Rating: M (Iz okay, guys - there are no cornfields in this one.)
Pandora's Box
Chapter Five
It was his eyes that scared David the most.
There was a skill in the way he could just look at David to make him crumble and fall, in a much different way than when he looked at Kurt's eyes.
When he looked at Kurt, it inspired him when nothing did (when nothing should.)
It made him feel crazy.
It made him feel sane.
It made him see clear and foggy and sideways and frontways and allways at the same time.
It made him see and feel things he thought he couldn't. Shouldn't. Would never in a million years feel or want to feel: Desire. Laughter. Hate. Cruelty. Rage. Jealousy. The ba-bum-ba-bum-ba-bum he feels in his chest when he sees him, smells him, tastes him. All of the good, all of the bad, all at the same time - but what was the best was that it felt like something. As much as it confused him and irritated him... hell, he didn't know what he would do if it was just taken away from him. He tasted something that he couldn't untaste or take back, and as much as he leaned back to stay where he was, his feet were taking him forward into a scary but beautiful world.
But when he looked into his father's eyes though, it was the opposite.
It sucked everything dry.
It didn't make him feel like anything - it made him feel like nothing. Like there was no Dave Karofsky - just a black hole that walked, talked, and went through the motions. He remembered what it was like before he really noticed Kurt, was really dazzled by Kurt: waking up in the dull atmosphere, roaming the hallways with his poker face, making others feel like he felt: gray. His father's all-seeing eyes was starting to get to him. It was like a vacuum into his soul, seeping in and taking everything out until he was a shell of a person. Until he felt like dying.
And then he saw Kurt.
The first time he saw Kurt he had to do a double take. For a moment he got excited; he actually thought it was a girl he was attracted to. Imagine his disappointment (wonderment) when it was a boy instead. He remembered thinking that the kid bothered him in a way no one else really had. Gotten under his skin just by glancing at him, dismissing him with his eyes. I'm so much better than you, they said. You don't matter to me, they scoffed. All as he was walking past. And then he would smile at someone else, with David looking on wishing that smile was for him.
That smile of his. Oh - that smile. He closed his eyes thinking about it, his groin tightening.
After that, he couldn't exactly figure out why he would go out of his way just to see the little homo. At the end of sophmore year, seeing him all dressed up, it set off alarm bells leading all the way down to his cock. That terrified him for the first time. He went home, looked down at his hands as his father talked to him, and tried not to think about (but it was all he thought about.) His father not finding out was a miracle in itself.
Kurt Hummel.
He mouthed the boy's name on his lips, a dreamy smirk coming onto them. The taste of him was still in his mouth, still fresh with need and want. He looked at the door, his smile fading.
Something about Kurt just hit him square in the chest and he didn't know what it was. He was going crazy. Why couldn't he just let it go? He leaned against the doorway, letting out a sigh. And more importantly, why didn't he mind it?
Even after the shit ending tonight had to offer, why couldn't he bring himself to regret it more? He looked at the door in front of him, a sinking feeling appearing in his gut. And why did he only regret it when it came to his father finding out?
His hand tentatively touched the doorknob. On the door was a cheery message: WELCOME TO THE KAROFSKY'S! It was insidious deception; even the door lied about what his family was really like. He let out a scoff, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. It's funny... he never felt welcome once in his own home. His sweatshirt hung at his side. It was cold but he didn't want to put it on. His come and Kurt's come were all over it and he didn't even want to know what his father would say if he was wearing it. (More importantly, would the stain come out? That was something for his mom to tackle.) He took a hand out, raising it to the handle.
He lifted his hand off the doorknob, his courage dropping. He should just leave. Never come back. Jump off a bridge. Anything but this. Anything.
Then he touched it again, as if it was going to burn him; he pulled his hand to his side, making a fist. He felt like such a coward.
Paul Karofsky never had to raise his hand to send the boy a message. David wished he did; somehow that would've felt easier to have a bruise than to deal with his words. It would've been better to treat a cut and stop the bleeding rather than lay awake for hours in his bed trying to forget his father's latest opinion of him. He wished he could just run away. He wished he could just deal with it. He wished, he wished, oh god, how he wished he was Kurt Hummel. Faggy, faggy homoerotic tight pants glitterfuckingtastic Kurt Hummel. Kurt Hummel with the perfect life, the accepting father and friends... Kurt Hummel who wasn't gray but literally all colors of the rainbow instead.
