Chapter 1.
"Look, Hummel, I know you aren't happy with this little arrangement," Karofsky grumbles as he sets down the last cardboard box he has to move into the room. Kurt can hear things clanking around inside. "And you know what? Neither am I. I say if we just leave each other the fuck alone and keep to our studies, maybe laying down some ground-rules, we'll get along just fine."
"And by 'get along' I presume you mean, 'just barely tolerate being in the same room with each other?'" Kurt snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans back in his desk chair and props his feet up on his naked twin mattress. "Well, fine. If it'll get me through this year with you, then I have no qualms or quandaries with some 'ground rules' being set."
"…Could you, for once, use simple words, like 'doubts' or 'problems'? So you have to use fancy q-words like 'qualms' and whatever the fuck else you said?" Karofsky sneers, spitting the words in Kurt's general direction. "I mean, seriously. My brain is overloaded enough with getting my schedule sorted out and getting my stuff unpacked without you scrambling it up with your fuckin' poetic vocabulary."
And while Kurt is barely interested in the fact that Karofsky knows that 'qualms' are doubts and 'quandaries' are problems, and while he is barely flattered that Karofsky finds Kurt's way of speaking poetic, Kurt is not enough of either of these things to drop his current irritated temperament or do so much as quirk a brow.
Instead, he gives another disapproving snort. "Fine. I'll put up an effort to speak down to your fifth-grade reading level and use relatively simple words. Let's begin with: what rules did your tiny brain have in mind?"
Ignoring the insults of 'fifth-grade reading level' and 'tiny brain,' Karofsky relays firmly, counting on his fingers (which look oddly slimmer, like the rest of Karofsky, the previous year or so being kind to him while Kurt was away at Dalton), "One: don't touch me. Two: don't touch my stuff. Three: don't bring around any boyfriends. And four: don't eat my food. I'll do the same for you in return, although replace the word 'boy' with 'girl' in the third rule. Capiche?"
"Si," Kurt retorts sharply. He can do all that. It sounds plenty reasonable… except for the 'no touch' rule. Is Karofsky even more of a forgetful imbecile than Kurt thought?
Because Karofsky is the one who constantly initiated contact with Kurt back in high school, and further more, kissed Kurt once (nearly twice, but thank Gaga the shock wore off enough at the time for Kurt to push the lummox away!), and besides all that, it's extremely difficult not to accidentally run into or bump the person you're living with. It just happens.
It being relatively early in the morning, Kurt abruptly stands and announces, "I'm going out for a coffee. I'll leave you to unpack, which I hope is a feat you can accomplish on your own."
"I can do just fine without someone's help, Hummel," Karofsky spits back, and turns his back on Kurt. "So g'head and get outta here. I'll be better off if you're not in here to get in my way anyhow."
"Just don't move around my stuff too much, seeing as how that's one of the rules," Kurt sneers, turning on his heel and exiting the room, dorm key in hand. He had gotten here a day earlier than necessary in order to unpack his things before his roommate arrived. It had been a great strategy to get settled in early; and now, Kurt was free to spend the last few days before school began doing whatever he pleased away from his dorm.
"That's probably the only way this is going to work out," Kurt mutters in annoyance to himself as he struts down the street in the hot August air toward a Starbucks or Caribou Coffee; whichever is closer. Naturally a Starbucks rears its head first, so Kurt crosses a busy street hurriedly and slips inside with a ding of a bell over the door.
Up at the counter, a cheerful, attractive guy asks, "What might I get for ye?" with a slight accent, maybe Irish? A black-haired, hazel-eyed Irish guy in the middle of Cincinnati, Ohio, right near the University of Cincinnati? Oh yes, Kurt likes. Kurt likes a lot.
Smiling what could be considered flirtatiously, Kurt remarks, "Something cold. A caramel frappichino with no whip, perhaps? And make it your smallest size, please."
"Comin' right up," the guy comments with a smile of his own, and he has a beauty mark below his right eye that is both adorable and distracting. Kurt hands him the payment, a five-dollar bill, and awaits his change. After he gets it, he watches with mild interest as the Irish barista turns around and starts making Kurt's order.
Kurt waits near the ledge where orders are placed, watching as many others nearby are also getting cold drinks. It's a scorcher out there, and the air conditioning doesn't always do it for you.
