Right, so I'm home for a few days, so I can finally update this. Ugh, living without internet is slowly killing me. Sorry it took so long, but hopefully the next chapter should be up shortly as well. Ballad isn't a long'un but this is over 10,000 words, woo!

Rating: M for swearing.

Warnings: None, really, other than swearing and homophobia. Oh, and drug abuse? Kind of, I guess.

Disclaimer: If I owned Fox, Glee would be on after 9 and Kurt would be having much more sex.

Notes: I can't thank you guys enough for all your support - you guys keep me inspired! I hope you don't mind how frustratingly slowly Kurt and Dave are moving but I promise you they are moving somewhere!

Enjoy!

Wheels

There's no missing the look on your face when Mr. Schue mentions the Wicked song. I know you love Wicked, I mean, you're always singing the songs under your breath, and when that one time I used the iPod shuffle you keep as a spare, it was filled with only Wicked songs.

And then he immediately gives the song to Rachel.

Now don't get me wrong, Rachel's a cool girl. She's my friend and she's (against all odds) managed not to tell anyone my secret yet, so I have a lot of respect for her. But seeing your face fall like that makes me want to punch her in the nose. Well, after I punch Mr. Schue. Not that I would ever hit a girl. So just Mr. Schue then.

Speaking of Schue, he's now rambling on about Artie. Something about having no money for the bus and a bake sale? Sounds cool to me, I love baking. I bake awesome cakes, and according to Azimio, my hash brownies are legendary enough to make up for the lameness of the hobby. Apparently the rest of the club doesn't share my enthusiasm, though, so I keep to myself as everyone shoots Schue down.

'I find recipes confusing.' Brittany admits, and I stifle a laugh. Oh, Brittany.

But all of this is a momentary distraction. A few seconds later I glance at you again and your face is still downcast. Then the bell rings, practice ends and everyone starts to leave. 'Kurt!' I call to you. You're practically running out of the room and I grab your shoulder to get your attention.

'Dave? Oh, hi.' Your eyes are slightly watery and that's when I realize what you need to do.

'Fight her for the solo.' I say, and then you pause for a second and nod, eyes ablaze with determination.

So, next Glee practice you stand up, face set, fists clenched and say, 'I want to audition for the Wicked solo.'

You're greeted with hushed giggles and gasps, and Rachel's horrified face. I flash you a grin, but you don't see it.

'Kurt, there's a High F in it.' Schue says, and my grin drops. The room takes on an eerie silence for a second.

'That's well within my range.' You counter, but I already know what Schue's about to say.

'Well, I think Rachel's going to be fine for the female lead, but I'm happy to have you try out something else, Kurt. And I'll make sure it has a killer high note.'

Everyone starts muttering 'too bad' and 'he tried', and before I know it, it's happening: I feel a surge of anger rush through me and lose utter control of my body.

'Mr. Schue, that's kind of unfair!'

Oh damn. I wasn't supposed to say that. I wasn't supposed to say anything. Why am I talking?

'Dave?' Mr. Schue asks, and everyone is staring at me.

'Actually, it's discrimination.' I continue, because my brain seems to have stopped working and…well, I might as well go the whole hog now. 'You're practically saying Kurt can't sing the song because he's a guy.'

'I just think that the judges-'

'Would probably appreciate a different take on the song.' I cut him off and immediately regret it. His face is stony and stern, and I know I've lost.

'Rachel is singing the solo, David.' Schue says firmly and raises his hands. 'That's the last I want to hear of it. Anyway, I wanted to say something to you guys…' I stop giving him my full attention and instead lean over and squeeze your shoulder. You glance back at me and offer a teary smile. I mouth sorry and you just shake your head and look down at your lap.

'…And to pay for the bus, we're having a bake sale.' Oh, great, seems like Schue is being extra stubborn today. Not that I mind, but I'm already pissed off, so another reason to be resentful is welcome.

Then he drops the bombshell, 'Each of you is going to spend three hours a day in a wheelchair. Oh, oh, oh. And we're doing a wheelchair number.'

He has got to be kidding.

~ Briiiing! ~

I can't begin to explain how difficult it is to work a wheelchair without practice. I mean, you'd think all you have to do is push the damn wheels but nooo, it doesn't quite work like that. Not to mention that sometimes it just veers to the side for absolutely no reason at all and you end up slamming into a locker, or a door frame, or Azimio.

'Dude! That is the third time you've hit me with that thing!' He whines, kicking me in the wheel. I try to dodge and fly into a locker.

'I can't help it, man! This thing isn't easy to control, you know!' And now I can't get it to go left. 'Argh!'

'Tell me again why you're in a wheelchair.' Azimio asks, raising his eyebrows as he grabs the back of the wheelchair and steers me out of the wall.

'Because Schue is making us use them for three hours a day. To make us appreciate how much harder Artie has it than all of us. And to make us do the bake sale.' I reply, probably mostly nonsensical.

'Bake sale?'

'Don't even ask.'

'…bake sale?' he repeats. I groan and give in.

'We don't have enough money for a handicapable bus for Sectionals. So we're having a bake sale to get some.' I explain, rubbing my temple now that my hands are free.

Azimio, being Azimio, grins like the fucking Cheshire cat. 'Dude, that's an awesome idea.'

Of course he thinks it's an awesome idea. Well, at least someone agrees with me. 'You're the only one who thinks so.'

