Another AU, 'cause it's, well, short. Relatively. Random inspiration, though it does kind of resemble a specific piece I read and enjoyed once; hopefully this is different enough to be enjoyable on its own.

2008

Dave Karofsky squinted into the glare of lights in his face, his shoes squeaking on the hardwood under his feet, wondering what he was doing there.

"Um... What am I doing here?"

Someone in the seventh row of seats in front of him stood, a woman with long dark hair and fearfully intense eyes. He supposed he should've considered her beautiful; the fact that he didn't think anything more than "huh, she's kinda attractive" raised questions that he really did not want to think about, especially considering he was already confused enough by present circumstances as it was.

"I'm Ms. Corcoran," the woman said, a force in her voice that brooked no backtalk or disagreement. "And you're here to audition for Vocal Adrenaline."

Though Dave was only one week into his first year of high school, he had, of course, heard of Vocal Adrenaline. Anyone attending Carmel High had to be deaf and blind not to at least know about it. It was the school glee club — a performing arts group. Though he, naturally, thought singing and dancing were kind of lame (gay), apparently they were very popular here, having won tons of awards and competitions, not to mention the backing of wealthy and influential alumni. There was, however, one problem (just one?!)...

"Uh... I didn't sign up for any auditions..."

Ms. Corcoran just stared, her arms crossed. There were snickers of derision near her. His eyes adjusting, Dave could now see that two men were sitting to either side of her. One was obviously another faculty member, with short black hair and a cravat around his neck, reminding Dave oddly of Fred from Scooby Doo. The other was a tall, lanky student, probably a sophomore or junior. Both were looking at him like he was slime mold.

"You didn't need to," Ms. Corcoran replied. "I audition all incoming freshmen and transfer students. I'm not about to let even the tiniest chance of missing a great talent pass."

How is that even possible? Dave thought. How does she even have the time? How does the principal let... Oh. Dave shuffled his feet nervously, remembering how he'd gotten there in the first place. He was in English lit when they came in. Dave had read in a book on pirates about "press gangs," groups in England who'd force men to become sailors in the Navy. The grim-faced group of athletic-looking upperclassmen who entered the room reminded him of them, especially when they approached his desk.

"David Karofsky?" the one in the lead asked. He'd looked around; no other student in the room was making eye contact. Even the teacher seemed fascinated by what he was writing on the whiteboard, to the exclusion of anything else going on. So he nodded mutely. "Come with us." They hadn't hauled him to his feet and carried him out of the room by his collar, but they sure looked like they would if he hesitated even a moment. So he didn't.

That was the other thing he'd heard about Vocal Adrenaline: they were feared. He'd even heard whispers (really really low whispers, usually preceded by a lot of looking around) that they were actually clinically insane. Well, one thing he knew about insane people with power: you had to humor them if you were going to escape with your skin intact. And even though the stage around him seemed empty, he almost imagined he could see figures dressed in black lurking in the darkness, ready to jump him or tase him if he tried to bolt. He swallowed.

Ms. Corcoran cleared her throat; his attention jumped back to her. She regarded him with a piercing gaze that seemed to be trying to read his soul. Dave shuddered. "Low tenor or baritone..." She paused a moment in thought. "Do you know 'Come Fly With Me'?"

Dave nodded; his dad was a fan of old-style crooners, and enjoyed playing their songs at home. He'd introduced Dave to Michael Buble, calling him "the best hope this generation has of bringing back the classic sound." Though Dave never really admitted it to anyone, he'd liked it; he spent a lot of time in the initial months after first listening locked in his room listening and singing/bopping along. He'd stopped though; it gave him a sense of shame he didn't really fully understand. Not that he had much of a choice now.

"Good." She nodded towards the side of the stage; a piano (how had he not noticed an entire piano there all this time?) started playing.

Much later, Dave realized that if he'd been thinking, he could've just stood there like a wide-eyed deer in headlights, and everything that happened afterward could've been avoided. Hell, he was three quarters of the way there already all on his own. But he didn't think of it, so he didn't. Besides... was everything that happened afterward all that bad? A lot of it, sure, but all...?

At any rate, thanks to the staring eyes, the spotlights, and the piano marching inexorably towards his cue, he was actually surprised to hear the voice coming out of his throat:

Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away...

His voice scratched at the last word; he quickly cleared his throat and continued.

If you can use
Some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay...

As he continued, there was another surprise in store: he started actually getting into it. He forgot about the lights, the audience, the conscription, his mom's raised eyebrows. He started to move from his ramrod straight, hands-at-sides position, sway a little, unconsciously. He didn't see Ms. Corcoran watching, the older guy stroking his chin, the younger raising his own eyebrows. He was back in his room, his computer speakers cranked, Mom and Dad and Jack away. It was only him.