He hated being David Karofsky.
He hated being who he was - what he was.
He hated being a rat in a corner, trapped in a labyrinth of no end.
He hated being hungry but not knowing what to be hungry for...
He hated lying to everyone, even himself, about what he wanted.
He hated constantly fighting and never being able to relax.
He hated being forced to talk to his father about his day. He hated his mother who just stood by and looked down at her feet while she waited for her turn. He hated the fact that no matter what he did, Kurt Hummel would be just like his father - he would find something wrong with him and never like him the way that David Karofsky did.
He hated his life.
He hated pretending that everything was alright when it was all fucking crumbling down, all the fucking time, all fucking now now now.
He hated that the moment he would set foot in his own home, he'd be hunted. He'd be interrogated. He'd be tortured. He'd be dead.
He knew from the moment that crease set in his father's forehead, the way those eyes seemed to point at him like knives, that he fucked up.
And he did this time... utterly so.
He couldn't imagine what his father would think of his latest mistake. How he'd tear it apart in front of him. How he'd analyze his actions... take out his notepad and pen and make him say it all in detail: from the moment he woke up to the second he laid his head on his pillow, it was only a narrative for his father to use to control his life. He would say: What were you thinking, David? That this kid would actually like you? Like you? ... Tell me what he said again before you kissed him... That you weren't his type. That you are an extraordinarily ordinary boy. I can't see what possessed you to think that he would like you. Really.
Tell me more.
No.
No one likes him.
No one could like him.
No one would ever like him.
Especially not Kurt.
Not now, not ever, Dave thought, closing his eyes. He felt the prickle of wetness and blinked rapidly. He wasn't going to break; he wasn't going to break! Not anymore. He pasted a neutral face that came on so easily after years of use.
He squeezes his fists as he opened the door, steeling himself for the battle he'd lose tonight.
For the war that he could never win.
He walked into the darkness, closing the door lightly behind him. He somehow knew it was in vain but what if, he thought, as he crept down the hallway. What if tonight he got lucky? What if tonight God pitied him? What if he actually hoped for relief and actually got it?
He started to pass the living room when a light came on suddenly. David froze immediately realizing a million things at once. Among his many thoughts was the one berating himself, laughing at himself for actually hoping that he could get away with it for once. How stupid was he, he thought, reusing his father's own words. How stupid was he to think he could get a free pass this once? He closed his eyes against the light and turned to face it head on. Dave Karofsky was bad luck personified.
"It's late," the man across from him said, a sharp black pen in his wrinkled hand. He was gray too. There was a book on the table as usual. His father was reading under the yellow light in the living room. It was some smart book on psychology. The subject terrified David. The act of peering into someone's mind to see who and what they really were made him feel nauseous and anxious. Especially when his father did it.
Especially now.
David didn't respond, and merely put his hands in his pockets. What lie could he use now? He was covered in filth and it was almost 1 in the morning. His lip was clotted over and red; there were noticeable marks on his face. He could say he got in a fight, but with who? His father would dig it out of him, one way or another. And more importantly, why he got in a fight.
On top of that, he hadn't been home since earlier yesterday when he left for the party and he didn't know how to explain that. He uneasily shifted from one foot to another, his sneakers squeaking on the floorboards. Suddenly he was hit with a wave of fatigue. The night's activities had caught up with him and he checked himself in mid-sway as he held onto the doorway for support.
His father remained very still, almost unnaturally so. Only his face seemed to be capable of moving. Only his eyes.
They were perfect opposites.
"Where were you, David?"
He couldn't bring himself to speak. Not to him. Not about something he wanted to deny, even to himself, didn't happen. His father was playing with his ballpoint pen in his fingers, his notepad in his lap riddled with notes that David couldn't (didn't want to) read.
"What were you doing?"
His father never even got up from his chair. He didn't have to. Paul Karofsky was calm. He was always calm. So different from David's impulses to scream, to yell, to show emotion; it was like they weren't even related. But David could see that vein on his father's neck; it was the same as his. It throbbed under pressure, in the midst of great anger. He moved slightly and gave a quick glance to the door, wanting to run into his room like he was a little kid again. (He was a little kid.)
"Answer me, David," his father said, forcing him to look up at him straight in the eyes. Paul Karofsky had more in common with Medusa that one would think; he had turned David into a stone sculpture.