Idly, Kurt wonders why he had chosen this college out of all the others in Ohio. And then he remembers: there is a branch here called the College-Conservatory of Music, and it includes instrument playing as well as singing, the latter being in Kurt's main interest. He's taking other classes, too, mindful to try and get a degree in something practical so that he can find a job, but doing what he loves on the side is never a wrong choice. But as a main degree, he's thinking of either aiming for being a designer of some sort (a wedding planner, an interior home or corporate decorator, a fashion designer) or possibly going into the theatrical arts. Like a high school, the university has a drama club, and Kurt's thinking of joining if and when they decide to put on a musical.
Kurt is brought out of his musings when the cute Irish guy (Kurt glances at the young man's nametag, noting that his name is Jason) comes up behind where Kurt is leaning and taps his arm with the drink. A chill runs through Kurt at the contact, because he's wearing short sleeves, and already there's cold condensation on the plastic cup.
"Here ye are," Jason says with a smile.
"Thank you," Kurt smiles, and he's tempted to wink, but he doesn't want to come on strong at all, and simply opts to brushing his fingers over Jason's as he takes his order. Jason doesn't react, simply smiles, and Kurt feels slightly defeated as he retreats to a comfortable spot in the small coffeehouse.
Kurt wonders if he should have brought his laptop with him to browse Facebook or do something else, but with a shrug, he realizes that it would've been a tad pointless. It's not like Kurt ever does much on the computer outside of schoolwork.
Sighing, the poor soprano wonders, too, what living with Karofsky is going to be like? He can picture it now: Karofsky hanging out with some frat boys and kegging it up, probably having sex with girls at parties but picturing guys the entire time, playing it all cool like it doesn't matter, while he tries out for the college hockey team and messes up Kurt's studying schedule with his hockey and partying schedules.
Tch. Kurt's just going to loathe this, he's sure. And it doesn't help that they have to share a built-in bathroom to their dorm room, since Kurt paid extra to have his own (he needs it, okay? Public bathrooms are nasty and he figured that sharing one with a single person would be easier than sharing one with, like, a hundred), the bathroom looking like an extension near the entrance of the cramped room, similar to a hotel room. But seriously, Kurt thinks with a soft outward groan into the thick green straw of his drink, This is going to be a nightmare. I just pray I never see him naked by mistake, or vice versa. Uhg, that's shudder-worthy.
Meanwhile, Dave is back at the dorm room, trying to sort of his stuff and place it where Hummel conveniently seemed to leave space, as if he knew what Dave would bring (but how could he? Even Dave wasn't sure what he'd take with him to college at first) and expected where it should go, alongside all of his girlier stuff.
Dave snorts. He really can't stand this setup. Why, out of all of the people who attend this university, and why out of all of the universities in Ohio (or the entire country!), Kurt Hummel had to pick this one, and be Dave's roommate?
The jock makes a growling noise in the back of his throat. It's going to be extremely difficult to concentrate in college, now. Because Dave's grade had slipped while Kurt was at McKinley because all Dave could think about was how much he wanted to mess with and touch and –
"No, no, no!" Dave tells himself sternly, smacking himself in the head. "Shut up! I'm not –"
But lately, he can't seem to say it. Ever since Kurt left his high school for another school, Dave has been getting better grades and not calling anyone names anymore, although he still gave slushie facials because, well, that was just funny as hell.
Now, in college, however… there is no glee club to harass. There are no slushies to throw. There aren't any obstacles in Dave's way to make a better future for himself than being a blue-collar worker except for the one teensy problem in his dormitory room: his roommate.
"Heh," Dave scoffs, "Maybe I should start calling us cellmates instead, since this is going to be fucking Hell, like a prison." And it sucks because Dave's tried communicating with the RA and other people in change of rooming and housing, but no one bothered with him. They kept insisting that everything is final at this point, and unless your roommate commits a felony, you're not going to lose them anytime soon.
And really, all Dave wants to do at this point is stop unpacking and start banging his head against a wall until his brains dissolve into pudding and start leaking out his ears while his skull splits open from the constant thwacking.
With a groan, Dave ceases unpacking for a moment to fall backward onto his bed. He violently kicks his heel into the naked mattress, his hand covering his eyes and squeezing the bridge of his nose.
