I hope you guys can appreciate the awkwardness of me trying to update this in the middle of Caffe Nero whilst being paranoid about people reading over my shoulder! ;D I may have disturbed the occasional customer, but it's worth it to give you the next chapter!

Rating: M for swearing, but other than that, it's tame right now.

Warnings: Uh, swearing.

Disclaimer: If I was Ryan Murphy, I'd probably have been sued by now for inappropriate content.

Notes: You guys blow me away every chapter with your amazing comments! Thank you all so much :'D

Enjoy!

Hairography

Sometimes I wonder how we get ourselves into these situations.

Well, this one's Schue's fault, that I'm certain of. I don't know the details, only that a load of girls in revealing clothing turned up at our auditorium and performed a very raunchy song, and now Mr. Schue is making us wear wigs.

…I'm sure I've missed something there.

You've been in a foul mood all day. One of the hockey guys slammed you into a locker this morning, and I saw you biting back tears, but you wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't even look at me. Not even now, when we're trying to put on these damn wigs in the bathroom, you disregard me completely.

I haven't spoken to you either. For different reasons; I'm not angry at you, just…scared.

'I Honestly Love You,' you said. What was I supposed to think that meant? Was I supposed to infer it literally? That you're in love with me? It sounds ridiculous, even in my head. A guy like you, in love with me. It's laughably impossible.

Oh, god, I feel like an idiot with this wig. It's long, brown and curly, coming down past my shoulders and makes me look like a very ugly woman. You, on the other hand, have donned a blond wig that looks absolutely adorable, a little like the one you wore for our mash-up but longer and hanging loose around your shoulders. How much it actually suits you scares me a little.

Actually, I don't think it's just me. The other guys keep giving you glances and I briefly wonder how many of them doubt their sexuality right now. I can see that Puck – who has been on the edge since Finn left – is getting more uncomfortable by the minute, but can't help but keep watching you out of the corner of his eye. Then you stand right in front of him and I see him tense up, hands immediately going to try and sort out his wig.

'You're putting it on wrong!' You tut and roll your eyes, handing him another hairclip. He bats you away with a hand and you glare at him haughtily. 'It's on backwards.' You say, trying to emphasize your point, but he ignores you.

'Yeah, well clearly some of us are already naturals when it comes to cross-dressing.' Puck says icily, and you recoil, stepping back a step. 'Why don't you just go make yourself useful by sneaking into Jane Addams. You'd fit right in.'

'Hey.' I cut in, but Puck ignores me.

'Or go visit the Garglers.' He suggests, rubbing his tongue against the inside of his cheek lewdly, the homophobic implications clear enough.

'The Warblers.' You correct Puck and then give a huff. For a moment I think you're going to kick up a fuss, but you glance at me and your shoulders just slump, and before I know it, you're packing up your stuff with an angry 'Fine!' Everyone is looking around at each other, and Puck mouths 'what?' before you storm out of the room.

For a second, it's silent. Then Puck gives a snort of laughter. 'Who pissed in his Appletini?'

I roll my eyes and follow you out of the room, ignoring the snickers and questions of the guys I leave behind.

Of course, if you're going to Homo-high, I'm not going to let you go on your own. You'll probably end up engaged in a mass orgy or something, then abandon us and move schools. Or some hunky prep will catch your eye and I'll…the Glee Club will lose you forever.

I find you at your car, throwing your wig into it. When you notice me, you glare angrily and stare very intently away.

'I'm still not talking to you.' You say, nose high in the air, and I desperately try to resist making the immature comment that immediately comes to mind.

Fuck it, you're already mad at me; I'm sure making immature comments can't worsen the situation. 'That sounded like talking.' Well, that earns me a glare.

'Get in the car.' You growl. 'Well, do you want to come or not?'

Now I do resist making a comment on that, because I really don't want a smack in the face. I start to climb in the passenger side, then pause. 'Do you want me to drive?'

'You're not touching my baby. I just got her back.' You sound bitter. 'It's fine. It's nearly a two-hour trip at the least, though, so we're going to have to stop on the way back. I can make it there without a break, but I'll be tired by the time we leave, I'm sure.'

'Does all the talking mean you've forgiven me?'

'No. Shut up.'

We arrive at Dalton Academy after two hours of the most awkward silence I've ever endured, and as we walk in, it quickly becomes obvious that I can't possibly look moreout of place. You, at least, seem to be somewhat matching the color scheme, and your clothes are all expensive and shit, right? I'm wearing jeans and my letterman jacket with some dorky slogan tee underneath. We're getting odd glances from all around, but you're ignoring them. And me, for that matter. Your eyes are wide and I can see you're impressed because you're smiling at everyone we pass.