'I'm the only one who likes cake?' I resist making a joke about his weight because I know he'll just make one back and I'm not in the mood to get self-conscious right now.

'Seems like it.' I shrug, 'Well, actually, I thought it was a good idea too.'

'That's because you make damn good cakes.' He points out, and I try to elbow him but can't reach.

'A skill that you promised not to mention in public.' My voice is low, but he just laughs at me like I'm joking.

'Give me a free cake and I won't.'

I narrow my eyes at him, acting haughty, 'If I give you a freebie, will you promise to buy one as well?'

'Sure.' He grins then with one hand, clutches his heart as if he's pained. 'But only because I'm such a good friend.'

I laugh and go to slap him on the back, but miss and hit his ass. 'Dude!' He yells, glancing around us in alarm, but after a second bursts into laughter. 'Try that again and I'll kick you in the nads.' My face goes bright red and I try to splutter an apology.

'It was an acc-'

'Shut your mouth, white boy.' He says, but he's still laughing. 'You owe me a free cake.'

~ Briiiing! ~

The next Glee practice, I roll in and nearly run over one of the band guys' feet. The guy jumps about a foot up in the air as I apologize, red-faced again. Then, as if I wasn't humiliated enough, I see you watching me from the other side of the room. You're not laughing, though, which is either impressive or a little worrying. I wheel myself over to you.

'My dad's here.' You say, 'He's yelling at Mr. Schue about not giving me a shot at the Wicked solo.'

'Awesome. Your dad is cool.'

'My dad is angry.' You look worried, but also really gloomy, like you've already given up. 'He…gets defensive of me.'

'He cares about you. A lot. And, hey, hopefully this will work. Between you and me, I'd much rather hear you sing the solo than listen to Rachel for the millionth time. I never get to hear you sing alone.' I really mean it, too. I've heard you plenty of times doing the harmonies, but even then, Schue makes you sing quieter than the rest of us because your voice is so easy to pick up in a group.

'Thanks, Dave.' You say earnestly, and your face transforms as you smile up at me. 'And, um, thanks for standing up for me last practice. It meant a lot to me.' And just at that minute, Mr. Schue comes in, glances at you and nods, crossing the room to talk to Rachel. I can't hear what they're saying but judging by her scowl, Rachel isn't happy.

'So you're giving him my part?' I catch, and then Mr. Schue walks to the middle of the room and addresses all of us. He tells us that you're both auditioning for the part and that we're going to judge you. Rachel immediately kicks up a fuss about how it's going to be a popularity contest rather than a test of skill. You shush her.

'Mr. Schue, if I may?' You say, wheeling next to Mr. Schue. 'We all know I'm more popular than Rachel. And I dress better than her.' You glance over at Rachel with a look of distaste and then continue. 'Raise your right hand. Your right hand, Brittany.' We all glance over at the cheerleader who puts her left hand down and sticks her right one up with a wide grin and a bashful apology. 'Repeat after me. I promise to vote for the person who sings the songs better.'

'I promise to vote for the person who sings the songs better.' We chant, and when beside me I hear Mercedes say 'of course, you!' I can't help but grin.

And then, after a brilliantly bitchy 'it's on!' you whirl your chair and start to leave as the bell tolls. I follow you quickly, catching up easily. Thank god for well-trained upper body strength. I knew being a football player had its upsides.

'Hey, Kurt.' I call, and you look back, momentarily confused by the chair getting in the way, then swinging round slightly and giving a nervous smile. 'You're going to be great.' I reassure you, 'Don't worry.'

'I'm not worried.' you lie. I quirk an eyebrow. 'Okay, fine. I'm worried. It's Rachel. If her voice was as abrasive as her personality and wardrobe choice I'd be fine, but we all know she's the most talented out of all of us…' you pause. 'Much as it pains me to admit it, I don't know if I can beat her.'

'You can.' I say, confidently. And I really mean it: even though Rachel is probably the most technically talented member of the group, and even though she wants everything so enthusiastically, you want this one more. Not to mention, you sing like a fucking angel, though I don't say that out loud, to avoid sounding creepy.

'Do you…' You swallow nervously, 'want to come to my house and practice after school? I was going to stay here and use the piano but…well, if we go to mine, we could watch a film after or something. I mean, you said you wanted to hear me sing and I could…I could really use your help.'

I swallow too, mimicking you unconsciously. 'Tonight? I…sure. Yeah, that sounds great.' Your face lights up and you smile at me.

You invited me to your house. Alone, no girls, just me. My stomach flutters like I've swallowed a bat. You're going to sing to me, and we're going to watch a film together. If it were two other people, this could almost be considered a date. Not that I think that's what this is. I mean, it's just a friend helping out another friend. In a friendly kind of way. Yeah.

'Thanks! I'll meet you by your locker later, then.' I wave you goodbye, trying not to grin like I've won the lottery.

Azimio comes up from behind and asks me why I look so fucking happy, and I just smile mysteriously at him and carry on wheeling.

'Freak.' He mutters, but he still grabs the wheelchair and steers me away as I nearly run over Jacob Ben Israel's foot.

~ Briiiing! ~

Three hours later, I'm sat in your living room, and if I thought being at Rachel's house was scary, I was wrong. It's not like I haven't been here before, I just haven't been here alone with you before. Your dad must be working late or something.

'Do you want something to eat? We won't be having dinner for a couple of hours, so if you want I can make something.' You say casually and I shrug in return. I am kind of hungry, but I don't want to look like a fat-ass or anything.