"I..." His tongue was tied as he searched for words. It was no use. He knew that anything he said would be dismantled in front of him and proven to be a lie. His father would walk in verbal circles around him, picking out the inconsistencies, the obvious untruths. He would discover the truth one way or another and get to the bottom of it; and worse, David thought, was that he enjoyed it. David could tell that he did. Sick pleasure from insults, from keeping someone down just below breathing space and watch as they drowned in a sea of their own incompetence. That's what got him off.
And that was why David was afraid of his father. Without a bruise, without a scrape, without so much as a slur, Paul Karofsky intimidated his boy in a way that he couldn't be caught. It was a sick way of life. This was David's life. It was the only one he knew. It was the only one he would know.
"Sit down."
There was a hesitation but only for a few moments as David kept the unblinking stare. He sat down on the couch, a few feet away from his father. He flinched when Paul reached for his notepad, righting it on his lap. He clicked his pen.
"Now tell me... what were you doing out so late?"
"Just... hanging out." He broke the stare, not strong enough to compete with his father's icy eyes.
"Hanging out. With friends?"
David swallowed and looked down at his hands folded across his lap. "Yeah."
"Who?"
"Just a friend."
His father was staring at him like he was an imbecile. "You said that. Who?"
His mind raced for a person; how could he describe Kurt without lying? More importantly, how could he describe Kurt the most masculine way he could? "Just a guy from the football team," he mumbled, hoping his father wouldn't delve deep. He was disappointed.
"Who."
David's hands were shaking slightly and he gripped his knees to cover it up. There was no way he'd say his name to him. No way in hell. Even with this conviction, a bead of sweat dripped down his brow. He could feel his father's stare grow more intense. And he felt weaker and weaker by the second in his presence. He just wanted to sleep. Why couldn't his dad let him sleep?
"Who, David."
He didn't say anything.
"Look at me." David resisted for a few seconds, his eyes on the coffee table. There were magazines neatly on the table for presentation; Paul ran an orderly life... an orderly business... he wanted things neat, contained, and in a box to label and dissect. He wanted the model perfection for his life; the son to be proud of, the wife to be admired, and the life to be envied. David closed his eyes. He wanted the courage so badly to just go along with all of that, to keep pretending that it was all okay. But it wasn't. Then he raised his eyes to his father's. "Who were you with?"
He said it without thinking; he said it with as much thought as possible: "Azimio."
"Azimio?" Paul leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, but David knew it was just to throw him off. He tensed. Something was wrong.
"Yeah, Azimio. We just lost track of time. I'm-I'm sorry." Oh god, I'm sorry, he thought. Please, please let me go to sleep. His eyelids drooped down and he forced them open, not wanting his father to notice his exhaustion. But he didn't beg; he knew better than that by now.
"Then why didn't you say so?"
He shrugged, his go-to action for dealing with intense confrontation. "I'm tired, dad... can I go to bed?"
His father ignored his request. He put a pen to his lips, looking very thoughtful for a minute. "You know, it's funny... I called Azimio's folks to see where you were."
Oh.
Shit.
He was toast. He licked his lips, aware of the salty sweat that coated his upper lip. His father was staring him down. Seriously, did this guy ever blink, Dave thought in a panic. From the time he was kid, it was the same thing over and over - whatever he did was wrong. Whatever he thought was stupid. Whatever he wanted he didn't. Whatever hope, however small, was squashed. And he did it in a way that it was all Dave's doing.
"And imagine my surprise to find out that Azimio last saw you around 8. And then he doesn't know where you went to. Is that right?"
"Yes, sir," David said, slouching a bit into the cushion.
"So, I'll ask you this again: were you with Azimio - which, is impossible now that we've established certain facts are not what you've presented them to be... Or were you with someone else?"
"...Someone else."
"You lied to me, David. You know lies don't work in a healthy home." He swung a leg over his other leg, jiggling it a little. It was the only tell into his emotions (that is, if his father had any.) "It ruins the foundation, poisons the wellwater. You're killing us with your lies. Are you happy about that? Are you happy about killing your family with your inconsiderate lies?"
"No, sir," David said, trying to control himself. He started to squeeze his hands together, hoping his fingers would break and he'd pass out from the pain. Anything but this. Anything. His father was writing something down. He didn't know what. He didn't want to know.
"It's hard to believe you, David. It's hard to even bring myself to trust you when you don't deserve that trust."