The school itself is pretty awesome; even I have to admit that. Not exactly my kind of place, that's for sure, but walking down this marble staircase makes even me feel a little classy.

'Excuse me!' I look up when your voice rings out. I'm not the only one. One of the blazers that are strutting all over this place looks up too, with a charming smile.

I hate him immediately.

'Um, hi, can I ask you a question? We're new here.' You say, and I can't help but glower. You sound all flustered and cute; it's disgusting.

'I'm Blaine.' He says, smiling that awful smile and holding out his hand.

'Kurt.' You say, taking it and shaking. Your eyes are glued to his and you look so impressed it's sickening.

'Dave.' I say, not that anyone cares. Blaine offers me a smile too and, okay, the guy's clearly good-looking but that doesn't mean he can't still be an ass-hat.

'Do you mind telling me what's going on?' Me, all of a sudden, not us, I notice.

'We - the Warblers – are doing an impromptu concert. Kinda shuts the school down for a while.' Ugh, the grin again. Can I just punch this guy? I mean, who does he think he is, waltzing on in here and…and…smiling at people?

Alright, I might be being a little unreasonable. It's not this guy's fault that he's hot and that you asked him for help. But why did you have to pick him? Couldn't you at least have the decency to pick someone ugly?

'Wait, so the Glee Club here is kind of cool?' You continue your conversation, ignoring the fact that I'm glowering at both of you.

'The Warblers are like rock stars.' Blaine explains, looking far too smug for my liking. Oh, so he's a rock star, is he? Big fucking whoop.

'Here, I know a shortcut.' For a moment, I think he's going to take your hand, but he must see me glaring because he thinks better of it.

He leads us down a corridor, the two of you walking in front of me, shoulder to shoulder. For those few minutes, it feels like everything's going in slow motion. All I can see is you two walking so close you could be a couple.

You'd make a pretty couple, the two of you. I can just see the two of you in Breadstix, talking about Vogue covers and exchanging hair-styling tips. My stomach burns uncomfortably and it feels like it's risen ten degrees.

When we get to their choir room, there are blazers everywhere. I glance around and notice there's only one teacher in the room, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than surrounded by enthusiastic…what were they called, Warblers?

'Oh, I stick out like a sore thumb!' You say, embarrassed. Blaine grins, glancing at me in a way that clearly indicates that I stick out much more. Like, maybe a sore hand. Or a broken, disfigured, bloody hand, for all the people staring at me.

'Well, next time don't forget your jacket, new kid.' Blaine says with a wink, and then leans over and fixes your collar.

It's such a small movement, barely a second of contact, but it's so personal, so intimate that I want to punch him in the face. I've never been a particularly possessive guy but right now all I want to do is write Property of Dave Karofsky on your forehead.

Of course, I have no right to do that, I realize with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I have no right to be angry with Blaine, either. Or even you, for being interested in him; you're single, you're allowed to look at whomever you like.

That doesn't mean I have to like it, though.

The song starts; Teenage Dream by Katy Perry. I know it pretty well; it's been all over the radio lately. This version is wildly different, however, since it's being sung by a male a capella group. It sounds amazing, not that I'll admit it.

I watch Blaine intensely as he sings, his face stretched into that charming smile. It takes about ten seconds for me to realize he's singing to you. He's practically eye-fucking you, for god's sake, and you're not even doing anything to stop him! Hell, if anything, you're eye-fucking right back! My stomach burns like I ate some bad meat, and I feel my cheeks redden.

I know exactly what this feeling is: it's jealousy. And it's strong; it's so strong that my fists are clenching and my brows are furrowing and I know I must look like a complete wackjob standing here glaring as everyone else cheers.

The performance ends, the room clears slightly, and before I know it, Blaine is stepping forwards, and there's a Warbler on either side of us.

'We'd like to have a word.' Blaine says, and I realize we've been caught.

~ Briiiing! ~

I lean back and sip the latte, staring at the guys at the table: Blaine, Wes and (another) David, they introduce themselves.

'It's very civilized for you to invite us for coffee before you beat us up for spying.' you say sheepishly.

I scoff quietly. All three of these guys together couldn't take me on. I'm ignored.

'We're not going to beat you up.' Damn straight they're not. Though, I gotta say, I wouldn't mind getting in a few punches at Blaine.