'How about some toast?' You suggest, and you sound almost like you're egging me on for something. Maybe you sense my discomfort.

'Yeah, that sounds great. Do you have peanut butter?' The tension seems to ebb away slightly as I say it, and I see your shoulders relaxing.

'Of course. Let me go stick some bread in the toaster.' You return about half a minute later, still looking a little nervous. 'I, um. I haven't quite finished yet, so it may be a little off. And, um, there's this note at the end.'

'The one Mr. Schue was talking about?'

'Yeah.' You seem defensive and tense. 'That one. It's pretty high, so I might not make it.' I've never heard you sound so unconfident in your skills before, you always seem so sure of yourself. I guess even you're insecure sometimes.

'You said it was well within your range.' I say, teasingly, with a smile tugging on my lips. I figure if I treat it as a joke, you're more likely to loosen up.

'Well, it is!' You sniff, amused and slightly less nervous now. 'But it's hard to hit, so cut me a little slack. I might not hit it at first.' I resist commenting on the innuendo in that, and instead give a reassuring smile as you start the music.

'Something has changed within me…'

God, your voice is beautiful. I sit and listen to you with wide, staring eyes. You breeze over the high notes of the chorus, smiling slightly as you do so. I've heard this song a couple of times before, so I know how it's supposed to go, but you make it so personal, like the song suddenly has meaning it didn't have before. Kind of makes me want to see Wicked so I can understand the actual context.

'You sound amazing.' I say once it's done, because it's true. 'Unless Rachel has something huge up her sleeve, you have no chance of losing.'

'Thank you.' You say breathlessly, and we fall into silence for a while.

'Kurt.' I eventually break it, before immediately forgetting what I was going to say. You eyes are light blue today, brought out by the sky-blue color of your shirt. And suddenly, I want nothing more than to be able to lean in and kiss you, to hold you tight and tell your not to worry because it will all be okay, you sound beautiful and you're amazing and perfect.

But that would be inappropriate, so instead I grin and pat you awkwardly on the shoulder, whilst clearing my throat. 'You're gonna be great.' You smile, and then there's an even more awkward moment as your face drops to a serious expression.

'Dave, I need to ask you something.' I can tell it's important because your eyes are darting all over the place. There's a long pause. Then, you take a deep breath, your shoulders hunching slightly. 'Dave, do you–'

And then the phone rings.

We both whirl around to face the source of the noise and then simultaneously notice the smoke drifting out of the kitchen. You squeak in panic.

'Oh my god, the toast!' You run towards the kitchen whilst also waving frantically at the phone. 'Can you get that? That phone-line is connected to dad's garage, so it could be a customer. And I said I'd answer it 'cause one of his workers just left.' You babble, your voice fading rapidly as you enter the kitchen.

I pick up the phone, trying to remember what Kurt's dad's business is called. 'Hummel tire and lube?' I say uncertainly, but it doesn't seem to matter.

All I hear is a deafening silence, and then four words: 'Your son's a fag.'

To describe what thoughts run through my head would take much longer than the length of time I can remember them. I swear my brain goes into hyper drive or something because it's working at a speed that would be extremely helpful during English class. So many questions run through my head and I don't even know if I know any of the answers or even who they're addressed to.

Who the hell was that on the phone? Why would anyone be that cruel? What if it was your dad that answered? What if you'd answered? Did this happen a lot? Had you ever said anything? What would I do if they said that to me? …what if it had happened to me, to my dad? What would I say?

Fuck, too many questions. My head hurts, and there are two feelings: first, the feeling that I've been dropped into an ice bath. Everything just goes cold, like one of those Dementor things from Harry Potter has turned up. But then there's this warmth, no, this raging heat that I know only too well because it's the feeling that clouds over my head and makes me do stupid things that get me sent to Anger Management classes.

Things like ripping the phone chord out of the wall and practically throwing it across the room.

'David!' You screech, running in upon hearing the phone clatter onto the ground. You're holding a towel in your hand. 'What are you doing?'

And then my brain just stops. Every panicked thought, every inch of anger just ebbs away, every bad feeling disappearing as quickly as they started. Unfortunately, every cohesive thought dissolves along with them.

'Uh…wrong number?' I say, trying to look innocent, but failing. 'I…um…I'll pay for that.' But you're staring at me like I'm wearing black pants with brown shoes or whatever's considered a criminal offence in the fashion world.

'Wrong number.' You repeat, and I just shrug and try not to look like I'm lying. 'You're lying.'

'How could you tell?' I groan, giving in. Somehow, you always know, even when I do manage to be less blindingly obvious.

'Well, first of all, it was a terrible lie.' You roll your eyes, then suddenly you're a little redder, and you're not looking at me. 'Plus, you do this thing with your tongue when you're nervous. N-not that I was looking or anything. What was the call?' You change the subject quickly.

I ignore what you said, as well as the fact that my throat is suddenly a little drier. 'It was…' I don't have the heart to come up with a better lie, 'an anonymous call.'

Your reaction is as immediate as it is heartbreaking. 'Oh,' you squeak. 'That's…um. That…it's nothing. Don't worry about it.'

'Don't worry about it? Kurt, do you get these calls a lot?'

'Oh, all the time.' You say, and it's the tone of your voice that really gets me. It's casual, as if to say 'it's no problem; I'm used to it.' But that's why it's so horrible: it isn't something you should have to get used to. I feel like punching a wall right about now.

