," Blaine says, feigning innocence, as he grabs the small golden bag dispensed from a space under the screen and motions for Kurt to put the item of clothing inside. "Looks like you just made your first official purchase."
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"You ready to talk about this shit yet?"
Dave sighs and looks at her. He knows his gaze is harder than it should to be, but she matches it with her own stone-cold stare for a solid minute before she leans forward and starts to speak.
"I can't make it right, but I can tell you it gets easier. I mean, you'll watch, at first. You'll torture yourself, waste all your credits—"
"Fuck, I can't talk about this now, Santana, I—"
She raises her hands in surrender, "Okay."
"Please. Shit, I can't even—"
"Okay, Davey." She raises her voice and kicks at his shin under the table. "I'll drop it. Jeez."
Santana had all but dragged him out the restroom and back to the refectory after his run in with Nick. All he wanted to do was clean up and get back to the floor to pedal but she wouldn't take no for an answer and he wasn't ready to fight her too.
He takes another bite of his protein bar and chews rhythmically, trying to push Santana's words out of his mind. He knows she's his best – his only – source of any comfort, any counsel, in this situation, but he's not ready to deal with it while Nick's hateful words still ring in his mind.
"You're lucky the Guard didn't have to come," she changes the subject after a minute of silence, pouty lips betraying her reproach as they creep sideways in clear amusement. "Apparently, you broke his nose."
"Good," is all Dave says in muffled response as he continues to eat. Even though Nick hasn't come back from the med centre yet to confirm it, he knows he did. He recognised the snapping sound, the pop of something breaking, wet and painful, under his fist. He's heard it before.
It hadn't been his intention, though. Not at all. All he wanted was to get through the day without ending up in a broken heap himself. Nick had just become a casualty of his will to protect Kurt – to protect himself, too – in the only way he knows he can, now.
"So, how much?" Santana asks, stopping him before he has a chance to get lost in his own head again.
"What?"
"How much did it cost you? The penalty?"
"Two-fifty." He says almost sheepishly, shoving the remainder of the dry, no-brand bar into his mouth.
"Ouch. You were already, what, a hundred down? It's gonna take you a while to get outta that red now."
He huffs at her. Like he doesn't know that much. "Well, it was worth every fucking credit."
"It was?" She arches an eyebrow and smirks at him again. He's still unsure, at times like this, whether Santana's really trying to be his friend or whether her brand of misery just likes company. "I didn't hear what he said."
"And you never will," Dave says as he stands to leave the refectory, tossing the plastic wrapper in the general direction of the girl in the yellow jumpsuit, speaking loud enough so everyone else who he knows has been watching, listening, can hear, "'cause I made sure he'll never open his dumbass mouth to say anything about Kurt or me ever again."
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They enter the Arcade's restaurant, which is situated on a mezzanine floor by the massive window at the back of the store. It looks achingly glamorous to Kurt; more modern than the shopfloor, every discernible surface is covered with shiny white vis-glass that sparkles as it picks up the sunlight beaming through the window. The semi-circle shaped room is lined with spacious booths that provide shade from the light and, he can see from the few that are occupied, that they each come replete with their own customizable themes and tabletop panels.
His eyes are already more accustomed to the light, now, so he leaves the sunglasses where they're currently stowed in his – Blaine's – jacket pocket, squinting to observe the circular bar that dominates the middle of the room as he shuffles along behind an enthusiastic Blaine.
"This is—" Blaine starts to say with a beaming grin and a feint blush, as they approach the classically handsome boy who's seated at a well-placed booth near the back of the room. Even sitting, it's clear to see that he's head and shoulders taller than Blaine and undoubtedly lean underneath the crisp white shirt and navy blue blazer he's wearing. His sandy brown hair is side parted, styled within an inch of its life and stiff-looking but smart, and his green eyes twinkle as he stands, none too subtly undressing Blaine with those eyes before wrapping a hand possessively around the smaller boy's waist and pulling him in for a kiss before he can finish his introduction.
There's no sign of Puckerman but this, he guesses, is Sebastian.
Kurt stands aside, toying with the stiff stringy handle of the boutique bag in his hand, and watches them share their kiss. And what a kiss: immodest to the point of pornographic – and isn't that fitting? – all teeth and tongue, each boy applying visible suction and giving audible assent in reply to the ministrations of the other. It might seem wholly inappropriate - Kurt's reminded of the couple in the Star Shot green room, going at it without fear - if he only had any real idea of what appropriate actually means here.