"Please, dad," he said, closing his eyes to keep himself in check. "I just want to go to bed. After the night I've had-"
"After the night you've had? Please, enlighten me, David. I would love to know what you did. As your father, I think I deserve to know what exactly you did."
"I didn't do anything," he said, shaking as he stood up. It was exactly the opening his father was waiting for.
"You didn't do anything? Then why are you acting so defensive? Why are you acting nervous? I want to know why."
"It's nothing!" He yelled, even when he felt his father become bigger than him even without standing. How did he do that, he thought. How did he fucking make him feel like he was five years old every single time? Alone, defenseless, and no one to depend on? He was just going to keep pushing like how Kurt was pushing. More and more until he would finally erupt. Panic set off in Dave and he tried the most foolish thing he could: intimidation. "Just drop it, Dad. I mean it." Maybe it was that wording that set his father off, or maybe it was his tone... Maybe it was the fact that it was a challenge to Paul's dominance. Whatever it was, Paul Karofsky stood up and stared at his son.
"You never came home last night either."
David was silent. His rush of adrenaline and courage was leaking rapidly like helium from a hissing balloon and he felt himself sway and sit back down. He was caught in the crossfire of that stare.
His father didn't sit down. He put his notepad down on the perfect table, on the perfect magazines, just to focus on his imperfect son.
"Why is that?"
"I-I got drunk and had to sleep. I didn't want to drive home drunk."
"That so? How was the party?"
"Fine."
"Were there a lot of people?"
"I guess," David rubbed his arm, looking away.
"Did you spend time with anyone in particular?"
"A few," he said.
His father walked around him until he was behind him. He put his large hands on David's shoulders, not noticing (or not caring) his son's flinch. "Tell me more."
David closed his eyes. This was the game. This was where he'd seek another lie, another untruth to bite into and flesh out. He would trick David into feeling like shit and more importantly, revealing the things he didn't want revealed. There was no other choice but to play it. He opened them, focusing on the fireplace mantle. "There's nothing to tell! I just drank too much."
"You're not in your clothes from yesterday."
"I came home before you got here from work and changed."
"They're not in the hamper."
"I left them in my car."
"Why?"
"G-got lazy."
"So if I went to your car, I'd find your clothes?"
David nodded, not trusting his voice. His father switched gears.
"You missed dinner. Your mother cooked pot roast."
"I ate downtown with Azimio."
The grip tightened. David winced. "Are you sure about that?"
Azimio, that piece of shit, David thought. He told him that he was going to eat by himself. "No... sir."
The grip was released and he sighed, but the fun wasn't over yet. His father walked from him, fixing knickknacks on the fireplace sill. It had to be perfect. It had to be in place. He looked in the mirror over the fireplace, glancing at his son like they weren't having an intense conversation (interrogation, David thought.) "David, I want you to tell me who it was you spent the night with tonight. And last night, assuming you were with them as well." There was a pause. David gulped.
"N-no."
A hand paused on a knickknack. His son's refusal was a little new and curious to Paul. It was infuriating and fascinating at the same time. This would be a challenge - how fun. "... Who were you with, David?" It was of a country boy in overalls, smiling, with big doe eyes. It looked like Kurt. It was David's favorite showpiece and he often looked at it, thinking about the boy. Suddenly his father's hand encompassed all around it, gripping it like he wanted to kill it. Then he whirled around, throwing it right over David's head. It smashed against the wall into a thousand pieces. It missed him by only a few inches. He couldn't tell if it was bad aim or good luck.
"I asked you a question, young man. WHO were you WITH." The fact that he yelled didn't relieve David like he thought it would; it scared him even more. The way his father circled around him like a vulture; the way he knew his mother was awake, listening, crying. The way Kurt turned his face and refused his kiss. The way they were scared of him at school. The way he thrived on it. The way he wanted to break Kurt the same way that his father was breaking him. It all scared him.
"Just a friend," he said, his voice breaking at the end. He felt the Kurt-like knickknack all around him, broken, useless. He felt tears in his eyes and blinked them back, hating himself. How could he cry? How could he break? How could he be weak? He should be used to this by now. He should be invulnerable to this... but he wasn't.
Say it, his insides told him.
Just say it.
Say his name. Say it say it say it.
Anything but this.
Just say it.
He shook his head.
No, no, no.