'Does your dad know about it?' Your eyes widen instantly and you shake your head. That makes sense: I can't see Burt Hummel being the kind of guy to take this lying down. That being said, there have been other pranks too; the pee-balloon incident, the furniture thing and I know you've had your clothes stolen from the locker room at least once, because I've seen you change into the spare outfit you keep in your locker on days I know you haven't been slushied.

'Please don't tell him.' The panic in your voice is obvious. 'I don't want to worry him.'

No, that's not how it's supposed to work. You're not supposed to shoulder everything yourself. You're supposed to let me…let people help you. 'Kurt, you have to tell him! You need to do something about this, it's not right!' I say, trying to speak softly but failing. Your face is set, determined, but your eyebrows are furrowed like you're in pain.

'And what difference would it make, Dave? He'd just get all angry and stressed and it's not worth it, it's not like it would stop them!' You sound a little hysterical now, and I stare you down. 'I don't want him to know. It'll just make things worse.'

'Then, what, you're just going to let it go on? That call was meant for your dad, what makes you think he won't get the next one?'

'I don't know! I…' There's a long pause, 'I don't want to talk about this any more. Let's just forget about it for a while, okay?' I nod and smile faintly.

'Let's make some more toast.' I suggest, 'And maybe stay by the toaster this time.' You offer me a watery smile and without thinking, I squeeze your arm, ignoring how your eyes linger on my hand. Then you scurry off back to the kitchen and we laugh over charred bread, you sing again and we watch TV until your dad gets back. It's tense, yeah, but I avoid him no more than usual, and help you out when you cook some fancy dish in the kitchen for dinner.

Burt Hummel does the usual grill-the-friend thing over the meal, probably encouraged by the fact that I'm over at yours on my own, which would be slightly weird even if I weren't…interested in you. But, still, it's bearable. Your dad is a cool guy; the meal progresses, you pretend to understand as we talk about football, and I pretend to understand when he talks about cars.

The dinner is delicious, of course. I'll have to get the recipe from you, I've been meaning to extend my culinary expertise past baking for a while. It's all just math, anyway, how hard can it be? I help with the dishes when you refuse to let Burt do them, and he goes off to watch Deadliest Catch or something.

'Thanks for not saying anything.' You say, when we're eventually done, and in your room to watch the movie.

'It's okay. I mean…I still think you should tell him, but it's not my place.' You nod and the subject is dropped. You reach over to open the DVD we hired – the first Star Wars (because you haven't seen them, and that's a sin punishable by death as far as I'm concerned.)

'Oh, crap.' I glance over, and the DVD in your hands isn't Star Wars. 'They gave us the wrong disk.' You groan.

'It's not porn, is it?' I joke. It falls flat, I can tell, because you give that nervous, awkward laugh that means you're incredibly uncomfortable. Plus, I don't even want to think about what we'd do if it were porn. I can't exactly see us watching porn together in the near future.

'It's some film called Incubus?' You shrug, and then say, 'Sounds like porn to me.' It's an obvious attempt to clear the tension. It doesn't work.

'Uh, let's google it.' I suggest, and you pull out a shiny Mac. Huh, guess I should have known you were one of those people. I think mournfully about my battered old laptop as you google Incubus and then pull a face.

'There is no way I'm watching a 3-out-of-ten horror movie about some busty blonde bimbo. I claim my get out of movie gay card.'

'Get…what?' I echo, genuinely confused.

'Since I'm gay, I'm officially allowed to not like certain movies. Like Die Hard.'

'Isn't that kind of stereotypical?' You raise an eyebrow at me. 'Come on, not every gay guy hates Die Hard.' Let's hope you don't read too much into that.

'Well, I do.'

'You don't represent every gay guy, Kurt.' You pull another face and I resist rolling my eyes. 'What do we watch now, then?'

You shrug. 'I have some movies here, but…well, I don't know if you'll like them.' You're probably right. I remember seeing your movie collection before – stuff like The Sound of Music and The Devil Wears Prada. Maybe we both need to expand our movie tastes.

'Does Wicked have a movie?' I ask out of the blue, and it's the right thing to say – your face lights up like I've just given you the greatest compliment ever.

'I knew I was getting through to you!' You smile at me smugly, 'It doesn't, but there is a stage recording of it on Youtube, if you want to watch some of that? It's a far cry from the real thing but, you know, we should go see it on Broadway some day.' I like how you say we so easily. Some day, too, like you're sure that we'll still be together in the future. Together as friends, I mean.

I try not to agree too enthusiastically as you load a badly recorded stage-version of Wicked on youtube, occasionally pausing to laugh over facebook updates. We chat about the latest gossip about Finn and the baby and you fiddle with the playlist settings on the video so we don't have to click on the parts. Then we turn down the lights and sit on your bed to watch as some guy records the live theatre as much as they can without filming the backs of people's heads.

You're asleep on my shoulder in ten minutes.

I think you're probably exhausted from the stress more than anything. It must be getting to you, being the only out gay guy in our school, being constantly harassed. The phone call was a reality-check; I knew you were getting a little bit of hassle - you hide it well, but I've heard my teammates you faggot and homo. But this, this is more than that, this is bullying. I desperately want to do something about it, but what can I do without your dad finding out?