'You were such terrible spies that we thought it was almost endearing.' David - the other David - says, smiling politely.

'Which made me think that spying on us wasn't really the reason you came.' Blaine cuts back in, focusing on you. I glance over at you, you're staring at the table, and I can see your eyes welling up but I don't really know why. You don't say anything.

'Can I ask you guys a question?' I interrupt, and you glance at me sharply. 'Are you guys all gay?'

I'm met with laughs, and you punch me hard in the arm. 'David!' You hiss, and then glance at the Warbler. 'I meant him.' You point at me to clarify, not that you needed to.

'Well, I am gay.' Blaine answers, smiling, 'But these two have girlfriends.' I glance between the two guys. They both look pretty gay to me, but I'm not about to say that out loud.

'This is not a gay school.' David says, amused. 'We just have a zero tolerance harassment policy.'

Wow. That must be nice. To be able to be as secure as Blaine and not get the shit beaten out of you. Maybe I should transfer, start dressing like you and speak with a lisp. I hope you can sense the sarcasm there. I mean, they wear uniforms, after all, so I couldn't dress like you, right?

'Everyone gets treated the same, no matter what they are. It's pretty simple.' You and I glance at each other. I would have to be an idiot not to notice the tear that rolls down your cheek. Blaine doesn't miss it either.

'Would you guys excuse us?' He says, and I think he's referring to me too. I don't want to, but I think I should probably leave you guys alone and let Mr. Hairgel say what he wants to before I threaten to beat him up later. I make to stand, but you grab my hand and glance up at me. I drop back into my chair and squeeze your fingers reassuringly. Blaine smiles at us.

'I take it you're having trouble in school.'

'I'm the only person out of the closet in my school.' You whisper, and Blaine's eyebrows furrow slightly.

'So you guys aren't…' He begins to ask, and I drop your hand faster than a hot plate.

'No!' I say, too quickly, and you send me a look I can't read before I continue. 'We're just friends. I'm not…' You snap your own hand away from me, shoving it in your jacket pocket.

Blaine clears his throat. 'So, people are hassling you?' He goes back to ignoring me.

You nod, and Blaine smiles reassuringly and tells us about how he got bullied at his old school and was forced to move to Dalton. I feel a pang of sympathy that I used to be like the guys that chased him out, but it quickly fades when, as we start to leave, he asks for your number.

You look surprised, but his expression is blank. 'If you ever need someone to talk to about all of this, just know that I understand what you're going through.' You look elated, and I feel like hitting something again. Then, after he types in yours, he looks over at me expectantly. It takes me a moment to realize he wants my number too, and the happy look on your face flickers for a moment into something else.

I murmur out my number and give over my phone to let him program his in. When he's done, he reaches out and shakes my hand. 'Nice to have met you, both of you.' He says, smiling. He has perfect teeth, I notice.

The last thing I see of Blaine that day is his smile. I hate that smile.

~ Briiiing! ~

The journey back isn't half as awkward. Your mood has improved notably, and my bad mood is starting to fade now that Blaine is gone. Neither of us bring up the elephant in the car, but we make small talk and put on the radio. You sing along softly to some of the songs and when I start to harmonize, you sing louder until we're both belting out the lyrics with grins on our faces.

Half way back to Lima, I notice your eyes are starting to droop so I force you to pull in at the nearest roadside diner, and we go and get food. You wrinkle your nose at the greasy option I choose and get a salad and a diet coke. We eat, laugh, talk about Glee club, Rachel and Finn, Sectionals and a whole other bunch of mundane stuff that seems oh so interesting when you're the one saying it. I Honestly Love You isn't mentioned, nor is the talk we had.

Miraculously, you actually let me drive the rest of the way home, though you're polite enough not to go to sleep.

For a while, things are back to normal. We're back to the way we were before, before I sang Iris, before you found out I swapped names with Finn. Before you realized that my feelings for you aren't simply as friendly as I'd like the world to believe. For a while, it's all forgotten and we're back to being just Dave and Kurt again, just two guys enjoying each other's company.

Okay, that sounds so gay, but you know what I mean.

Everything is going so well, at least until Glee practice the next day. I walk in to you recounting our little field trip to the Mercedes, which would be fine, if the entire trip didn't appear to revolve around Blaine.

'They were amazing, guys! There was this guy, his name was Blaine, he's their lead – oh, his voice! He sang Teenage Dream, and I'm telling you, we seriously need to step up our game because he is so good!' You notice that I've walked in, through your little Blainealogue.