His father gripped the sill as if trying to break it. There was a tense silence as he suddenly turned and walked very slowly to David. Each step made David more afraid. His father bent down to his level, his face close to his son's. He looked so in control, so tepid - his pressed tie and his ironed cardigan. Nothing could get to Paul Karofsky. Nothing. So cool and above emotions.
"WHO!" His father screamed in his face unexpectedly. Karofsky jumped off the couch.
"David, running away as always. Weak as always. You're just like your mother-" he heard behind him as he ran out of the living room.
"-disgusting display of-" David rounded the corner and sped up the stairs.
"-lying-" No, he shook his head as he got to the second floor. His father's voice traveled up as he felt him follow.
"-a weak person does this, David. You hear me? You're weak-"
He slammed into his door, opening it with shaking hands. He locked the door behind him.
"Always running away-" He pushed his dresser in front of the door and then his desk. He stepped away, still shaking. He almost said Kurt's name. He almost said it to his father; god knows what he would've done if he knew. What if he knew, David thought as he put his hands to his head, shaking it. No, no, no.
He heard his father come down the hall. He was walking. He didn't have to run. The echo of those soles made him jump each time.
Not feeling safe enough, he dragged his bed in front of the rest of his furniture.
"David, I know you're there. You think you can hide from me; you should know better by now. You're not a child."
Then why did he feel like one?
He stepped back, feeling the closet door knob dig into his back.
"Are you a child, David? If you were a man, you wouldn't be such a coward."
He heard the door handle jiggle as his father tried to get in. His own hand found the knob behind him.
"I just want a name, David. A name and this is all over. You can go to sleep once I get the name." He wanted to believe that but his father manipulated the truth so well. "I'm your father. I worry about you. I just want to make sure you're safe." One day David was going to be as good a liar as his father.
"Give me a name," Paul said as he pushed the door open to find it was blocked with furniture. "Give me a name, David," he hissed into the opening.
David opened the closet door and went inside, hiding like he did so many times before. He knew the irony was rich and if Hummel was here, he'd make some smartass remark that would drive him up the wall and make him wanna punch his lights out. But right now all he wanted instead was to be anywhere but here. Even with Kurt.
"David, don't you dare ignore me."
He closed his eyes, pulling on the door knob to keep anyone from getting in. He was safe here. He was safe in this space. No one would know, no one would get him. His father wouldn't touch him here. He wouldn't spend hours repeating facts. He wouldn't be analyzed. He could just be.
"David!"
He shook his head, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks. He wasn't going to break, he wasn't going to break.
"DAVID!"
He sat down on the floor, hand still on the door knob, and tried to bury the sound by humming.
He could hear his father still screaming after him in the background, banging on the door. A name. That's all he wanted. A name. Give me a name, David. Give me the name. Tell me. You're worthless. You're a disappointment. You're not my son. You're not my son.
Screams subsided into quiet reasoning.
Then subtle insults.
Then... nothing.
Dave Karofsky slept in the closet that night, crouched and curled up in a nest of old laundry.
His hand still reached out for the door knob.
In his mind, Kurt went over the reasons why he wasn't home by curfew.
Why he didn't respond to his father's ten calls and five texts.
Why he was bruised and bloodied and his clothes were torn and dirty.
He tried to think of some excuse. Anything remotely plausible would've worked. It wasn't even a matter of covering up for Karofsky's sexuality preference anymore; how could he admit to his father just how deep the wrongs were? How could he let himself look at the man in the eyes when he admits what a useless, weak victim he was? That someone did push around a Hummel?
How could he tell him how much he loved it when he orgasmed at the end and wanted more? (No, he didn't want more. He didn't want it all.) That it was the most intense feeling he had ever felt in his whole life besides singing... that it was consuming him like a fire and he just wanted to get third degree burns?
If he told him, he knew that his father would just kill Karofsky. Like literally drive to his house, stomp down the door, and tear him limb from freaking limb. And while Kurt didn't find anything bad with that idea, he didn't love the idea of his dad in prison either. And once his dad found out, the whole world would know. They'd put on their sympathy goggles and pat him on the back for taking the harassment in stride, all the while pitying him, shaking their heads that he wasn't as confident and strong as he let on. All the while he'd be wondering if they thought that he deserved it, that he was asking for it.
That he wanted it.