Not that he's been any great upholder of propriety lately, he thinks to himself. At least, not where David Karofsky's concerned. The still-fresh memory of their time together in the Star Shot holding room comes back to him; kissing, touching, coming—
Kurt licks his lips and feels his cheeks tingle with heat for the umpteenth time today – less from the sight of the activity he's observing, more from the memories it conjures up – as he continues to watch his two new acquaintances get more acquainted with each other, blissfully uninterrupted by a red warning sign or an alarm or a guard officer. He tears his eyes briefly away to glance around the room and can't help but feel that pang of jealousy again, overtaking his budding arousal, at the easiness of it; the fact that none of the other patrons at the restaurant seem to care about the openly affectionate exchange or even notice it. The realization strikes Kurt that he'd do anything to have this with David. Anything.
Except...well, except maybe the one thing that's available to him. He quickly shoves the thought aside as he goes back to watching maybe-Sebastian's hand trail low over Blaine's ass and squeeze, making the shorter boy gasp and pull back, eyes glazed with obvious arousal.
"Uh...this is Sebastian," Blaine finishes his earlier introduction, a little breathless, as he darts his eyes towards Kurt and tongues his reddened, saliva-damp lips. He gazes back up at Sebastian, motioning towards his near-forgotten companion, "and this, of course, is Kurt."
"So it is." Sebastian says with a little nod, stepping away from Blaine and sliding back into the booth. He looks at Kurt with a toothy smirk, but doesn't offer a standard greeting or a welcoming hand. "I saw your audition," he pauses and quirks his brow, leaning back in his seat, "but I almost didn't recognise you in people clothes."
Already irked by the lack of common courtesy, Kurt's a little taken aback by Sebastian's accompanying jibe. "And I almost didn't recognise you in clothes at all." He says, though it isn't strictly true; as with Blaine, there's something faintly familiar about the guy, but if he didn't already know what he did for a living, he wouldn't think he recognized him at all.
"Touche." Sebastian responds, watching Kurt, weighing him up, as he slides into the circular booth after Blaine. "So, what do you fine gentlemen want to drink?"
"Just the usual for me, please." Blaine says with ease as he activates the tabletop dash and scrolls lazily through the illuminated menu.
Sebastian looks at Kurt, expectant. "Um, I'll take a Vita-Water. Please."
"Nothing stronger?" He asks, ostensibly surprised.
"I want to keep a clear head."
"You newbs normally bite our hands off for some of the good stuff."
"Well," Kurt bristles, but decides that employing the Santana-technique is probably best for dealing with Sebastian's brand of thinly-veiled hostility. He plasters a fake smile back onto his face, "not this newb."
"Aw, does that mean no biting, either?"
"Seb..." Blaine chides his boyfriend, fondly batting at his forearm as he shoots Kurt an apologetic look. "He's just teasing."
"Ha," Kurt huffs out a half-hearted bark of laughter, letting the affected smile fall quickly from his lips.
"Shame." Sebastian says with a wink before turning his attention towards the table and frowning. "What I want is off menu, I'll be back in a sec," he sighs and slides out of his seat, heading in the direction of the bar.
"So," Blaine looks excitedly at Kurt and asks, "what do you think?"
"Oh, this place is lovely."
"No, silly. About Sebastian."
Kurt feels his eyes widen. "He seems like...quite the charmer."
"He's harmless," Blaine says, trailing Sebastian with hungry eyes as he struts self-assuredly across the room. His lips curve into a small, almost imperceptible, smile and he adds, quietly, "—mostly."
Kurt suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at that and decides it's probably best to keep his opinion to himself. They sit in amiable silence for the short time it takes for Sebastian to return and Kurt tries to enjoy the ambience of the place while wondering idly if, when they were together on the floor, he ever looked at David the way Blaine is looking at Sebastian. The idea makes his lips twitch into a small, secret smile of his own.
"Here we are, boys," Sebastian returns and deposits a tray of drinks onto the table: two small, seemingly unlabelled, cartons – one red, like the one Blaine had been drinking back at the apartment, and one black – alongside his own pleasantly recognizable bottle of very berry Vita-Water, as well as three frosty-looking glasses filled with crushed ice. Sebastian decants the drinks in turn and passes them around before lifting his own with a flourish. "To the glamorous life."
"The glamorous life!" Blaine chimes and the two boys bump their glasses together before each taking a small sip. Kurt's doesn't join them in their toast and, though he's curious, he doesn't ask what they're drinking; he's sure that he really doesn't need to know.
-328,881
"Oh, hey Nick," Santana greets the wounded boy as he approaches his bike, her tone saccharine sweet and just as synthetic, "you okay? I heard you had a little accident in the refectory?"