'Oh, David! He heard him too; tell them how amazing the Warblers were! Blaine has a spectacular voice, don't you think?'

'I guess so.' I mutter a reply, sitting down. Mercedes gives me a look, somewhere between curiosity and concern.

'They're certainly going to be the team to beat at Sectionals!' You continue, oblivious. Mercedes is still staring, and I don't meet her eye.

'Sure.' I say, incapable of even pretending I care. You let out a huff, putting your hands on your hips.

'What's up with you?' You inquire, slightly haughty. When I don't reply, you sit down next to me and lean up, staring at my face with a confused expression.

'Nothing.' I murmur, trying to ignore you.

'David, what's wrong?' You lay a gentle hand on my shoulder, genuinely worried.

'I said it was nothing! Can't you just leave it alone?' I snap, jerking away from you hard.

'God! Next time I won't ask!' You say sulkily. I don't apologize; I just continue to glare at my hands. You grab your bag and move a few seats down, probably showing how I've just ruined all the progress we made on the journey back. You're most likely back in a strop with me again.

Thankfully, Mr. Schue comes in at this point, and we get to hear all about how the performance that we missed yesterday made him realize that hairography just isn't us and that we're going to do something much more simple today. He brings out a load of stools, and hands us the sheet music to True Colors.

Brilliant, another song about being true and honest about yourself because, hey, people are amazing and honesty is always the best policy, right? Yeah, unless you're a closeted jock who has feelings for his friend but doesn't want to admit he's g – not quite straight.

But I perform male lead for the song anyway, with a fake smile on my face and not looking at you. During the rest of the rehearsal, your phone goes off a few times with texts that I can only assume (by the smile on your face) are from Blaine.

He's distracting you, and I need a way to get you back. And I know exactly the way to do it. I've been thinking it through for the last hour. Currently, I need to do three things: fix up Rachel and Finn because of the promise I made her, make Finn come back to Glee Club and get your mind off Blaine. If my genius plan works out, hopefully these things will happen in a domino effect.

'Kurt.' I approach you after practice. 'I'm sorry I snapped at you.'

You hesitate, your eyes surveying my carefully, and then sigh. You look almost restless. 'Apology accepted. Though I don't entirely understand it, your lashing out is wonderfully compelling.' You're fixing your hair, a nervous habit I've noticed you have, kind of like my tongue thing.

'Um, thanks? Look, I need a favor.' After being such a dick earlier, this is probably the worst time to ask, but I have a plan. It's going to work.

'I'm listening.' You say, not smiling, but not glaring, which I think is a good thing.

'I promised Rachel that if Finn and Quinn broke up, well, that I'd help her get together with Finn.' You're clearly unimpressed. 'Wait, you'll like this bit, I promise! I was thinking of ideas, and then, well you know at the end of Grease they give Sandy a makeover and then John Travolta totally falls for her?'

'They dress her up as a complete slut.' You say, deadpanned.

'Well, yeah, obviously we don't dress her like a slut,but I thought you could give her a makeover! Nothing too drastic, just enough to get Finn's attention.'

'And what's in this for me?' Always a cynic. Though, I suppose I'm not really in a position to be asking favors from you where you don't benefit.

'You get to give someone a makeover?' I suggest, trying to grin without looking too desperate.

You let out a laugh, and shake your head. 'I appreciate a challenge as much as the next guy… but Rachel somehow manages to dress like a grandmother and a toddler at the same time.'

'Yeah, well that's why she needs your help! Because you're so amazing and fashionable and – and also, if Finn dates Rachel, he might come back to Glee and-'

'I'll do it.' Yes! 'Under one condition.' Fuck. There's always a catch.

'What?' I ask, grimly. I can't imagine the cruel things you might ask me to do – your laundry for a month, your math homework, or free lifts to school are the first things I think of.

Your face twists into what can only be described as a smile of pure and utter evil. 'You have to let me make you over too.'

Of course, you wouldn't let me anywhere near your clothes, I pretty much do your math homework anyway, and you probably think your dad will take away your car if you don't drive it. But this, this is more malicious than any of those options; this is immoral.

'You're still mad at me, aren't you?' I grind out, wondering how you're going to dress me to humiliate me in front of everyone I know.

'Yes.' You smile again, and I really do fear for my life. Somehow you have a way of appearing threatening even when smiling.

'And this is revenge?' I ask, tentatively. Your smile doesn't let up.