I keep watching for another quarter of an hour before my eyes begin to droop too. I know this is probably an insult to the play, but I vow to go see it in Broadway to make up for it. I lean back, feeling your breath on my shoulder and try not to feel like too much of a creep as I let my body relax, sleep washing over me within minutes. My mind swirls with emerald dreams and the sound of your singing.

'...ave…up…late…' a soft voice interrupts my slumber. I ignore it, breathing in deeply and snuggling my cheek into my pillow. It's soft and smells of flowers.

'Um, Dave...?' The voice again. I groan lightly and wrap my arms around the pillow.

'Dave!' This time, it's a squeak. I force my eyes open and am met with the view of a soft blue shirt.

Wait, shirt?

'Ack!' is the most intelligible thing I can say as I jump up, releasing you. I had been hugging your whole body and my face had been buried in your shoulder. (Please say I didn't drool…please say I didn't drool.) Your face is about the color of an overripe tomato, and you're not meeting my eye.

'Shit, sorry, I must have…' I splutter. I have got to stop getting into these situations.

'It's- it's okay, you've…um, you've kind of missed your curfew though.' You do a fair bit of spluttering yourself, but try and smile up at me before glancing away, still red-faced.

I check my watch: fuck, it's 2am; my dad's going to go mad. You must read my mind or something, either that or I'm very transparent, 'You could…stay over. If you like.' You say softly, and I don't think you mean it in that way but…

'I can't. I don't think I should.' I reply, too fast. 'Uh, I don't mean…I just…I shouldn't.' I can't ignore how crestfallen you look, maybe even a little offended. 'I'm sorry.' I say, quietly. You shake your head and smile softly.

'It's okay.' Then you lead me upstairs, past your dad, who's fallen asleep watching TV too, and to the front door.

If things were different, if I wasn't so goddamn scared, this would be the point where I kissed you goodnight. Hell, if things were different, I could fall asleep with you in my arms and not think twice about it. Then, when we woke up, fully clothed, we'd laugh about it, and maybe, if we were together, we might strip each other off and kiss, and fool around and then curl up in bed together and fall asleep cuddled around each other.

As it is, things aren't different. So instead of kissing you or taking you in my arms, I simply smile, thank you for the evening and give you another affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.

Then, I walk to my car, wishing with every ounce of my being that things were different.

~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~

I avoid thinking about what happened last night all through the day. I think I do it quite well, too, minus a couple of suspicious looks from Azimio about why I'm being so miserable that morning. The reason is partly because of the less than cheerful goodbye we shared at your doorstep, but also because of the bollocking I got from my dad when I got back. Six missed calls, three answer phone messages and four texts say my Dad cares about me. I narrowly escaped grounding, but only because I made the point that I'd only fallen asleep due to the amount of extracurricular activities I'm taking. That shut him up; he's always been proud of my scholastic achievements.

Speaking of extracurricular activities, today's Glee practice is underway, and I'm one of the first ones here, for the first time since we go these stupid wheelchairs. Then the Cupcake Crew comes rolling into the choir room, with faces like a wet weekend. 'What happened?' I ask, also noting that that Finn isn't here even though I'm sure he was on duty this lunchtime. Nor is Puck, for that matter.

'Worst bake sale ever.' Quinn is the first to answer, but somehow her anger seems to extend further than the lack of money made.

'It can't have been that bad.' Artie says with fruitless optimism. Santana's expression alone shoots him down.

'We sold one cupcake. One.' She fumes, and I can't help but wince. That…yeah, that's pretty damn bad. 'And that was to Brittany. Well, it was for Becky…' I can't help but sense something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy there, '…but Brit paid for it.' I don't even bother asking what she's talking about, since Mr. Schue comes in and Santana is immediately distracted by bitching at him about how crappy the bake sale was.

'Where are Finn and Puck?' I ask Quinn, and immediately know that I shouldn't have. That Queen-bitch glare really stings.

'Why would I know?' She snaps in reply, and flicks her hair over her shoulder before wheeling off. I let out a low whistle and make a comment under my breath about baby-hormones.

'Not sure about Finn, but I think I saw Puck going to the Home Ec. Room.' Artie supplies, a tad more helpful.

'Can you go fetch him?' Schue turns around and asks me; now I wish I'd never inquired.

I grumble all the way there. Then, as I walk into the Home Ec. Room, I see Puck making cupcakes. Huh, now there's a sentence I never thought I'd say.

'I didn't take you for the baking type, Puckerman.'

'Yeah? I could say the same for you, Karofsky, but I remember the brownies last year.'

Oh, God, I'd forgotten about that. When Azimio had found out about my culinary expertise, he'd tried for months to get me to make hash brownies for our friends and eventually I gave in. It was peer pressure, okay? Hell, I wasn't even brave enough to eat the damn things! Too afraid of what I might say, as per usual.

'That was one time! I didn't even know what I was doing, Azimio just gave me the drugs and-'

'Yeah, yeah, you're the picture of innocence, whatever. Can you make them or not?' Puck waves at me impatiently and I frown at him in return.

'I don't think hash brownies are really the answer here. The cupcakes-'

'Oh, come on, Karofsky. You know as well as I do that cupcakes suck. I'll supply the drugs, you make the yummies.' He makes it sound so easy, like we wouldn't be committing a felony or anything.

'Do you have any idea how much trouble we'd get in if we got caught?' I snap. As if I haven't been involved in enough drug related drama this year.

'We won't get caught! We won't put in enough to get 'em hallucinating, just enough to give them a wicked case of the munchies. That's why they'll keep coming back for more.' He gives an iniquitous grin.