"Fuck my life," the jock grumbles to himself. "Why the fuck do I have to feel so strongly toward him, anyway?"
He's never been sure what he's felt, only that, when it comes to Hummel… all Dave wants to do is pin the other male down and ravish him roughly, since Kurt isn't as much of a girl as he pretends to be, and could handle the forces on him. Despite his clothing choice, Dave knows that Kurt is, in body, entirely male. And the idea is oddly intriguing and alluring to Dave, even when he knows all too well that it shouldn't be.
Except the hockey player's lust isn't so overwhelming that he's ever going to try and pull anything. Things admittedly got out of hand that day in the locker room, and Dave hadn't at all intended to ever act out one of his fantasies by kissing Hummel, but it happened and he couldn't take it back. But outside of that one time, Dave isn't going to do anything. He might be a little fucked up in the head, but he's not about to rape Kurt or anything. That would just be… wrong, on so many levels, because dammit, Dave has some morals, and one of those happens to be not to deflower someone by force.
Scrubbing his scalp out of frustration with his thoughts, Dave gets up from his bed and wobbles over to the attached bathroom. He slams the door shut, takes a whiz, and then strips. He glances at himself self-consciously in the mirror – really, he's tried to get back in shape since he didn't have anything better to do, what with Kurt gone – but he knows that he's still ugly. Kurt had really hit the nail on the head with his insults that day. He'd been on fire when he'd confronted Dave in the locker room, and it's one memory that Dave will probably never erase from his mind.
Dave steps into the shower stall and eases into the water, feeling as it turns from cool to burning within minutes. He lathers himself up, trying to scrub away his thoughts on this living situation, and then stoops down to grab the shampoo bottle he brought in earlier (he made sure to unpack his toiletries first, because you never know when you'll see them).
He washes his short hair, washes his face with the bar soap (he notes that there's a separate bar in here that smells like shea butter; Kurt's), and then thoughtlessly cleans his junk and ass, as per usual.
Thoroughly cleansed, Dave steps out of the shower, water trickling down his body in a ticklish way, before reaching for a towel.
Wait. Fuck. He forgot one in the room, laying on his duffel bag just around the corner of the bathroom door! Shit…
Cautiously (because who knows when Kurt might get back?), Dave peers out a crack in the door, mindful not to get too much water on the tiled flooring of the bathroom. He then darts a hand out, stretches to reach the bag, and then yanks a towel out of it. He shuts the door again, quickly retreating to the stall so not to leave even more water on the floor. He dries himself off, puts on lotion (it doesn't even smell; it just keeps his body from turning as dry and leathery as a crocodile's), and gets dressed.
Cleaning up the drips on the floor and tossing the towel into a bin Kurt already has in the corner of the bathroom, Dave steps out of the closed-in area.
As he fumbles in his bag for his deodorant and cologne, he hears keys in the lock. Within seconds, Dave is caught with his shirt around his neck and Kurt blinking at Dave's bare back.
Scowling, Dave remarks over his shoulder, "What're you lookin' at, Fancy?" before turning his head back around and finishing applying his post-shower scents. Finished, he slips his arms into the sleeves of the shirt and ruffles his wet hair as Kurt shuts the door behind him, coughing into one pale hand.
"Nothing. As if I'd ever look at you," Kurt retorts as he drops his keys in a little basket on his small desk and picks up his bed sheets. He finally makes his bed, moving around it and putting on the mattress cover and sheets and top duvet cover, all without looking Dave's way. He then stands on his bed, pulling out some posters to hang on the wall that runs the length of his side of the room.
"The Killers?" Dave comments as he glances over at what his roommate is doing. He's surprised to see the band beside a pin-up of Lady Gaga and another of Zac Effron.
Kurt nods. "Yeah, what of them? I happen to think the lead singer is cute and their music fun to listen to. Is it such a crime?"
"Well, no, I guess not," Dave harrumphs. "I mean… I listen to them, too. I have about twenty-eight of their songs on my iPod."
"That so?" Kurt says, suddenly turning around. Dave's shocked to find a light smile on those perfectly smooth, palely pink lips. "There might be hope for us yet, then, if you like The Killers."
"Some people hate them; thinks their music is annoying," Dave agrees, "So I'm glad you're not one of those people."