'Maybe a little.' You reply, far too jovial. You seem remarkably less nervous now, probably caught up in the glee of your devilish scheme.

'Fine.' I groan, resigned. You smile that evil smile and flounce off; hips swinging tantalizingly in those far-too-tight skinny jeans that make your ass look so good.

This is not going to end well, I can tell.

~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~

'What exactly am I doing here?' I ask, 'I didn't think you'd actually need me for this bit.'

So, here we are, in Rachel's room, ready for the makeup and trying-on-millions-of-outfits phase of her makeover. The plan's going well so far, and you seem to be enjoying yourself more than I could imagine. Makeovers really are like crack to you.

'Well, you're not interested in Rachel, so you're not going to care how much skin she is or isn't showing. Plus, you lack any fashion sense, so you're not going to care which labels she is or isn't wearing.' You glance at me with disdain, 'Plus I'm still a little mad at you so you think this might make me feel better.'

'Right. Sure. So what am I doing here?'

'I'm going to give Rachel a variety of new looks, and you're going to help judge which one Finn will like the most. Being a normal, straight guy –' the sneering tone there is far too obvious, and I'm sure Rachel picks up on it too, ' – you should be a great judge, right?' You smile sweetly, but I know that smile well. It's the smile you give when Rachel gets a solo you want, or when you're shoved to the back of the dances and Schue asks if that's okay with you.

'Right. Sure.' I agree, staring down at my lap in guilt.

The next hour is probably the most torturous one of my whole life. If there's one thing worse than being given a makeover, it's being forced to watch another person being given one. It's so dull that I genuinely consider trying the makeup myself just to have something to do.

'What about this one?' You ask, as Rachel emerges in a dress I'm sure I've seen three times already.

'Uh, great.' You roll your eyes at me again, and then turn to Rachel and tell her that the dress doesn't quite fall right. I didn't know something could fall wrong, but okay. Time passes painfully slowly, until you've finally decided on several outfits for her, and then given her makeup tips to match each and every one.

'Now, we're going to do your eyebrows.' And just when I thought it was over. You pull out some weird strips of paper and a pair of tweezers, both of which I hope aren't coming anywhere near me.

'The key is never to wax above the eyebrow. Always shape from below. Trust me, I get a lot of practice; look at mine.'

I always thought your eyebrows were one of your more masculine features, and that they were fairly bushy, but that was before I met Blaine. Oh, hey, you're looking at me.

'Your eyebrows are amazing.' You say, your voice full of wonder as if it's the first time you've noticed. You lean in to examine them and my breath catches in my throat. 'You must pluck them.'

'Uh, no. They're natural, thanks.' If any other guy said that, I would be insulted, but since it's you, I feel oddly complimented.

'Seriously?' Rachel asks, also staring. 'They're so perfect.'

Okay, starting to get uncomfortable now. I put my hands over my eyebrows. 'Guys! I don't pluck my eyebrows. Go back to your makeover!' You do, thankfully, leaving me alone to contemplate the apparent awesomeness of my eyebrows.

When you're finally done (and I say finally because it feels like I've been here for a week,) Rachel does look admittedly better. You haven't altered her look drastically; instead you've picked out Rachel-ey clothes that actually suit her. You've gone for fairly simple, natural makeup, since apparently Finn likes girls who don't wear too much, and her hair is just curled into waves. She still looks like Rachel, but with a hint of pizzazz.

And then you round on me. In the last phase of the makeover, you'd attacked me with a tape measure and taken all my measurements whilst I resisted making inappropriate comments. Thankfully, you hadn't paraded me around the shops, most likely because you've been avoiding me quite a bit lately. 'Here. I've picked a selection of clothes that will flatter your body shape, rather than trying to hide it under…well, that.' You motion to my current clothes: baggy jeans and my letterman. 'You need to wear clothes that fit, David, not ones that are two sizes too big.'

You hand me a bag and I look inside gingerly. Okay, there are no sequins or feathers, that's a start. 'These aren't skinny jeans, are they?'

'Honey, you're nowhere near fabulous enough to wear skinny jeans. They're just a little more form fitting than your usual monstrosities, okay?' I glance at the jeans dubiously. 'And don't you dare spoil the outfit by wearing that over it.' You point to my letterman, which I cling at defensively. 'It puts on two sizes.'