Dave can't help but look, assessing the damage he's done. Nick's posture has changed; his head hangs down, nose covered by a stiff white cast, bruise-purple rings peeking out at either side under bloodshot eyes. It crosses Dave's mind, then, that the last person he left a bruise on (besides himself) was Kurt, though under entirely different circumstances. He tries to push away the thrill of satisfaction he feels at both the sight of Nick, penitent, at his hand, and the memory of Kurt, willingly marked as his.
Nick clambers onto his bike without acknowledging either Dave or Santana, his smart mouth remaining soundless as he keeps his eyes facing forward, lips set in an unwavering scowl.
Santana's looks past Nick at Dave and seems to catch the small smile he didn't realize he was showing. She winks at him before turning her attention back to Nick. "Aw, cat got your tongue, Nicky?"
Dave can't resist the urge to join her, the echo of those hurtful words still smarting. "Nothing to say now? You had plenty to say earlier, isn't that right?"
He looks at Dave a spits, "Fuck you."
"Nah," Dave says, emboldened again as his eyes catch sight of Santana – who looks strangely proud – before locking directly on Nick, "you're not my type."
704,445
The three boys sit sipping their drinks, blue-sky theme illuminating their booth, as Kurt learns about the pair's romantic courtship ("I heard he was sex on a stick and could suck like a dream, so I just had to meet him") and Blaine prods Kurt for information about his own romantic endeavours, about David, and about his time on the floor, so that he can reminisce about, as he put it, 'the bad old times'.
Sebastian and Blaine exchange some chit-chat about people and places that mean little or nothing to Kurt, while flicking comfortably through the menus on the tabletop. Kurt mimics their actions, but he's never been to a place like this before, and it's all so very different to the vendors he's used to. He feels awkward again; a wonky third wheel where only two are required. "So," Kurt abandons the tabletop dashboard in favour his familiar drink, "when will Puckerman be joining us?" He's had a little fun, seen some sights, but now he just feels increasingly keen to get this whole thing over and done with.
"Seriously?" Sebastian asks in astonishment, eyeing Blaine with raised brows and that well-used smirk. Blaine looks quickly away and back down at his menu. Kurt's heart sinks as a still simpering Sebastian looks back at him and asks, "You didn't actually think he'd show, did you?"
"What does that mean?" There's a slight edge of panic in Kurt's voice as he directs the question more to Blaine than Sebastian, because, well, he's the one who said that Puck would be here in the first place.
"Kurt, I thought—"
"It means, princess," Sebastian cuts in, speaking in slow condescension,"that Noah's not coming. He's a busy man. He rarely meets with new starts unless they're really something special."
Kurt can't deny the wrench of disappointment he feels at the inference. "Then why am I even here?" Blaine's eyes are still set on table when Kurt directs the question to him, voice growing shrill with anger when he doesn't look up for a beat. The bastard; he fucking knew. "Why did you tell me he'd be here?"
"No...I thought, really I did, Kurt, that he would—"
Sebastian cuts Blaine off again, though his tone remains leisurely and unconcerned as he explains, "This is your welcoming party: enjoy it. There'll be a message waiting for you, along with your contract, when you get back to the apartment."
"And you knew all this?" Kurt shrieks furiously towards Blaine. His heart is pounding hard, albeit somewhere around his knees.
"No, no, I swear, I though..." Kurt catches Sebastian raising his eyebrows in disbelief of Blaine's words, perma-smirk still in place, "...that he'd be here, this time. He seems to want big things for you and I really thought—"
"Well you thought wrong, Blaine!" Kurt stands abruptly, groaning in frustration as his mind begins to race. "I have to go. I have to speak to Puckerman."
As he tries to leave the booth, a previously unseen woman whom he assumes is a waitress, dressed in a pale yellow fitted dress, approaches them with a look of concern, her attention obviously drawn by the raised voices. Sebastian slides out of his seat and catches her by the arm, turning her away from the table as he whispers something into her ear. She nods and smiles nervously at him before making her way back towards the bar.
"How do I get to see him?" Kurt asks no one in particular, willing away the sting of tears he feels prickle behind his eyes. He feels like such a fool; so easily taken in by some credits and couture and a few kind words. When no one answers, he repeats the question loudly, his voice colored with panic, "Where do I go to see Puckerman?"
"You can't—"
As he pushes past Sebastian with a growl of frustration into the open area beyond the booth. He's suddenly, crushingly, aware that he has no idea where to go or how to even go about doing anything. He feels lost. He doesn't know how things here really work at all.