He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He turned off the engine thirty minutes ago. As tired as he was, he knew Burt was awake, waiting for him. Waiting for an explanation. Kurt wasn't sure if he had it in him to lie to his father at the moment; he'd done it before on countless occasions, but those were little things. White lies that he would tell were justified by some sort of logic. This was different. This was going to be full on deceit. He would have to elaborate a perfect scene and act like something terrifying didn't actually happen to him tonight. He would have to be composed and neutral.
And Kurt wasn't sure if he could do it.
As much pride as he had in himself in his skills, he didn't know if he wanted to cover this up. He didn't want to pull the wool over his father's eyes because sooner or later he knew the truth would come out. He just didn't want it to be sooner.
The worse part? The longer he waited outside, the worse it was going to be. Every second he was late, it would be all the more difficult to say why he was late.
What happened tonight, he wondered, a hand going up to his throat and felt the little marks that Karofsky left. He ignored that when he touched them, his groin would stir as if awoken from a deep slumber. What was happening to him? What did Karofsky do to him?
...What was he going to continue to do to him?
His hand wandered up to his cheek, still sore from the slap that Karofsky gave. That monster. That's what he was - an absolute horror from a nightmare.
Only Kurt was sure he was awake... and that it wouldn't be easy to rid himself of this problem.
Better face the music, he thought as he got out of the car. With a soft thud he landed on his feet, and closed his eyes in pain. Every part of his body hurt more than it did hours earlier. The wounds were fresh and broken and it didn't help that with every step he took towards his home, the pain got heavy and worse. He felt tired and drained, and he stumbled inside, almost falling to the floor.
"Kurt?" his father called out almost immediately.
"Hey dad," he called out weakly. "Sorry I'm so late." He gritted his teeth as he walked by the kitchen. It was bright and he saw his father helped himself to a not-Kurt-approved-for-his-diet snack. He arched an eyebrow, almost commenting but then decided against it; not like he had any right to scold considering what he was about to do. Burt Hummel, however, looked worried with that perpetual hat on his bald head. His harried robe that had seen better days was covered with crumbs and his sock covered foot tapped the floor like there was a frantic beat in the background.
"Yeah, kiddo. Where have you been? I must've called you fifteen times." He was trying to stay cool. Kurt immediately noticed that. Good, good, just have to keep it that way, he thought as he nibbled on his raw lip.
"Ten. And five texts. I counted." Kurt stayed in the dim part of the room, knowing the second his father saw the damage, all Hell would break loose.
"...Annnd you had a good excuse why you ignored your father?" Burt was trying to stay in good humor but it was failing as he realized his son wasn't coming out of the dark hallway. He wondered why.
Why did I ignore you, Dad? I was busy gettin' violated by the resident homophobic closeted jackass. Nothing personal, just these things happen sometimes.
Fuck.
This was going to hurt, he thought as he fumbled with his scarf, trying not to pay attention to the filth attached to it. Ugh.
"Yeah. I just lost track of time."
"...Until one in the morning?"
"Yeah," Kurt said, his voice wavering. There were tears in his eyes and he looked down, blinking them away. He heard his own voice and winced. It was as sore as he felt.
"With that Blaine kid."
He fidgeted. He told his father that instead of having dinner with him, he was going out with a friend from school. He didn't want to give Burt the details but supplied a name. Now poor Blaine was about to be the scapegoat, and Kurt hated himself (and Karofsky) just a little bit more. "...Yeah."
"On a school night."
"...Yeaah."
"Doing what exactly?"
"Ummm-"
Burt held up a hand. "Wait... Maybe I don't want to know. Just, next time, can you at least tell me you're even alive?"
"Sorry, Dad," he said, cursing whoever made Karofsky (because someone that terrible couldn't be human. Just couldn't.) "There were no bars where we were-" He clamped his lips shut.
Burt arched an eyebrow. "And where was that?"
"...Some cornfields."
Burt slowly nodded, before the thought finally occurred to him. "Oh. Ooh." He looked away, finding something fascinating on the table. Any other time Kurt would've scoffed and rolled his eyes at his father's embarrassment. "Well-" he said awkwardly. "I... hope you had a good time."
"SWELL," Kurt bit out, getting more and more ansy. When did his father become such a chatterbox?
He sighed, scratching the side of his face. "At least you're back in one piece. Almost thought a psycho got a hold of you."
Ding ding ding! Burt Hummel, how does it feel to be a winner?