I suppose he's right: it would make us Glee kids look slightly less pathetic. And if we started to look less pathetic, people would be less shitty towards us, which by extension might mean you get picked on less. You getting bullied less would be great for everyone, right? Worth committing a crime for? I groan in defeat; the things I do for my friends.

'Fine. Whatever. You're late for Glee.' I say, and the smirk on his face proves I'm a sucker.

~ Briiiing! ~

Day three of The Wheelchair Project, and I'm late for American History. It's not exactly my fault; it's the damn wheelchair. I can still barely control the thing and Azimio has buggered off somewhere so I don't have a friend to steer me out of walls…or people. Lauren Zizes is scary when she's angry. It's not my fault she's hard to miss.

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have said that out loud. I cradle my hand where Lauren gripped it hard enough to break my fingers. Or at least, hard enough to make me aware of the fact that she could break my fingers, if she should so choose.

I wheeled away pretty damn fast after that. I wish I could do the same now, but my arms are so tired from wheeling that I can barely roll myself faster than snails' pace.

The corridors are empty, since everyone else is in class. I must be really late. Mr. Matthews is going to kill me. I'm already bad enough at History without adding tardiness to the list.

This is when I see you. You're stood by your locker, but you're not moving. Just…staring blankly into it. No, it isn't even open; you're just looking at it.

'Kurt?' I call, and you whip around so fast I'm surprised you don't hurt your neck. Your eyes go wide and panicked, like you've been caught doing something wrong. Or, damn, like someone you're trying to escape has caught you. You stand with your back flat against the locker. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm…' I know you're about to say fine but you trail off, and even from down here I can see the tears in your eyes.

Wait, down here? 'Where's your wheelchair?'

'It's damaged.'

Okay, last I checked, these things were pretty near indestructible, considering how many times I've slammed mine into things by accident. 'How?'

'It took a tumble down some stairs. With me in it…I mean, I managed to jump out before it got very far, but…I think I totaled it. Finn's trying to fix it now.'

'Why were you trying to go down stairs in a wheelchair?' I know it sounds stupid even before I say it, and your face confirms it. Your expression, I mean, but also a small scrape on the side of your face, where you'd obviously collided with a wall or something whilst trying to escape the wheelchair.

'I wasn't. Someone pushed me.' You admit. The world goes red again.

'What?' I try not to shout, but it still comes out pretty loud. 'Who?'

'I didn't see. I was too busy trying not to die.'

I count to ten very slowly in my head. It doesn't work, but it makes me feel like I learnt something in anger management.

'Are you okay?' I ask again, then lean over to move your head so I can see the scrape, but you flinch and pull away.

'Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.' You say, but you still sound slightly off.

'That's not all, is it?'

You twitch slightly, sigh, and move out of the way. Now that you're not covering it, it's pretty clear. The word FAGGOT is spray painted on your locker in bright pink paint. I feel my stomach twist angrily.

'Kurt, you need to report this.'

There's a moment of silence. Then, 'I can't. If I report it, they'll…' and you trail off, because we both know what you're going to say.

They'll call your dad.

'You need to-'

'I know what I need to do!' You snap, then seem to deflate as you realize what you did. 'I'm sorry, it's just hard. How am I supposed to go up to him and say hey dad, some guys at school are making my life a living hell because I'm a flaming homo.'

'I don't know.' I say honestly. 'But you have to do it somehow. Would you rather he heard it from the school?'

'Oh, god, he'd probably yell at them. It'd be so embarrassing.' You sigh, glance back at the paint, and look at me in utter defeat. 'I'm really going to have to tell him, aren't I? Ugh. I'll do it tonight. Can we talk about something else now, please?'

I try to think of another topic. 'Finn's looking for a job, so he can help Quinn with the baby. You think he could help your dad out in the garage? I mean, you said he needed a new worker.'

You pause to consider it. 'That's actually not a bad idea. I mean, it's not exactly rocket-science. I don't know if he'd be qualified enough but…I'll ask.'

I shrug, 'Just an idea. Worth a try, right? He's currently trying to get a job at the Olive Garden as a busboy.'

You stifle a laugh. 'Isn't he a bit tall for that?' I find myself laughing too. I guess it's infectious.

~ Briiiing! ~

The laughing is short-lived.

Your eyes are red like you've been crying and I feel myself flood with panic. 'Kurt? Are you okay? What happened?'

'I told him.' You say, your voice choked, 'This morning, I told him about the call. A-and the other stuff. The pranks.'

'And?' I encourage. You sniff quietly, and shake your head.

'You should have seen him, Dave! He was so upset, he wouldn't say it, but I could see it in his expression. It…it just killed me.'

'Kurt, you can't just-'

'I'm thinking…' you cut me off, then pause again, like you can't get the words out 'maybe I should lose.'

'Lose what?' I say, and then I realize, 'the contest for the solo? Why would you want to do that?'

Silence, for a moment. Then you speak, quietly, scared. 'I can't sing a girl's song in front of thousands of people, Dave.' Your voice is strained. 'It would just make things so much worse. There would be more teasing. More calls, more pranks at my house. I can't expose my dad like that. He…he wouldn't be able to handle something like that phone call. If he'd been the one to pick it up…it would break his heart, Dave! I can't do that to him!'

'But you can't just give up! You can't just put your dreams aside because of other people – do you really think he'd want that? And giving up because of some assholes bullying you from the shadows? It's just not you, Kurt.'