~ Briiiing! ~

I've got to admit, I look pretty hot. You weren't lying when you said the jeans weren't skinnies, but they're just tight enough that you can actually see the outline of my legs and – good god – my ass, which looks rather smokin', if I do say so myself. As for the shirt, well, it's a bit too tight for my liking, but I don't look as chubby as I think I usually do. Like with Rachel, you've somehow managed to make me look better without really changing my look. At least, without making me look gay. It's a little surprising, since I would have thought you'd jump at the chance to put me in skinny jeans and bow ties.

Oh, and true to my word, I'm not wearing my letterman jacket. I feel almost naked without it, but you did have a point when you said it added two sizes. I actually stood in the mirror this morning, woefully trying to make it look good, but it just made me look bigger than I really am. I guess that's kind of the point – the jacket acts as kind of a shield.

I never thought that clothes could make such a difference. I swear I'm walking taller today, and girls are turning their heads as I make my way down the corridor. When I get to my locker, a Cheerio leans next to me and smiles flirtatiously. I smile back, slightly wary as we make small talk and I try to remember her name.

Luckily, we're soon interrupted by a male Cheerio whose name I do half remember; Lance something. He slips his arm through hers in a way that does not say "we're a couple" and as he greets me, I see his eyes flick up and down. He's checking me out. I'm not sure which is more shocking, that there's another gay guy at this school, or that he's checking me out.

I can't wait to see you. To watch your shocked face because even though you picked the clothes, you haven't seen the full effect yet. Maybe even to see your eyes checking me out.

Impatient, I walk to your locker on the other corridor. You're on time as usual, putting some books in and closing the door. I approach with a smile, but it drops as soon as I realize your phone is in your hand.

'Hey, Kurt.' I say, my voice strained. You smile and reply with a 'hi,' but you don't look up.

'Well, they aren't skinny jeans.' I try to make conversation, 'Guess you were right.'

'I always am.' You comment with your eyes still fixed on the screen. It flashes and you let out a small laugh at whatever it says.

You're still texting Blaine. I can tell because you have that sappy look on your face, the one your get when we watch movies together and there's a hot guy. Why the hell do you have to get that look now, while talking to him?

Why can't you look at me with that expression?

I can barely even think; white-hot rage is flowing through me, and before I know it, your phone is on the floor. You look up at me in horror and confusion, and I can't stand to see it. My feet are moving and I can't stop, I'm practically running into the locker room.

'Hey!' But you're following me. (Of course you're following me. I'm your friend and I just knocked your phone out of your hands in a fit of inexplicable anger.) You're shouting: 'I'm talking to you!'

You're furious. Your voice has risen half an octave, but it's got that tone to it, like a husky old lady being denied her pension. 'What is your problem? I thought we were over this!' You've followed me all the way to the locker room, where I'm standing at my locker, staring intently at its contents. Anything to stop myself from looking at you.

'Over what?' I say into the locker. The quiet fear of my voice stands against your powerful delivery.

'You know what, Dave! You know! What are you so scared of?'

And then I'm looking at you, staring at you, your face red and your eyebrows furrowed, eyes full of ruthless daring.

Like a dam breaking, every feeling I've repressed over the last few months swells up within me and it hurts, it fucking hurts so bad. I can't help the tidal wave of emotions that floods over me, and my eyes close in fear of what I'll do, what I could do to you, so bold and angry and precious.

I want to hit something. I need to hit something, I need to break down and destroy something before these feelings explode and god, I'm so scared, Kurt, you can't even understand how scared I am, scared of you, scared of me, scared of what I could do.

'Don't push me, Kurt! Don't push me! You don't understand! I'll hurt you!' It wouldn't take much, you know. You're so small, so lithe, even though you're a guy. Someone like me could break you in a heartbeat.

And yet you're standing there with that confidence, like you know exactly what I'm going to do next. How can you? I don't even know myself. I could kick the crap out of you or break into tears, I have no idea.

'You gonna hurt me? Going to be the big man and beat up the gay kid? That's what you want to do, right? That's what a normal guy would do! So do it; hit me. Hit me!' It's a dare. A challenge. As if me hurting you physically would prove something, prove that I'm capable of hurting you. Prove that I don't have feelings for you. You're bluffing, you must be. You can't know that I wouldn't hurt you, you can't.

'Hit me, 'cause it won't change who I am! I know I'm not what you want me to be but I can't change! I'm not a girl, Dave, I'm not! And I'm not going to magically transform into one anytime soon! So either accept what you are, Dave, or hit me and get it over with!' You're shaking, with rage, fear? You look braced, waiting for my fist.

What am I afraid of?

When it comes down to it, it's just myself that scares me.