He takes a deep breath and feebly assures himself that he can still do this. He can still make everything alright.
"I'll take you back to the apartment." Blaine assures him, standing and briefly narrowing his eyes at Sebastian.
"No." Kurt huffs and turns away, walking aimlessly towards the restaurant's exit. All he needs is to talk to Puckerman, he tells himself, even as his lip trembles and the threatening tears start to blur his vision.
"Kurt, wait," Blaine comes after him and rests gentle hand on his elbow, "you won't even get out of this place on your own." Kurt hastily shakes off the touch, but he knows it's true. He's here as Blaine's guest, at his mercy. All he can do is glare back at the boy he thought, just hours, minutes, ago, might be his friend.
Blaine backtracks to grab his bags and mutters a terse goodbye to Sebastian before returning to Kurt's side and they begin to walk again. When he speaks, it's soft and has that same deceptive sincerity as before. "Come on, it'll be okay. You can call Noah from the apartment. Let's just wait and see what he has to say, huh?"
Kurt doesn't say anything else, just keeps his mouth closed and his eyes down as he follows Blaine begrudgingly back down travelator and up the walkway, out of the Arcade and past the mall, until they're back on the pathway that brought them here. Again, a buggy is already waiting for them, but he doesn't question it; too many other questions crowding his mind, now.
"Hey," Blaine says after a few minutes of whizzing past people he doesn't want to see, places he never wants to go. "I'm sorry. I'll make sure you talk to Noah. I swear."
Kurt looks at him. He still wants desperately to believe him. And, really, what other choice does he have? He has to get himself out of this and, as hard as he tries, he can't think of any other way how.
-288, 550
Dave strips to his shorts and flops down on his bed, foregoing a basic shower in favor of some much needed rest. Now that he's alone again in his pod there's no need for any of the bravado he's had to display all day to keep himself safe, sane, but as he lies on his back, waiting for lights out, the tears he felt like shedding earlier today still don't come.
Not that that means they won't; there's nothing to distract him from his thoughts now he's back in his pod except the default ad stream that's been playing on a loop since he first put his buds in this morning. The stock images displayed on his wrecked vis-wall are broken, barely coherent, no more than shards of color and movement, making the light it casts across the pod muted and eerie. Although he isn't missing anything; he's seen and heard the day stream default run so many times now it barely registers as anything other than white noise.
Instead of that sound, he tries to concentrate on the slow, steady beat of his heart – still working, despite how it feels – and the mismatching throb in his fist. He raises both hands up above his face to measure the damage he's done: one is broken and bandaged, the other bruised. He winces as he flexes the fingers on his left hand – as much from the sight of the brazen black Star Shot symbol tattoo as from the swelling in his knuckles above it – still aching slightly from the contact with Nick's face. He lets his hands fall back to his sides with a sigh. While he can't bring himself to regret his actions today, he's kind of glad that Kurt wasn't here to see him like this; he wonders if Kurt would be disappointed in him. Even though he'd watched him play football – even joked that he'd liked seeing him get rough with the other players – Kurt had always seemed to take pride in pointing out that Dave wasn't like those other Neanderthals. He hopes that, under the circumstances, Kurt would understand the need for that to change.
It's a moot concern, anyway – he knows if Kurt were still here, it wouldn't have happened. The Fury would still be safely stowed away, otherwise occupied, and he'd be lying here now with Kurt's Counter on his screen, Kurt's voice in his ears and—
Kurt's voice. He can almost hear it.
No, he can hear it; not just in his mind, but filling his pod, echoing through the speakers in the vis-walls all around him. He blinks at the chrono on his dash: 21:08 – past time for the night stream switch – and feels his heart flutter a little before it sinks.
*#Oh, I´ll tell you something, I think you´ll understand...#
— The Star Shot logo fills the screen followed in rapid succession by the faces of the show's most recent successful auditionees. The voice-over roars –
"Yesterday, they were just like you—"
Kurt Hummel: 'Rachel Berry's my inspiration...but I guess I just want to perform...'
Quinn Fabray: 'I want to get out there and show the world that I'm more than just a pretty face...'
#Oh, please, say to me, You´ll let me be your man...#
"—but just when it looked like their best wasn't good enough—"
Will Schuester: 'It's obvious that you have an exceptional voice...But I think we've seen your kind of vocalist here before...it's just not fresh...'
Sue Sylvester: 'You're a pretty girl, obviously smart, too...I just don't think people are ready to take a girl like you seriously on my stream...'