'Maybe it's not me. But if not being me means I can avoid my dad getting hurt, is it that bad?

I freeze. Of course I want to tell you that you're wrong. I want to tell you that your dad has nothing to so with your decision to be out and proud, that you should be yourself and not worry about anyone else…but that would be hypocritical, now, wouldn't it? The guy in the closet telling you to be out and proud.

'I'm going to botch the High-F.' You say, your voice cracking. 'And lose the competition.' I stare at you sadly and you glare defiantly back. 'And you can't stop me.'

~ Briiiing! ~

So apparently Puck is an evil genius.

People clambering for brownies surround our table like ants. 'They're addictive, do you want one?' From across the table Santana hands a brownie to Mr. Schue but he declines, thank God.

We've already sold a shitload of brownies, which by itself is insane, but I have three more ovens cooking and enough mixture for maybe another four batches. I don't even want to know where Puck got that much hash.

'Oi, Karofsky, we're gonna run out soon, are there any left in the Home Ec. room?' Puck interrupts my thoughts and I look up just as he bats a brownie away from Quinn. 'Don't eat any of those. Trust me.' He tells her, and she looks confused and worried, dropping the brownie pretty fast and glaring between the two of us suspiciously.

'Yeah, there's still some more batches cooking.' I reply, standing up before I remember I'm in a wheelchair. Then with a wave, I wheel myself out of the cafeteria, accidently hitting a few students on the way.

The first thing I notice in the Home Ec. room is the giggling. You, Mercedes and Rachel are all sat on the floor, the two girls beside you laughing their asses off. You just have a wide, dopey grin on your face and I can see your teeth, which means something is definitely wrong.

'You guys ate the brownies.'

'I only wanted one!' Mercedes says between laughs, having the decency to look guilty. You let out a chuckle and then slump on her shoulder, closing your eyes.

'But?'

'They were so good!' Rachel squeals, and then I notice that she's still clutching one so, abandoning my wheelchair, I march over and pluck it out of her hand, which earns me a whine of, 'Dave, you're so mean!'

Oh, God, how much have you guys eaten?

'How many did you eat?' I ask, and the girls just burst into giggles again, whilst you stare up at me bashfully, before dragging yourself to your feet.

'He's not mean.' You drawl, and I wonder how slowly the world is moving for you right now, 'You're not mean. You used to act mean sometimes but now you're really nice. And funny.' Suddenly you lean forward into me, your face resting on my chest. 'And…big.'

Okay, that's enough. I push you gently off me, forcing my eyes away from your face because I know you're poutingand I don't think I can resist the pout.

'Listen, guys. You're a little bit high.' I'm greeted by confused looks. 'They're hash brownies. I mean, there's not really that much in there…but you guys seem to have eaten…' I glance at the two empty trays next to you, 'a lot.'

I must have left a couple of trays here by accident. Briefly wondering how you haven't all thrown up, I scoop up the empty trays and go to check the brownies in the oven. You follow me, and before I know it, your arms are looped around me. 'Daaavid,' you whine, drawing out the word. 'I want another one.'

'I think you've had enough.' I twist out of your grip and hold you by the shoulders. You still have that dopey grin and your pupils are dilated. Fucking Puck, he said they weren't that strong! Then again, I don't think he expected anyone to eat about fifteen of them at once. Shoving you out of the way gently, I stick a prong into the brownies and decide they're ready.

'C'mon, Dave, one more!' I bat your hand away with an oven glove before you burn yourself, and you pout again and walk off as I test the rest of the batches and take them out.

'Can I have some of this?' Your voice drifts from behind me, and I grab the bowl of mixture from you just in time.

'No!' I shout, and your face falls, but quickly you're laughing, staring at my hands. I look down and realize I've managed to cover one hand in sticky brownie mixture and can't help but let out a frustrated groan. I put the bowl down and give you a warning glare, turning around to turn off the ovens.

'Dave…there's mixture on my hand.' My whole body freezes as you come up from behind me, pressing me against a wall. You've grasped my hand in yours. I turn around sharply and try to push you away, but you grab my hand again. You might be hallucinating, since I'm pretty sure you think you're holding your own hand.

'That's not…hey, what are you-'

Then before I can say anymore, you've taken my hand and started…erm, licking it in the most obscene manner. 'Kurt!' I squeak, but you ignore me, sucking on each finger in a very inappropriate way that sends sparks of arousal straight to my groin. I glance over at Mercedes and Rachel and another wave of panic spreads through me because they've gone and fuck, you won't stop sucking and I can't seem to bring myself to stop you.

When my hand is all cleaned, you lift it up and then, staring at me in bewilderment, say simply, 'It's your hand.' I snatch it away and hope to everything holy that you don't look down and see the tenting in my pants. Thankfully, you don't. Instead, you turn on your heels and flounce away as I try to will away the very unseemly hard-on I'm now sporting.

I grab my phone and quickly dial Artie's number because he's the first Glee kid on my contact list.

'Who dis be?' He answers. I immediately regret not scrolling down, but he'll have to do.

'Uh, dis be…it's Dave. You with the Cupcake Crew?' Why didn't I just call Puck? I could just have yelled at him down the phone.

'Brownie Brigade now, yo. We're selling brownies by the ton. Weren't you supposed to be getting more?'

'Yes – can you tell Puck to get his ass to the Home Ec. Room? Quickly.' Artie relays the message, and I say thanks and goodbye hurriedly before hanging up.