I don't know what I am, Kurt. I know what I feel and I know why I feel it, but that doesn't make it me. It can't. I can't be like you. But I want to be, I want to be strong and out and to be able to hold your hand where the world can see.

My fist connects with the locker beside me as I let out a groan. I can't hurt you. I can't break whatever the fuck it is that we have because it's all I have; you're all I have.

'I knew it! You're too scared!' You're shaking your head and your finger points at me accusingly. 'You can't even push me away! You are nothingbut a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinary you are-'

And then I'm kissing you.

I'm kissing you. My hands move to cup your face and I'm kissing you.

For a moment, you're frozen. You don't move, don't respond and I panic because I think I've done the wrong thing. What am I saying hell yeah I've done the wrong thing what am I doing I should totally stop.

I pull back immediately and my heart sinks when I see your expression. You look shell-shocked, as if I actually had punched you.

I can't help but let out a little whine before I throw up my arms. 'I'm sorry, I sho-'

But my words are cut off as you grab the back of my head and crush our lips together again.

I wish I were eloquent enough to describe the kiss. Then I'd be able to use complex similes and metaphors and shit to compare it to the moon or the stars, or something.

But really, that's all bullshit.

It isn't like stars colliding. It isn't like time is frozen. It's not even like every dream I've ever had is coming true. It's more like my stomach is about to explode. It's the kind of feeling that makes you want to jump up and down and squeal, no matter how dignified or mature you are. It's like taking the first bite of a delicious meal. It's like winning a football game, or hearing the applause at the end of a Glee number, like seeing your face light up when I tell a joke.

It's so very human. It's so very real. It's so very you.

Even though it's in a sweaty, hot locker room in the middle of the school. Even though it's been preceded by a shouting match.

In its imperfection, it's absolutely, heart-wrenchingly, fucking perfect.

I tuck a stray stand of hair behind your ear, our lips moving in unison. Your eyes are closed and it's hard to keep mine open but I want to see you, to make sure this is okay, to make sure you want this, to remind myself that this is actually happening.

It feels so right. As if this is how it's meant to be. You taste a little like Caesar dressing and toothpaste, your hands are wrapped around my waist and your mouth is moving, pressing hard against me like you can't believe it either, like you want it to last forever just I like I do.

Kissing you feels so fucking right, and I've never felt more scared in my whole life. There are all these feelings and desires and I never want this kiss to end, which scares me even more because this is what a kiss is supposed to feel like. Not that impassionate smooch with Rachel, this, with every ounce of passion I have within me poured into it.

But kissing you is perfect, which means that I am what I feared. There's no way even I can deny it now.

I'm gay.

Fear pierces through me like the cold of an ice bath. 'Kurt… I'm sorry.' My voice comes out as a choke, a whine, a whimper.

And again, I'm pulling back, shaking, on the verge of tears and so damn scared. It's as if every tiny detail that I've been ignoring all this time just hits me square in the face: I'm gay and my whole life is going to change. I'm gay and I'm never going to marry a woman, or have kids the normal way, and everything is going to be that little bit harder. I'm gay, and that means I'm like you and everyone will treat me like dirt and my whole life…everything is different now.

I let out a groan as I pull back, pushing you away.

You stare at me and the feelings spike, which is so wrong. I can't be different, I can't be gay, I can't be you. I can't, I can't…that's not me, I'm not gay, I'm normal. I'm normal, I'm normal, I'm fucking normal. As I flee the locker room, I repeat it like a mantra.

Because if I say it enough times, it might just come true.

~ Briiiing! ~

'Excuse me.' I manage to avoid you for nearly the whole day. I only have two classes left now, and I'm so close to getting away when you catch me on the stairs.

No, not just you. Him, too. Blaine.

And with that, every fear I have multiplies tenfold. Because you called him here, which means you're close to each other, which means you trust him and suddenly I'm the other guy, I'm the third wheel. All this time I've been your closest friend, but now I've been replaced by this fucking oily haired git. I'm a stupid, closeted, confused asshole who kissed you and ran away and now I've driven you into the arms of another guy.

'Kurt and I would like to talk to you.' Kurt and I. Oh, god, it's already happening, isn't it? You've become a couple. It's not Dave and Kurt any more, or even just Kurt, it's Kurt and Blaine.

'I've gotta go to class.' I glare notably at you and you look away. Blaine doesn't move, so I shove him aside and continue down the stairs.

'Kurt told me what you did.' Blaine says, and I freeze. No. You wouldn't have; I don't believe him.

