So. ACL surgery. I thought I would be in major pain, under the constant influence of narcotics and enjoying a varied parade of amusing and artful hallucinations. My surgeon greatly disappointed me by doing such a darn good job that I've had virtually no pain and physical therapy is proceeding apace – I've advanced to about the week three goals in less than three days. Insane, isn't it?
Well, enough about me, y'all want to know about the story, I'm sure. Not entirely sure where this chapter sprang from, to be honest. I just started writing and it magically appeared. Those are my favorite chapters – discovery, not invention, pure creation. I think I can officially say that I will be concentrating more on Dave's and Kurt's friendship and their individual maturing and growth, rather than any sort of romance. It always bugs me that people think that the two main characters have to become romantically linked. Though I won't rule out some sort of love-relationship for either of the boys, either. Eventually, anyway. I would love your opinions on the subject – review, PM, or email me~
Warning: ahead be angst and suicidal ideation. I figure you wouldn't be reading this chapter without reading my 'Dying' chapter first (and this one is far less bloody), but I thought I ought to drop in a caution. I don't own Glee, don't own Simple Plan, don't own anything. Anyway, read, enjoy, and (as always) review!
~~~~glee~~~~
Dave opened his front door quietly, looking around surreptitiously for his father and breathing a sigh of relief when he didn't see him. Making a pit stop by the kitchen, he grabbed an apple and a can of soda to augment the candy bar in his pocket before heading to his room.
He was just elbowing into his sanctum, popping the top on the can, when he heard a throat being cleared behind him. The big jock felt his stomach tighten up, and he turned to face judgment day.
"It's after curfew," his father greeted him.
"Only just," Dave defended himself, swallowing hard.
Paul Karofsky cocked an eyebrow, and Dave fought the urge to squirm. He'd had nightmares about that eyebrow when he was younger. It was the reason that his father never had to yell, never had to threaten, never had to get in his son's face. The eyebrow said it all. One quirk, and Dave could fill in the rest without the old man having to say a word.
"I'm sorry, Dad," he apologized. "I was… I lost track of the time." He'd been stalking Hummel, actually, waiting for him to get out of his glee club practice, and then tracking him, hoping to get him alone, away from that jerk of a step-brother of his. Hummel couldn't have put Finn up to that threatening bravado, he wouldn't have the guts. Hell, if Kurt hadn't done it back… well, before, he wouldn't have done it now, not when the two of them were on – relatively – good terms. He'd thought, anyway... But Kurt hadn't cooperated with Dave's plans, he'd never been alone for even a second. He'd gone to some foreign film with his gay boyfriend and they'd… cuddled. It had nearly made Dave sick to watch. Unbridled jealousy tended to do that to a fellow, he supposed… "It won't happen again."
Paul looked his son up and down again, and sighed, his shoulders sagging. "David… It's not the curfew, you know. You're a good kid, and I trust you to know what you're doing, to make good choices." He made a little abortive gesture, reaching out to touch his son's shoulder and then letting his hand fall back before he could actually make contact. Dave watched that hand, part of him longing more than anything for his dad to actually touch him, to show him the tenderness he showed his sister. But he never did. Real men didn't touch other men that way. Not even when he had to be worried sick about Dave every time he came back late, thinking about the last time he hadn't come home, wondering... Sorry, sorry.
"You never talk to us anymore," Paul said, quietly. "You mother and I are worried about you. You never used to get in trouble like this; what's happened, son?"
His father's eyes echoed his hurt, looking so much like they had that day in the hospital, after his almost-successful suicide attempt, that Dave had to force himself to swallow. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said again. "I'll try harder." Harder to do what? He didn't know.
He was pretty sure his father didn't know either, but the elder Karofsky let it go with a sigh. "Home right away after school tomorrow," he said, and Dave nodded. It was the standard punishment for breaking curfew. Normally he would have argued, but… not tonight.
Once inside the room, his snack set on his desk and his computer's media player on for background noise, Dave folded himself into his padded office chair. His father's face was haunting him. He'd been… damn. The man had been brittle, ever since his son's hospitalization. He still didn't know the whole story behind Dave driving himself up to that ridge that night. The slightest thing could set his dad off, and more and more, it was Dave that did it. He couldn't stand it, that look of hopeless worry in his eyes.
Dave pulled his desk drawer out, then further out, pressing the catch that released the false back. It was crude, but it worked as a hiding place. Dave had built it himself, and was rather proud of it. Even better, no one else knew about it.
He turned the knife over in his hands. It was good make, a six inch stainless steel blade that folded back into an intricately-detailed handle made of some metal that looked like gold but was probably brass. His fingertips played over the design, tracing the Celtic-knot-style dragon imprinted there, caressing it. His grandfather had given him this knife, and he'd been glad he'd had it hidden when his parents had made their pre-psych-ward-release weapons-search through his room. He'd have hated to have thought of this beauty rusting in some plastic bag somewhere.
Pulling out a soft square of cloth, he flipped the blade open and started polishing its already mirror-brightness to an even greater shine. It was soothing, familiar work. He'd done this a lot lately. It focused him like few other things could.
He negotiated carefully around the sharp edge, lightly pressing his thumb to it, testing its sharpness. He loved his grandfather, but the man didn't know much about taking care of knives. He'd filed it on one side only, creating an actual – if minute – curve to the edge, blunting it. Dave had spent many long nights methodically encouraging the steel back to its intended razor sharpness. From the deep line left across the pad of his thumb, he figured it was in excellent condition, and he nodded his satisfaction.