Now, where the fuck did you go? I briefly check the time on my phone. Shit, Glee Club is in less than half an hour. Which means your Diva-off with Rachel. Double shit.

I bounce on my heels waiting for Puck because I know I can't really leave the brownies again. It takes him a few minutes to arrive and I chuck the oven-glove in his face. Luckily my utter panic has managed to scare off my little problem or I'd probably never be able to face Puck again.

'I need you to cut the brownies and plate them up.' I demand, ignoring his confusion. 'Kurt, Mercedes and Rachel add a shit-load of them and now they're high as a kite and wandering around the school.'

'That explains a lot.' Puck grimaces, 'I saw them running towards the Choir Room. When I tried to stop them, Kurt told me my Mohawk was a disgrace to modern fashion and poked me in the shoulder.' I can't help but let out a laugh at that, despite the venom Puck says it with, and I take off for the choir room without another word.

Thankfully, Puck wasn't lying, and I find you, Rachel and Mercedes in the choir room. Rachel is lying over two chairs, Mercedes is sat at the drum kit and you're slumped over the piano, playing the same four notes over and over. I go to check the girls are okay and then stroll over to you.

It sounds eerie, whatever you're playing, but also familiar.

'What's that?' I ask, but you ignore me. Your eyes are glazed and half-lidded. 'What are you playing?'

'I'm through accepting limits, 'cause someone says they're so…some things I cannot change but 'till I try, I'll never know…' You sing softly, sadly. I recognize Defying Gravity immediately and realize the four notes are the beginning notes of the song.

'You're right.' I whisper, perching on the piano stool next to you. 'If you don't try, you'll never know.' Your fingers press those four notes again, and then change to a longer stretch of six or so notes.

'Lost all resistance and crossed a borderline…and if it turns out it's over too fast…I'll make every last moment last.'

I don't know which song that's from – it's a Wicked song, but I don't know which one. Your fingers slip off the piano and you just stare at the keys. God, remind me never to let you near drugs again. You seem to be slipping from one extreme to the other. Only…I get the feeling that this particular emotional state is one you've been trying to hide for the last few weeks.

'…as someone told me lately…everyone deserves a chance to…' you trail off, a tear running down your face.

'Fly.' I finish for you in a whisper so quiet I'm surprised you hear it. You nod softly, turning to face me. God, you look beautiful. If only I could…just this once…I lean forward –

'Oh, good! You guys are here early!'

- and snap back as Mr. Schue's voice echoes through the Choir Room.

The Cupcake Crew (sorry, Brownie Brigade) follow him in, Puck at the back looking distinctly suspicious. He glances at Rachel and Mercedes, who seem a little less obviously high now. Then he looks at you; watery eyed, leaning on my shoulder and staring into space rather dozily.

'Commence the diva-off!' Schue calls, and Rachel jumps up eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. Mr. Schue, naive as ever, commends her enthusiasm, and we move away from the piano and let Brad take his place, sitting to the side so you can glower at Rachel.

She sings beautifully as always, but bursts into a fit of giggles at the end. I panic for a minute, but luckily Mr. Schue puts it down to nerves and calls you up with a reassuring smile. You stand, solemn but brave-faced, and, after a quick word with Brad, begin to sing.

It's…haunting, there's no other way to describe it. You begin the melody slower than I remember, chilling and quiet, and as the song builds up, your voice begins to rise. Louder, you sing the chorus with a blur of emotions – defiance, pain and power all smashed into a singular voice.

And then we reach the crescendo. I know it's coming, the high note, the low B or easy A or whatever it is. I can see the panic in your eyes and you're glancing around like you're trying to decide what to do.

You pause for barely a second, but I hear it anyway – the hesitance. Your eyes rest on me. Without even thinking about it, my face breaks out into a smile.

You breathe deeply, and belt out the most perfect high F I've ever heard.

~ Briiiing! ~

Even as I wrote the words Kurt Hummel on my piece of paper for the vote, I already knew you'd won. You, apparently, had less confidence, but now you're grinning widely and cheering. Rachel has stormed out – perhaps unsurprisingly, but you were the clear winner.

'I can't believe I did that. I actually did it, I won!' I think the drugs might be beginning to wear off by now, but I can't be sure.

'You glad I made hash brownies now?' I ask, quietly, and your eyes suddenly narrow into a glare.

'No. Thanks to you, that's the third public substance abuse incident I've had. You're a bad…' You can't seem to find the word so you wave your hand around vaguely.

'Influence?' I suggest.

'Yes. That. You're a terrible influence on me, David Karofsky.'

'It was Puck's idea, not mine!' I hold up my hands defensively. You shake your head, and then blink hard, as if the room is spinning.

'Am I still…' You break in the middle of your sentence, 'Yeah. I am. If you ever tell my dad about this, I'll kill you.' You jest, poking me hard in the chest. We both stare at your finger for a second. Then, I pause to consider it for a moment before I pull you into a hug.

Maybe I hold on a little too long. Maybe you hold on a little too tight. Maybe, after we pull apart, you stare up at me through those thick lashes, your face flushed red and your mouth stretched into a bashful grin.

Not that I'd know, because I totally don't notice that kind of thing about you.

There's silence for a little while. Then, 'Did I lick your hand?'

We pause, stare at each, then burst into simultaneous laughter as I vow to stop getting you high before one of us does something really stupid.

~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~