'Oh yeah, what was that?' I reply, feigning ignorance. I can feel my blood boiling, my heart racing as thoughts dart through my head. No, no, you wouldn't have. We're supposed to be friends, you wouldn't have told him, a complete stranger…

'You kissed me.'

I don't deny it; I don't even try. Instead, I look up at you and say the only thing I can think about.

'You told him?' I feel so angry, so betrayed, so hurt. The world is fading around me and there's just me and you and him and I'm so angry.

Count slowly to ten. One….two….

'It seems like you might be a little confused.' Fuck this, I'm not listening to another word. 'And that's totally normal.'

Three….four…

Fuck him. Fuck you. Who the fuck does he think he is, calling this normal? My feelings for you are anything but normal. All of this, any of it, it's not fucking normal and it never will be and that's the problem, isn't it? I keep walking.

Five….six…

'This is a very hard thing to come to terms with and you should just know that you're not alone.'

Seven…not alone? Not fucking alone?

All of my anger-management lessons fly out of my head and before I know it, I have Blaine pinned against the fence.

'Do not mess around with me!' I half expect you to leap to the little prick's defense but you're just standing there, looking like you're about to cry. 'You have no idea! You don't know what it's like – I'm in the fucking football team! Guys like me aren't…aren't…' I can't say it. I can't say that word.

'Dave, you have to stop this!' Suddenly, I feel your hands on me, pulling me back. Blaine stumbles forwards, gasping. I might have been holding him a little tighter than I meant to.

I step back and stare at the two of you, standing together. Kurt and I. I guess he's already moved in on you, picking up the pieces after I broke you. I don't say anything else; just walk away as quickly as I can.

I've been walking for five minutes before I look up and realize I'm in the locker room. It's empty now, since everyone's in class (I vaguely recall that I'm missing American History again. Mr. Matthews is going to hate me.) It smells of feet and sweat, but I can think here; it's quiet.

'David Karofsky!' Or maybe not.

I glance towards the door to where you're standing and feel a strong sense of déjà vu. Huh, you must have followed me the whole way here. You actually waited until we were somewhere out of the public eye, too. How considerate.

The stupid blazer is gone, I notice. I can't think of anything to say to you, except, 'Why the hell did you bring him?'

'Because, he's like us, Dave!'

'Us?' No, that's not right. There isn't an us, not any more. There's a you and a me and there's no us. 'I'm not like you, Kurt, I'm not! I don't care if my hair is messed up, or if my clothes don't match! I'm not beautiful like you are; I'm just an average guy! I like sports and cars and getting my hands dirty!'

'And you think that makes you straight?' I don't miss the mocking tone in your voice.

'It makes me normal!' I choke out, my voice already breaking with unfalling tears.

'Does it make you happy?' You counter in a heartbeat. Your face is full of anger and pain and pity. I don't know which is the worst.

I don't reply. You're right. You're always right, and it hurts so much to admit it because it doesn't make me happy, living like this. Denying myself the things I love because they're too gay. Hell, I wouldn't have even joined Glee is Mr. Schue hadn't blackmailed me into it. I would have continued with my life, with my feelings and eventually I would have snapped.

I would have snapped. And god only knows what I would have done, because I know I would have blamed you for everything. Maybe I would have hurt you.

'Kurt, I-'

'It's not all about you, Dave.' You say softly, 'Blaine said-'

And it was going so well, I think, as jealousy claws my stomach again.

'You like him, don't you? That's why you brought him here, so you could bond with him over poor sad Dave!' I spit out, my fists clenching unconsciously.

'Oh, would you shut up!' You bristle. Your face burns bright red, but in anger, not embarrassment. 'I do not like him, do you think I would have kissed you if I did?' I tense, maybe because you told me to shut up, or maybe because you brought up the kiss.

But then…you just said you kissed me. So it wasn't just me imagining it. It really did happen. You kissed me back. You wanted me, like I want you. And now I've gone and fucked it all up.

'I'm sorry.' You say, suddenly standing. You must have realized that the kiss is not what I want to be thinking about. 'I should have realized you probably don't want to talk to me right now. I'll leave you alone.' You walk to the door, and then turn.

I force myself to look up at you; your teary eyes, your face red from storming after me. Before you can say anything, I look away, but that doesn't mean I don't hear your final words before you leave:

'You know, before yesterday, I'd never been kissed.'

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

(A/N: Oh, did I forget to mention this was a mix of Hairography and Never Been Kissed? Oops! ;D)