Kurt pinched his nose, closing his eyes. God, he was tired. "Yeah, you could say that," he mumbled.
"What was that?"
"Just glad to be home, Dad. I'm gonna take a bath and go to bed."
"Hey, hey, hey - we're not done talking."
"I'm beat, Dad - I just wanna hit the hay. I've got to get up in-" he looked at the clock in the kitchen, squinting, "five hours." This was really going to set him back on his moisturizing routine. Damn it, Karofsky.
Burt waved at him, motioning for him to come closer. "Well, you gotta give me a goodnight kiss first."
Kurt inwardly groaned. Seriously. Only now would his father would demand that from him. He had the worst timing. "I'll do that later, Dad." He had to get clean. He had to change clothes. He had to apply make up to his face. Otherwise the questions would be too severe. Even as he thought all this, he was getting tired. He almost fell asleep at the wheel driving home... that's how sleepy he felt.
A nice bath. A nice, hot bath would set him right.
"No, come on, Kurt. I waited hours for you. I almost called the police. I'm as beat as you are-"
I doubt that, Kurt thought. Unless his father had a secret life he didn't care to mention.
"-Would it kill you to show your old man you care?"
The last time they had a discussion like this, his father wound up in the hospital; somehow Kurt had a feeling that would happen if he complied. He stayed still in the dark, not wanting to show how tattered he was to his father but Burt wasn't budging. As seconds went by he saw that his father was starting to get up and then Kurt walked into the light.
Burt sat down, his eyes on his son. Part of Kurt's shirt was covered in soil, definitely torn up. The left shoulder wasn't even attached to the torso part and there were soil smudges on his jeans. Kurt self consciously put his hands in his tight pockets and looked down, hoping his dad wouldn't see his red cheek. He walked with unsteady steps to Burt and paused, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek when Burt caught him at the arms and set him still.
"Who did this to you?"
"Dad, I-"
"It was that Blaine kid, wasn't it?"
Before he could reason with him, Burt was already grabbing the phone. "That settles it - I'm calling the cops. This kid is going to pay. No one touches a hair on my son's head and gets away with it. No one-"
"DAD!" Kurt grabbed the phone and slammed it on the receiver. "Chill. Out." He blew out a large exhale and sat down in a chair. "Nothing happened." What a lie, he thought, attempting to keep his face impassive. Burt's wasn't.
"What do you mean nothing happened? Have you looked in a mirror, Kurt?" Burt was still standing, still investigating all of the marks visible on Kurt's body. Kurt was thankful for the dirty scarf that covered all the hickies Karofsky gave him. He shifted around in his chair, looking down at the floor. Of course he hadn't looked in a mirror - he would probably die if he saw what he actually looked like at this moment.
"No, but-"
"Why are you trying to protect this guy?"
"I'm not trying to protect him-" God, his dad was so stupid, Kurt thought. "Just let me explain-"
"No, you let ME explain." Burt pointed a finger down at his son, getting more enraged by the second as he looked at the physical evidence that his boy was harmed. "Listen, I know guys like this. They think they can take what they want. They think that they can own a person. Well, this guy can't. He can't own MY son."
Kurt pursed his lips. "It sounds like you own me, anyway."
"Kurt, that's different. I'm responsible for you-"
"Do you trust me?"
There was a pause as Burt considered it. He stared down at his son's face. There was a noticeable red mark on the boy's cheek. Why was Kurt doing this? "I trust you," he said slowly. "But-"
"So let me handle it."
"Kurt-"
"Let me handle it, Dad. This is my fight." At the same time he was saying it, Kurt realized how stupid it all sounded. He couldn't handle it. Karofsky not only terrified him... he practically cornered him in the worst way possible. It was sexual harassment what was going on at this point. He could imagine walking down the halls and getting groped by the homophobic bully. Kurt let out a sigh, trying to ignore the shiver of delight at the thought. "This is never going to happen again." It was more of a promise to himself than a conviction to his dad.
Burt twisted his lips, scratching his forehead. "Kurt, you're not old enough to make decisions like this about your safety."
"You don't know anything, Dad."
"I do know about people, and whoever did this isn't good people."
"If you trusted me, you'd let me do this on my own."
"It's not a question of trust, Kurt. It's a question of me being the good parent and-"
Kurt stood up. "You just don't understand."
Burt looked at his son, his eyes going into his. "What don't I understand?"
