Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I was having real issues with parts of Dave's list. And also, I just really love the Pretty Little Liars books, which is why I almost always feature the name Ali.
After Dave's suicide attempt, Kurt's dreams had been plagued by flashes of the bedroom his subconscious envisioned for his former bully, and in his dreams there was a lot of red. Red posters of sports teams Kurt would never be able to identify, his red letterman jacket thrown across a messy and unmade bed. Red walls, a red bedspread. So the bedroom Kurt stepped into, the one that housed the real Dave, wasn't anything like he expected.
It was a lot to take in. The dark blue paint on three of walls, the plaid wallpaper on the fourth. No less than four lamps kept the room bright and Kurt couldn't pretend that he didn't approve of the style. There were no posters hanging, but plenty of pictures of people that Kurt assumed were his family: one of Dave and a girl with short black hair standing side by side in front of a lake, another of the two of them at Disney World, one of his dad, one of a very young girl, around five Kurt guessed, riding Dave piggy-back, both of them laughing hysterically. There were no pictures of his senior year football team, but one of McKinley that was obviously from the year before - zombie makeup was painted across all the young men's faces except Dave, who, Kurt knew, had joined the group for the Thriller number, but late.
God, that seemed like a lifetime ago, back when it seemed like the biggest fear Dave had was making a fool of himself with his dancing.
"Wish you'd been there," Dave asked, coming up behind him and nodding at the picture Kurt was examining.
"Yes," Kurt answered honestly. For so many reasons. "I'd have made a great zombie."
Dave chuckled softly, and when he turned to look, he caught sight of exactly the thing he feared.
The closet doors were open, and Kurt could see all the way to the back. There were a lot of shirts hanging, more than Kurt expected a guy like Dave to own (he'd pictured him as a "three-polos-and-one-dress-shirt" kind of guy), a large blue tub, a lot like the one Kurt himself had tucked in the back of his own closet; he wondered if the contents were similar, and blushed at the thought. There were ties strewn across the floor and a chess set on the top shelf, and Kurt wasn't sure, but he thought he caught sight of a McKinley letterman jacket shoved among Dave's other coats. Not that he was going to get close enough to find out.
A thick, wooden bar hung from one side to the other, and it was just too easy to imagine a heavy rope dangling from the middle. How long had David hung there? Did Paul have to cut him down? Had he stopped breathing, did his dad know CPR?
Had he left a note?
"Kurt," Dave said sharply, as though guessing his thoughts. "Please stop it. You're giving me a headache."
"I wasn't doing anything," he defended, but his voice sounded hollow to his own ears.
Dave rolled his eyes. "Right. Must have been my imagination. I'm sure you weren't just standing there, thinking about how I tried to off myself. Now, do you want to see the list or what?"
Kurt swallowed hard, and forced himself to turn away. Dave was right. This was supposed to be about their bright and shiny futures, not Dave's dark day of depression. Kurt had been there twenty minutes and already he was bringing them down.
He glanced at Dave's bed, and saw the single sheet of paper laying right on top and the corners of his lips turned up slightly. "Is that it," he asked, walking over to give it a closer look.
Dave moved to grab it off the bed, but Kurt was faster, and his hand closed around it first. But as he tried to read, he narrowed his eyes. "Honestly, David, for a big guy you have the smallest handwriting I've ever seen. It's, like, pixie-sized."
He had to give a little chuckle when Dave snatched the paper out of his hand and shot him a dark glare. "Okay, and Kurt has just lost his reading-privileges," Dave muttered. Then, in his normal voice, he continued, "'David Karofsky's Bucket List (Which Makes Kurt Hummel's List Look Decidedly Unimaginative and Uninspired).'"
Kurt smirked. "Like those aren't fighting words!"
"Just the truth, Fancy." He cleared his throat. "Okay, 'Number One: Go to New York City.'"
Kurt crossed his arms over his chest and gave Dave an annoyed look. "Okay, you're not allowed to poach off of my list. I mean, how is that imaginative or inspired?"
"Not everything is about you," Dave returned, his voice light and teasing. "I've never been, and I always wanted to go. But, you know, my mom said it's filled with heathens, so . . ."
Once again Kurt could feel his blood pressure rising at the mention of Dave's mother. Seriously, what kind of woman was this?
The afternoon when Kurt met Paul for the first time, he'd been utterly flabbergasted. For months he had wondered what kind of abusive, narrow-minded asshole could have raised such a self-loathing bully, and the man in Figgins' office that day had been nothing like he'd assumed. Kind, understanding, compassionate. Gentle. He'd listened to Kurt and, more than that, he'd believed him over the word of his own son. And even then, Kurt could see that the man was doing everything he could think of to reach his son. He was a parent, a real parent, and Kurt couldn't pretend that he didn't remind him of his mother.