You just say the words
And we'll beat the birds
Down to Acapulco Bay...

Soon he was done; Dave blinked, having lost all sense of time. The last notes of the piano faded away; there was dead silence. The three people in the audience still stared; the only movement was on the part of Ms. Corcoran, who tapped a pen against her hand. Dave felt oddly nervous, considering he hadn't wanted to audition in the first place.

Finally, Ms. Corcoran turned to the older man. "Well?"

"He's a little overweight..." Dave flushed. "... But he looks like he can do lifts. I can work with it."

Ms. Corcoran nodded and turned to the student to her left. He merely nodded silently. With that, she rose. "You're in."

"I, uh..." Dave was not entirely sure how to feel about this. "Okay...?"

"You're in," Ms. Corcoran repeated. It was a statement of fact, not an invitation.

"Uh, gotcha..." Dave's throat felt too dry to even swallow.

"We start rehearsal at 2:30 today. Be there."

"2:30... Isn't that before school—?"

"Yes," was all Ms. Corcoran said. It sunk in for a moment, and Dave realized she didn't have to say anything else.

"I'll... be there... ma'am."

Ms. Corcoran nodded again. "You're learning. Good. We'll make a performer out of you yet." She looked down at a clipboard as the two men started whispering to her. Obviously he was being dismissed.

Dave slowly inched off the stage, his knees weak. He felt like he'd just run the Ironman with both legs tied together.

Ah, well, at least now he had an extracurricular. And it was just a glee club. How hard could it be?

2010

They'd won. They'd actually won.

There were so many teammates treating it as a fait accompli that Dave was starting to get nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But there it was. They were going to Nationals.

The rush of victory upon him, Dave actually forgot for a few moments what it had taken to get there. The things he'd done, the things he'd outright refused to do, the other things he'd been forced to do instead of the things he refused to do. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten to this point with his sanity intact (he completely understood how some of his fellows simply gave in; maybe, some deeply buried part of him said, he was stronger than he thought), but he was grateful.

And they were going to fucking Nationals!

In the tumult, he caught a glimpse of New Directions, the group from Lima. They looked varying shades of stunned, angry, and dejected. Not that he could blame them. He'd been opposed to the whole spy run thing to begin with, not that he was stupid enough to voice his objections out loud, especially not when St. James was so keen on the idea. As for the rest, his toilet papering had been half-hearted, his eggs barely making it half a foot away from his hand. Fortunately, no one had noticed — not that it helped his guilt. It all just felt too much like bullying to him.

The celebrations over, the groups started to disperse. New Directions was almost slouching off the stage. Something in Dave twitched. He slipped away from his smug, cheering teammates and approached the McKinley club. His arm shot out, grabbing the closest member to him. "Uh, excuse me..."

The boy he'd grabbed turned. He was brown haired, porcelain skinned — even in his performance costume, he exuded prim and proper. He raised an imperious eyebrow, and Dave's heart jumped.

Dave had changed a lot since he'd joined (been shanghaied into) Vocal Adrenaline. He was a lot fitter, for one — he had to be, to keep up with the exhausting rehearsal schedule without the... extreme measures a majority of his teammates took. He was actually popular — no, more like feared, just because he was in Vocal Adrenaline; he wasn't sure how he felt about that. He'd found a love (and some small measure of talent) for performing he hadn't realized he even had. But there was something else too, something he hadn't quite fully dealt with yet.

2008

It happened about three months after he joined (been shanghaied into) the group. He hadn't realized he'd been staring at Alan Garcia, one of his teammates. But he couldn't help it; the guy was... hot. Tall, handsome, intense brown eyes, lean muscle from years of Dakota Stanley acrobatics... Dave was surprised he hadn't had little hearts hanging over his head every time the guy passed by. Not that he was gay or anything, of course. That was just ridiculous.

One day, after rehearsal, Alan approached him.

"Hey."

Dave tried to swallow back his rising stomach; it was the first time he knew of that one of the upperclassmen actually deigned to speak with any freshman newbie, let alone him. "Um... Hi."

"David, right?"

"Y-yeah."

"I've noticed you've been staring at me."

Being in Vocal Adrenaline seemed to give the longtime members a gift for bluntness. In the newbies, like Dave, it instilled instead a sense of awed fear. "Uh..."

"Look, team cohesion is everything. If we don't hang together, we hang separately, if you get my meaning."

Dave nodded dumbly; he may've been a newbie, but he got it all too well.