Kurt didn't know where to start. How could he tell his father about everything? How could he ask what was normal and what wasn't to feel about a person? Was it okay that a kiss burned on his lips even hours after? Was it kosher to smell someone you hated days prior and want to be close to? Was it normal to just to want to hear that husky voice breathe into his ear and say dirty, filthy things to him? He wanted guidance, he wanted to know what to push away and what to embrace... but he knew his father wouldn't understand.
"Everything," he said, sighing. It was so complicated.
Burt had a feeling he missed something big. "Kurt-"
"Dad, I'm tired. I'm going to bed, okay?" Kurt was already turning away. Burt caught his son by the shoulder. They looked at each other in the eyes. Burt pulled him in for an embrace, hugging him tightly despite his son's injuries. He let him go, mindful of the small smile Kurt gave him.
"I'm not happy about this... but I'm going to trust you this one time. And if this happens again, there will be no conversation. I'll nail this guy for hurting you, Kurt. I don't care what you have to say about it."
"Thanks, Dad..." On one hand he was happy his father was willing to go with him on this decision. On the other... maybe it wasn't such a smart idea after all. Could he really handle David Karofsky? The double meaning sent a delicious shiver down to his pelvic area. He needed a bath. Maybe a cold one. Burt was sitting down, taking out more cookies than he should out of the package.
"By the way. You're grounded." He said it lightly, like he was commenting on the weather.
Kurt froze, and looked at his father. "What? That's not fair!"
Burt shrugged. "If it means making you safe, then I don't care. Only club activities then straight home. End of discussion."
"But-"
"End of discussion. Good night, Kurt." His father dipped a cookie into the milk as if he were punching whoever was responsible for his bad mood.
Kurt huffed, hobbling to his room.
He hated Karofsky.
He hoped he would die.
Kurt slammed the door. Men were so stupid.
My soundtrack for this chapter: "Rabbit in Your Headlights" by U.N.K.L.E., "In the End" by Linkin Park for David/Paul confrontation; "Dreaming with a Broken Heart" by John Mayer, "Toxic Valentine" by All Time Low, "I'm Not Calling You a Liar" by Florence and the Machine for Kurt/Burt confrontation. If I had to pick one song to describe this chapter it would be: "Between Two Lungs" by Florence and the Machine.
I decided to rename the chapters. This one is "Fathers", the one prior to that is "Kiss/Fist" (in honor of the infamous song), and chapter one is "Seduction", chapter two is "Dirt", and chapter three is "Lies". I think the next one is "Escape" but I'll probably change my mind at the last minute. I always do.
Thanks so much for the support! :D I'd like to recommend a fluffy fanfic as a break from the dramatic moodiness - if y'all like cotton candy stories, you'll adore TheFirstMrsHummel's "The Signal" and "Earned." Both portray Dave in a charming good light, and the latter has got some nice consensual Kurtofsky sexiness.
It's fantastic to see the Karofsky archives growing, even though it's not all pure Kurtofsky. I know a lot of readers are reading and don't like the violence - but I'm not writing it just to write it (well, I sort of am - I am into this stuff). Hopefully you'll see how Kurt and Dave's relationship evolves as the story progresses. They're two different yet similar people and I think it's absolutely fascinating to put them in a situation like this and have it play out. They're teenagers with overactive libidos who don't know the meaning of love (yet?)
That said, "I DO NOT APPROVE OF THIS TYPE OF RELATIONSHIP IN REAL LIFE" nor do I think it's healthy at all - this story is about Kurt and Dave working their way out of an unhealthy relationship to a good, productive, healthy one (I hope?) I'm gonna be straight with y'all right now - its not going to be pretty. Dave is pretty fucked up but he's got a history for that as we've seen above; and Kurt won't get off so easily (ha ha ha) either - this experience has changed him for better or for worse.
I wanted to depict Dave's father was really psychologically damaging to his son's emotional and mental self and that in a way, Kurt is an escape for that. He acts inappropriately around Kurt because this is the first time he's really felt, well, anything beside emptiness and it's really overwhelming, confusing, scary, and... wonderful. I also wanted to contrast how different the two homes are, the different parental approaches, and how Burt has always tried to be there, support and protect his child while Paul Karofsky is just fucked in the head. And Gaga knows why that is.
Thanks for reading. You're all wonderful. Every little thing you do encourages me.