Really, the error had been Kurt's. Because he'd always thought that if anyone was going to embed it in Dave's mind that being Gay wasn't an option, was wrong for whatever reason, that it would come from the man in the family. But this woman, if she could even be called that, was the one breaking Dave's spirit; it was the woman that was the bully. And Kurt was pretty sure he hated her.
"Yes, well, your mother could use some educating," Kurt replied in a clipped tone. "In fact, lets not even talk about her anymore. Number Two?"
Dave studied him carefully for a moment then smiled, wide and happy. "Fancy, are you like . . . Pissed off on my behalf?"
"Let's just say that I'd really be quite happy if our paths never crossed. Number Two?"
"'Number Two: Return a certain item that doesn't belong to me.' Actually-" Dave's voice broke off as he crossed the room, and opened the top drawer of his bedside table. He pulled something out and shoved it at Kurt, unable to meet his eyes. "Here. Now I can cross of another one."
Kurt blinked and looked down at the object in his hands. It was the cake topper, the one Dave had taken from him that day in the hallway, and an odd sensation twisted in the pit of his stomach. Dave had kept it all that time? Why? Kurt had forgotten about it just a couple of weeks later, though at the time it had seemed strangely significant that his bully had taken the heterosexual pair from Kurt's fright-frozen fingers.
"Why do you still have this," he asked in confusion.
Dave shrugged, but somehow that wasn't enough of an answer.
"Dave?"
"Fancy, please," was Dave's short response, and his voice was so low and soft, so pleading, that Kurt felt a surge of guilt for bringing it up. He didn't understand why Dave was uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, certainly they had worked through more messy incidents than this one, but he didn't press any further. He was about to spend several days with the guy - he'd get it out of him eventually.
"Number Three?"
Dave shot him a relieved smile. "'Number Three: Get a tattoo.'"
"A tattoo," Kurt repeated blankly. Seriously? Kurt had always thought of permanently scarring your skin on purpose to be akin to biting off your nose to spite your face, but when he thought about Dave's teeth gritting at the pain, the muscles in his back tense and hard, the twisting was back. "What are you going to get?" Was it his imagination or did he sound a little breathless?
"You'll think it's dumb."
Kurt waited.
A light shade of pink colored Dave's cheeks. "I was thinking . . . Maybe a phoenix? On my wrist?" His cheeks burned a deeper red. "I read somewhere that it was a sign of rebirth, and . . . I dunno. I guess I thought, with all the shit that's gone down in the last couple of years, that it couldn't hurt to . . ." His voice trailed away. "It is dumb."
"It's not dumb," Kurt said quietly, impressed in spite of himself. "It's kind of, well . . ." He cleared his throat. "Amazing, actually."
Immediately Dave's eyes darted over to find his own, and as they met, hazel on blue, Kurt was sure he wasn't imagining the crackling static filling the air. He told himself that he wasn't surprised - that after the history he and Dave shared, it would be weird if they didn't feel connected, and that it was probably just a mixture of leftover guilt and mutual respect, now that they were both in a place to deserve it. Nevertheless, he forced himself to drop his eyes, before prompting, "So, Number Four?"
Dave nodded, lowering his eyes as well, to the paper in his hands. "Right. 'Number Four: Call my sister.'"
"Are you going to elaborate," Kurt asked, raising his eyebrows. "I mean, if we're talking about just calling to say hi, that could just as easily be done any other day, couldn't it?"
"I haven't spoken to her since the afternoon I . . . You know."
Kurt gaped at him. "You haven't spoken to her? At all?"
"Right, that's kind of what I meant when I said I haven't spoken to her."
"Why not? Is she-" He tried to think of a not insulting way of putting a homophobic bitch but nothing immediately came to mind. Luckily, Dave seemed to know what he was getting at.
"Honestly, I'm not sure. We never really talked about it, which is weird, because we used to talk about everything else. The little girl on my back in that picture-" He nodded at the picture Kurt had seen when he walked in, "Is my niece. Ali's daughter."
"She's cute," Kurt said with a soft smile. "You look like you're a good uncle."
Dave shrugged again and Kurt rolled his eyes.
"'Number Five,'" the bigger boy continued after a moment. "'Actually start a PFLAG.'"