"...two unlikely judges granted these hopefuls a second chance at stardom..."*
Dave feels his stomach clench. It hurts just as much as he knew it would, to see Kurt there again, even if only in fragments. He still manages to look every bit as lost as Dave feels. He throws his right arm across his eyes and scrunches them shut against any remnants of sight.
*"View Obstructed. Resume ad stream or Pay to skip?"*
He can't watch, can't listen to this shit again. With his bandaged right hand shielding his eyes, he swipes blindly with his left, signalling to fast forward the ad.
*"Insufficient Credits. Resume Viewing. Resume Viewing. Resume Viewing..."*
Dave swallows painfully around the thick lump in his throat and, eventually,reluctantly drops his hand away from his eyes. He knows he has no choice but to let it play out; he can't afford to get into any more trouble.
*#Yeah you got that something...#
Jesse St. James: 'You have this innocent beauty, but...there's something sexy, too...'
Noah Puckerman: 'I can make you a star...Are you gonna be a performer or a pedaller?'
#I wanna hold your hand#
Noah Puckerman: 'Beauty is powerful, Quinn. But it fades fast.'
Jesse St. James: 'Are you ready to make the most of that pretty face?'
"...and now they're coming to the Play stream for your viewing pleasure..."
— The smiling faces of Kurt and Quinn overlap on the screen, each backed by the image of their ecstatic Counters—*
Forced to watch for a second time, Dave takes in the hesitant smile that spreads across the side of Kurt's face that's visible; still striking, beautiful, even through a screen that's as broken, warped, as his dreams.
*#I wanna hold...your hand#
"Could you take Star Shot by storm? Buy to try! Your dreams could be just fifteen million credits away—
whether you know it or not!"
-the music crescendos then fades.*
It hurts all over again to wonder how Kurt felt in that moment, strung out on whatever the hell that Compliance drink was. Dave feels the threat of those unshed tears return: it hurts more to wonder how he must be feeling now.
As the refreshed ad stream continues to play, Dave sniffs and flips onto his stomach, heedless of his bandaged hand as he balances his weight on it and digs his left hand underneath, seeking the items he stored inside the mattress earlier that day. He's strangely relieved and half-surprised to find them still there; the broken sliver of glass and the flattened Compliance carton, pieces of detritus, both salvaged from the wreckage of yesterday.
He lays both items on the bed beside him before he turns around, onto his back, and brings the small, white carton up to his lips. He looks for any clue of what it might have been like, hoping to extract any residual taste of the drink, of Kurt, that he can. He tongues uselessly at the small, round opening of the box, but there's nothing left, not of the drink or of Kurt. All he finds is the dry, metallic tang of emptiness.
Dave leaves the carton when it rests against his lips as he toys idly with the smooth-faced, sharp-edged sliver of broken glass by his side. He lets his mind drift, ignoring the continuing stream of new ads that play in discordant stereo around him.
Even having seen him there, on screen, it all feels so different from the last time they were separated, when Kurt was redeployed; more fixed, more final. And yet now, Dave knows he has a chance to get back to him in a way that he couldn't before. All that stands between him and the edge, between him and Kurt being together, are the fifteen million credits that he needs to get there. Six months – maybe less – of hard work. He's done it before, kind of. This time, he knows he's got to make it count for something. Failure is not an option.
He knows that Pro-Virtua football has always been his only hope, but now, he's not so sure it's enough. He's fucked that up before and now, he can't afford to put his faith in a team, in anyone but himself. He just has to find another way.
Dave blinks his bleary eyes and wracks his brain, absently clutching the shard of glass still in his left hand. It's pointed tip is sharp enough to break the skin, but he's careful just to let the sharp scratch of the jagged edge push against his palm without cutting it, the slight sting just enough to help him focus on something, to centre his thoughts.
And, when Kurt's Star Shot ad comes around again – when he's forced to hear that achingly beautiful voice again, singing that song (his song) – it's like something clicks into place.
He still doesn't know exactly what to do; there's no real sketch, no solid masterplan. But it's more than he woke up with this morning. Before he knows it, the five minute warning sounds for lights out and he's glad. He just wants to close his eyes and leave this mess behind. He tucks both the carton and the glass safely back into the discreet tear under his mattress.
Although they're reminders of the bad, he wants to keep them for good, because at least they're his, they're real. And he thinks, now – he knows – that they just might give him a way out of here, one way or another.
A/N 2: The plot is starting to creep back in! And we'll be skipping ahead a little next time. I'm still fairly confident that this story will be all wrapped up in another 6 or 7 chapters, but...don't hold me to that! Thanks, as always, for reading.