"The feeling is mutual," Kurt replies, and really, this is the first conversation they've ever had that's been civil. He hops down from his bed. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some more homey things to put up."
And while Dave's curious to see what Hummel is referring to, he makes sure to make it seem that he doesn't care as he continues unloading and putting away his own possessions. He wishes he'd remembered to grab his own posters from his bedroom, though. It would have been nice to have his 30 Seconds To Mars poster up. Once again, Dave doesn't admit to himself that he finds Jared Leto attractive, nor does he acknowledge that this is the main reason (besides how the music sounds) why he wants the poster up, and sort of misses seeing it.
The afternoon wears on, the boys finally getting everything in what looks like its proper place. And then it boils down to where to put the mini-refrigerator Kurt brought and the television and Xbox that Karofsky brought.
They compromise on space (or lack thereof) by setting the small TV set/DVD player onto the top of the small fridge, the Xbox on the floor beside the little cherry red appliance.
"I feel like this is the weirdest place I've ever lived in," Dave huffs as he plops down on his bed, his wrists dangling from his knees, his legs spread. Kurt adverts where his eyes have wandered to the crotch of Dave's flannel lounge pants.
"I couldn't agree more," Kurt comments idly as he glances around the room. "It looks pretty crowded in here with both of our possessions vying for space, but it's not terribly cluttered. I could get used to it."
"Yeah. But, heh," Dave mocks, "You can totally tell that two completely opposite people live here. I mean, look at my side compared to yours. Yours is all frilly with gold and orchid, and mine's all manly with forest green and steely grey. It's fuckin' funny."
Kurt's brows come together as he places his hands on his hips where he stands. "Shut up. Just because I actually have taste doesn't mean you have to poke fun at me." He does notice, however, that Karofsky hadn't used any of the terms, 'fruity,' 'gay,' or 'faggy,' like Finn had back when Kurt first decorated their basement room. Instead, he said 'frilly,' which is indeed insulting, but not nearly as harsh. Kurt appreciates this, but he doesn't show it.
"Whatever," Dave counters with such witty intelligence that Kurt's blown away. (Sarcasm, sarcasm.)
Kurt watches Dave flops backward onto his bed, nearly hitting his head on the wall.
The soprano raises an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be going out with for booze and babes right about now?" he quips scathingly. "It's Saturday night, after all. Dinner hour. Don't you have a girlfriend to treat and sleep with?"
"Watch it, Hummel," Karofsky threatens. "My personal life is none of your business." And he drapes an arm over his eyes.
Kurt shrugs. "Whatever you say, hamhock. I was just wondering why you're lying around like a useless sack of meat and bones."
Dave snarls, sitting up, his arm previously over his eyes slamming into the mattress with a loud thwump. "Shut it!"
"Sorry, sorry; jeez Louise, I didn't mean to upset you," Kurt counters with dripping sarcasm. "It just doesn't add up. I thought you'd be the type to leap right into the college experience with guns blazing."
"You thought wrong, then," Karofsky snaps back. "I'm actually not half the partier you make me out to be. I hate parties; they're awkward and brainless. Drinking's fine, but everything sucks at those things. I won't be heading out anytime soon, so if you're trying to shoo me out of the room so you can bring in whatever guy I'm sure you're hooked up with at the moment – probably that pussy from Dalton, I bet – it's not going to work. I'm staying right here."
Kurt bristles at the mention of Blaine and the evident jealousy laced into Karofsky's tone. He spins around from his task and glares at the jock. "You have no right to speak to me that way! You don't know me at all, Karofsky. I'm not some homosexual manwhore like you stereotype me as! Believe it or not, most gays aren't sluts, thank-you-very-much. Just like how most straight people aren't sleeping with everybody either, and yet some break that mold. Honestly, just because I'm gay and you're too damn scared to admit that you are, too, doesn't mean you're justified in being a grade-A asshole!"
Dave leaps up from the bed, getting in Kurt's face. "I'm not gay!" he shouts, giving Kurt a little shove that makes the shorter male stumble and sit down on the ledge of his own bed. "And I know that all gays aren't whores, okay? I just figured you'd be the type to get all lovey-dovey over your boyfriend," he hisses, and then pivots and storms out of the room, not even taking his key with him.
And Kurt sits there, running a hand through his hair to smooth it, wondering what in the name of Oprah just happened.