"So if it'll help, I'm going to tell you a couple of things. First, I'm straight. Second, I don't care if you're gay. No one in Vocal Adrenaline cares. Thus, no one at Carmel cares. No one is going to give you a hard time about it. For one thing, it's normal. For another, as long as you can sing and dance — and you can — you're a valued member of the team. The only problem we'll have is if you let your crushes get in the way of team cohesion. Otherwise, we don't give a shit. Got it?"

Dave nodded again. He still didn't trust himself to actually say anything.

"Good." Alan walked away.

It was the last anyone spoke to him about it, although the random casual conversations he actually managed to have with his teammates in between punishing rehearsals seemed to just assume he was gay (God, was he that obvious? Or had Alan talked?).

But still, it was a weird feeling, and an eye-opener. They thought he was normal. Just as Alan said, no one cared that he was gay. Not that he was necessarily gay, of course. Maybe he just hadn't met the right girl yet. Maybe he was bisexual or asexual or something.

But after years of living under his mom's roof, going to his mom's church, listening to Father Johanssen's sermons and political views... He was being exposed to another way.

And he kind of... liked it.

2010

"Yes?" The snappish voice broke Dave out of his memories. The boy from McKinley was glaring at him. "Come to gloat? Or maybe you have another round of rotten eggs for us? Or perhaps you're going to break the heart of another member of our team, just for fun?"

"I— No!" Dave was sweating; why was he sweating? He was perfectly fine a few seconds ago. "I... I wanted to tell you guys that you were great."

"Uh huh," the boy replied skeptically, arms crossed in an almost defensive posture.

"Really, you were. I don't care what the judges thought; you were our strongest competition. And... I wanted to apologize for what the others... we did, especially St. James. I never thought any of it was a good idea to begin with." Here his voice dropped to a whisper. "I think St. James is kind of a douchebag."

The Lima boy exploded in a snort, apparently despite himself. "Well. I'm glad that someone at Carmel is decent. Or at least sane."

Dave chuckled. "Yeah, it's crazy over there. But it's been kinda good for me. It's helped me deal with... a few things. And it's fun."

The boy nodded. "I noticed. You're not like the rest of those automatons. You actually seem to enjoy yourself out there."

He noticed me. The very thought stuck Dave's mental stick shift to neutral. It took him almost a minute to get out of it; the other boy raised an eyebrow in what seemed to be amusement. "Um... Yeah. I do. I'm... kind of surprised you... uh... noticed me. St. James usually takes all the attention."

The boy shrugged. "Like I said, you're not like the others. It's kind of hard not to notice."

Dave, with superhuman effort, willed himself into something vaguely resembling calm. He'd been slowly, oh so slowly, starting to acknowledge... something about his sexuality. This... was helping. Or not helping, depending on your point of view. "Oh, uh... I'm Dave." He stuck out a hand.

The boy looked at it suspiciously for a moment, as if looking for a joy buzzer or something. Who could blame him, Dave thought darkly, after what St. James did? But finally, the boy took his hand and shook. Dave tried not to be too loose, or too sweaty, or too tight and oh god what was he doing thinking this much about a freaking handshake? "Kurt."

"Hi." Too long? Too short? He finally let go of Kurt's hand. "Seriously, you guys were great. We'll really have to work hard to beat you next year."

Kurt seemed to be searching his face, probably for any sign of duplicity or scheming. Dave was ridiculously relieved when he relaxed into a sincere smile. "Thanks. You guys were good too. Or you were, at least."

If Dave hadn't been beet red already, he certainly must be by now, considering the heat in his face. He didn't even know if this dude was interested in guys! Or if he himself was interested in guys! Yet some part of him didn't give a shit. "You liar," he said, trying to infuse as much lightheartedness as he could into his words. "You couldn't hear me above everyone else."

Kurt smiled. "Are you so sure? Besides, it's in my best interests to encourage good people in Vocal Adrenaline. Maybe you can help get Jesse St. Douche under control."

This time, it was Dave's nerves, not his throat, that was singing. "Uh..." he said smoothly.

"David!" Giselle called out from behind him. "Come on! Before I tell Jesse you're fraternizing with the enemy!"

Dave looked back to Kurt. "Sorry, I gotta go."

"Go. Shoo. Before you get in trouble." Dave turned, but Kurt's voice sent him whirling back, a pitch perfect heel-turn that even Dakota Stanley would've applauded. "Oh! Dave!"

"Y-yeah?"

"Good luck at Nationals." He smiled sincerely.

"Th-thanks." Dave spun on his heel and fled before he could do or say something else stupid. They were halfway home before his heart finally calmed. Everyone else on the bus was talking about Nationals, but all Dave could think about was next year... When Vocal Adrenaline and New Directions would finally be competing against each other again.

Hell, maybe they'd meet before then, like this year.

That would be... something.

Yeah. Something.