Letting the knife drift a few inches, he pressed it against the inside of his wrist, just above the angry red scar that marred his skin there. In unthinking fascination, he adjusted the angle of the blade, catching the light, sending diamond sparkles across his face. He pressed slightly harder, the skin of his wrist flexing inward, growing white until he suddenly pulled back, releasing the pressure. A faint line, parallel to his scars, glared redly up at him.
Dave shut the knife hastily, heart thumping at what he'd nearly done. Not again. Never again. He couldn't do that to his father. God, the old man would probably be the one to find him, wouldn't he, called in to break down the door. No. No suicide. No ideation. No. I'm sorry, Dad.
He fingered his phone. His therapist had given him an emergency number to call if he ever had any troubles he couldn't deal with on his own, but he'd never used it. This wasn't even the worst he'd been. He'd get through this on his own. He always did.
He jumped when his phone rang, nearly dropping it in his alarm. It rang a second time. He checked the readout.
And nearly dropped it again in his haste to pick up. "Kurt?"
The voice on the other end was, indeed, Hummel's. "I think we need to talk, Dave," he said without preamble.
Dave pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it. Kurt was never this forthright. Except for that one time when he'd confronted Dave… and Dave had… and then… "I think so, too," he said, gruffness suffusing his voice. He suddenly remembered how annoyed he was with the other boy. "What's the deal, siccing your glee-goons on me, huh?"
Kurt's voice sounded put-out. "I never asked them to. And I'm setting them straight as soon as I can figure out how – Finn doesn't exactly listen to me, you know. I just wanted you to know that none of that was my idea."
A sour taste flooded Dave's mouth. "You couldn't just tell them that we're cool now? They ought to believe you."
A snort. "They're feeling distinctly guilty for ignoring your issue with me when it actually was a problem. I don't think I'll be disengaging them from their delusions of knights-errant anytime soon." A pause. "It might help if you stopped slinking around after me, you know."
Dave spluttered. "You know about that?"
He got the sense of Kurt rolling his eyes. "You're about as subtle as a sledgehammer. It was hard to avoid noticing you."
"Then why didn't you talk to me?" Dave demanded.
"In front of witnesses? You weren't exactly looking like you were in full command of your faculties, Dave. And I didn't think you were ready to come out yet…?"
Dave recoiled from the idea. Yes, and what would it have looked like to bystanders if he had grabbed Kurt and hauled him into the nearest bathroom for an intense, private chat? He was suddenly grateful that one of them had a working brain. He grunted grudging agreement. "Well… thanks. I guess."
"You're welcome." Kurt sounded amused. "So, have we covered everything you wanted to talk about?"
No. Not even half of it. But if Kurt was working on his glee-goons… Well, that was the main part of it, wasn't it?
His pause must have said what his mouth couldn't, though, because instead of hanging up, Kurt sighed. "It's still pretty tough on you, isn't it?" he asked, wearily.
Dave found himself nodding. "Yeah. More than I ever thought possible."
"Pick an issue. What's most on your mind?"
Dave blinked. "What is this, therapy?"
"I used to watch Dr. Phil. Work with me here. Which issue is most on your mind right now?"
You want 'em chronologically or in alphabetical order? His computer's media player switched songs, and Dave closed his eyes, recognizing the song. "You ever heard Simple Plan?" he asked, naming a band. Kurt murmured affirmation, and Dave's mouth quirked. "That song of theirs, 'Perfect?'"
"Sounds…familiar," Kurt said, cautiously. "Sing a few lines?" he asked.
Dave felt himself flushing. "My voice isn't too good," he muttered, but Kurt encouraged him. Finally, "Oh, alright, fine."
With a deep breath, he launched into the part that was playing. "'I just want to make you proud; I'm never gonna be good enough for you. I can't stand another fight. And nothing' alright, cuz we've lost it all, nothing lasts forever, I'm sorry I can't be perfect.'"
There was silence from the other end. Dave shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed. He'd just sung a song to a guy over the phone. Damn Kurt for talking him into this… "That's the one with a kid apologizing to his dad for not living up to his dad's ideal, isn't it?" Kurt's quiet voice cut through his seething. "Appropriate, I think. It's amazing how songs tend to say what you want to, even when we don't know ourselves, isn't it?"
Dave sighed. Glee-club. Right. Kurt probably dreamed in music videos. "Yeah. And yeah."
"Your dad's giving you trouble?"
Dave rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No. Yes. I don't – it's like the song said. He doesn't see me, and I don't know how to get him to see me without disappointing the hell out of him."
"But you do want him to see you?"
The quiet question caught him off guard. Huh? When had that shift happened? From denial to concealment to…revelation? Dave studied his own feelings with a bit of trepidation. How odd. It's not like he wanted to run out right now and announce his sexual orientation to his parents on the spot, but… now, he could sort of, maybe, possibly, see himself telling them, one day. Eventually.
"Thanks, Kurt," he murmured, quietly. "I think… I'm going to have to think about this, some more."
Kurt's smile was evident in his voice. "Call me anytime you need to talk, Dave. And I'll get on Finn, I promise." A pause. "You know… you really aren't that bad of a singer. Pretty good, actually. If untrained."
Dave blinked. Huh? But Kurt was already saying his goodbyes and hanging up, leaving David Karofsky alone with a brain full of thoughts and a swirling tornado of questions.
He caressed his grandfather's knife one last time before closing it up and sticking it back in its hiding spot. He fitted the false back in place, then took a pencil and jammed the catch, irreparably mangling it.
He surveyed the job with an air of satisfaction. He'd retrieve the knife later; in, say, a year or so. Right now, he didn't need the temptation.
And, he was gratified to find, he didn't want it, either.