Kurt nodded, remembering their conversation in Figgins' office what felt like a lifetime ago. In a way, he supposed it sort of was. "We can do that."
"Who invited you," Dave asked, but his lips were turned up, and his eyes were dancing.
"Like you could do it without me," Kurt tossed back. "You'd probably end up serving 'chips and dip' and using indiscernible sports metaphors." He lowered his voice an octave, and spoke gruffly. "'Well, being out is like scoring a throwdown.'"
"You do realize you were on the football team, right?"
"I try to block out all memories where I'm featured sweaty and disgusting."
"That makes one of us," it sounded like Dave muttered, but Kurt was sure he had misheard. "Just . . . Do us both a favor and leave the sports metaphors to me. Do that and you can co-create any program you want."
"Thanks," he said, his voice returning to normal. "Next?"
"'Number Six: Choose a college. Number Seven: Go on a date with a dude.'"
If Kurt had been eating anything at that moment, he would have choked on it so violently that any sitcom would have given it a stamp of approval. As it was, he had to settle on widening his eyes as big as he could make them. A date? With . . . With a guy. A guy. Logically, there was no reason he should be surprised. Dave was an eighteen year old boy who had only just been outed, so of course he would be thinking of the positive aspects of being shoved from his lovely closet, and the number one good part of all of it was the getting-to-go-out-with-someone-you-actually-like part.
Unbidden, the image of Dave, standing over him on Valentine's Day, a gorilla from the neck down, popped into Kurt's mind. He tried to imagine Dave doing that for someone else, for a boyfriend, perhaps. Sending a boyfriend love notes, and picking out cards specific for him (You make my heart sing), showering him with trinkets just so he felt appreciated.
He didn't think he liked it. "Number Eight?"
Dave was giving him that look again, the one that had already seen him too closely once, and Kurt tried as hard as he could to keep his expression clear. It shouldn't have been hard, because why should he even care if Karofsky wanted to take some other guy out? He didn't. He was just worried because it was a big step, and Dave hadn't really been out all that long. He felt, well, protective of Dave. And that was normal - no reason to feel embarrassed.
Nevertheless he felt himself flushing guiltily, and he looked away.
"'Number Eight,'" Dave continued after a moment, "'Ride in a Hot Air balloon.' And 'Number Nine-" He grinned a small grin and ducked his head bashfully. "'Get a pedicure.'"
Kurt stared at him blankly, then flew to his side, beaming. "A pedicure? Really?"
"Well, the guys brave enough to endure the ridicule are always talking about how rocking they are, and that dude on How I Met Your Mother gets 'em, and I figure. I'm gay. It's supposed to be one of those things that I get a free pass to not be ashamed of anymore. Right?"
"Right," Kurt agreed, nodding emphatically. "Absolutely. You'll get no argument here. In fact, the last time I was in New York City, I found this amazing place-"
Dave laughed and held up his hands. "Alright, anyway. We can plan the details on that later. Right now we have bigger business to attend to." He stepped back towards his bedroom door, then looked back at Kurt. "Let's go."
"We're leaving," Kurt asked. He glanced quickly around the room, looking for Dave's packed suitcase, to no avail. "Where's your bag?"
"We're not going to New York now, Fancy. We're going up the road." He raised his eyebrows. "To Starbucks? Isn't there some girl named Kari we need to deal with? I figured we'd knock out all the local stuff tonight, and to New York first thing in the morning."
"Oh." Kurt paused, trying not to think of what Blaine would say if he knew Kurt was sleeping over at Dave's house. But, he assured himself, it's not that different than staying in a hotel tonight. "Okay. Sounds like a plan." He moved to join Dave, then cocked his head to the side. "What a second. Where's Number Ten?"
"Number Ten," Dave repeated, and it may have been a trick of the lighting, but he almost looked deliberately innocent. "What do you mean?"
Kurt shot him a disapproving frown. "Number Ten. For your list."
"Oh. Right. Well, I figured, we already crossed one of yours off, and I got the football tickets, so, you know. Fair is fair."
"Whatever, David," he muttered.
As Kurt walked around Dave, and exited his bedroom, Dave nervously licked his lips. He'd wanted to jump out his skin when Kurt had seen the list on the bed, but thankfully, his tiny, illegible handwriting had saved the day. He didn't like lying to Kurt, no matter the subject matter, but it wasn't like the guy was giving him a choice. Kurt had said, in no uncertain terms on Valentine's Day, that the two of them would never happen. And so Dave could just imagine his reaction if he'd seen the last item on the list.
Number Ten: Steal Kurt from Bland.