Chapter 2.

Hey Dad,

I know it's probably weird to get an e-mail from me. But, I don't know. I thought I'd tell you that college sucks and that I hate my roommate. You know that kid who got me expelled? Yeah, him. Kurt Hummel. He's my roommate. And I can't stand it! We've already gotten into a fight, and now I'm at some Internet café that has computers, typing this up to you just so you know that I really, really wish I could transfer or something. And no, you don't need to tell me that I sound like a whiny, spoiled brat; I already know that I am, and I'm going to get through this since it's what you're going to tell me to do anyhow. But hey, I needed to vent, and you've always told me that I can vent to you so that I don't, like, blow up in someone's face or hit somebody.

From David.

P.S. Can you put some cash in my account for my debit card? I forgot to transfer some of my student loans, and there's a fee for changing it now. Sorry, but I'll pay you back. Also, give Mom my regards. I didn't tell her goodbye before I left for this stupid place.

Dave hits the send button on his Yahoo mail account before signing out and exiting the Internet. Thinking about nothing in particular (certainly not feeling gloomy about getting into an fight with Kurt, oh no), he exits the shop and looks around for someplace to go, somewhere to be. Dave has his hands shoved into his pockets as he wanders down the streets of Cincinnati.

After a couple hours of senseless walking, Dave's legs grow tired and he stumbles into a nightclub. It's not the smartest place to be, he knows, and he also realizes that this is precisely where Kurt thought he'd wind up, and he hates it that Kurt's correct.

Angrily, Dave hustles up to the bar, flashing a fake ID before ordering a drink. He orders a gin and tonic. The bartender shrugs, and hands the eighteen-year-old the drink. Dave slugs it down, making a face at the intense burn in his throat and nose. He then smiles lopsidedly. "'Nother."

"Easy there; do you want to get drunk instantly or something?" the bartended chuckles weakly.

"Yup," Dave replies. He licks the lip of the glass where a lingering bead of gin has collected. "I want to not think for a while. My thoughts kinda disturb me."

The bartender chuckles heartier this time, sliding another drink into Dave's hands. "Oh, I know how that feels. Here you go, then. Just don't make yourself sick, man. You don't look as experienced as some other drinkers I see."

"I'll get there," Dave retorts. "Practice makes perfect. So keep 'em comin', until I've built up an immunity."

"That might take a while," the bartender laughs. He's a rugged guy, probably a motorcyclist. He has a beer gut and stubble, and a receding hairline. He can't be older than thirty-five. "But it's worth a shot."

"Or two," Dave jokes with a snort, making a pun on what's in his hand. He slugs the second drink with more ease than the first, and can start to taste the delicious bitterness in the gin and tonic. "'Nother." And his head is beginning to get fuzzy already, after only two. He smiles as the warmth in his tummy, spreading like a disease, but feeling oh-so-comforting.

The bartender returns after handing a rink to someone else, and prepares another gin and tonic. "Take it easy, bud. I'm serious. You didn't drive here, did you?"

"No. I walked. I was gonna take a cab back."

"Oh. That works, then. Here you go," the bartender says with a nod, handing the tonic over. "But judging by your weight and height, I don't recommend going over four or five of these, else you'll be stabbing your liver with a knife, got me?"

"Yeah, sure," Dave grumbles. He downs the third drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Wasn't plannin' on doing damage or nothin'."

"That's good," the bartender smiles, and once again leaves for another customer.

Dave's head is pleasantly swimming now, the sound of the music over the speakers dulling and his thoughts turning into a steady trickle instead of a rushing brook. And he feels a whole lot better now, no longer moping over his stupid roommate and no longer thinking some of the gayer thoughts he had brewing in the background. Everything is a clean slate, grey and fuzzy like static on an old television set.

"One more," the jock slurs, grabbing the bartender as he walks by on the other side of the bar.

"Okay, big guy," the bartender says. "But only one."

And he hands Dave a final gin and tonic, and watches as the eighteen-year-old guzzles it down. He wipes his mouth again, making a gruff exhale as he attempts to stand. He tosses his payment onto the bar counter.

"Want me to call the cab for you?" the bartender says as Dave trips over a leg of a stool on his way toward the exit, his cell phone being pulled from his jeans pocket.

"Hmm," Dave hums, turning back around and swaying slightly. "Yeah, may –hic – be."

The bartender holds out his hand, and Dave hands him the cell phone. With lighting-fast fingers (at least it looked that way to Dave's slowly-processing mind), the bartender calls up the taxi agency in town and mentions that he "has another lost lamb that needs to find its way home" and tells the taxi to pull up front, around the curb. Ending the call, he returns Dave's cell to him and tells him to wait outside for the taxicab.

Nodding sluggishly, Dave makes his way out of the nightclub through grinding bodies as the music and alcohol flood his system. His form wobbles lightly as he plops down o the curb, glancing this way and that. it isn't very late; only about eight o'clock, maybe nine, or whatever. Dave isn't keeping track.

The cab pulls up and Dave hobbles into it. "'S up?" Dave snorts, laughing. "Just drive me near the University. I live around there." And it's true, because he lives in the dorms, but he doesn't want the cabbie to realize that Dave is an under-aged college student. Because what if the dude turned him in to the cops? That'd just be… well, fucking horrible.

The driver shrugs and pulls out into the street, keeping quiet while the radio plays in the cramped vehicle. Dave picks at the tearing leather seat and gazes out the window in a drunken stupor, his mind a dull hum of vague thoughts that barely linger long enough for the jock to really ponder them.

When he's in front of the school, he pays the cabbie and stumbles tiredly into his dorm and makes his way to the door. He reaches into his pocket for his keys…

…But realizes that he had left them inside.

Shit.

Dave presses his forehead to the cool wood of the door and plants his elbow against it. He rears back his fist, and calls, "Hey, Hummel! Hey, let me in!" while pounding on the door at each exclamation point. "Come on… I'm – hic – sleepy."

The door flies open, and Dave looses his balance from leaning against it. He lands directly onto Kurt's chest, and it's a miracle the other teen manages to keep them both upright.

Kurt grunts on impact and takes a moment to stabilize his roommate and access the situation. "What in the name of all that is good and Prada is wrong with you?"

"'M drunk, duhh," Karofsky mumbles as he grips the fabric of Kurt's shirt too tightly, to the point of nearly pinching the boy's skin. He breathes hotly against Kurt's midsection, "And it's your fucking fault, too."

"What did I do?" Kurt hisses, trying to toss the larger male off, trying to shake his grip and make him get into his bed before he falls over.

"I hate you," is the only response Kurt can get out of Dave before the jock messily shoves Kurt down and rushes into the bathroom, vomiting from drinking too much, too fast.

Sitting on the floor with a stunned expression on his face, Kurt rubs his sore tailbone and stands shakily, idly dusting off his pants. Just what is Karofsky's problem?

Karofsky stumbles out of the bathroom, looking pale and sweaty, one of the backs of his hand raised over his mouth. Kurt bets that right around now his mouth must taste as revolting as a garbage heap.

The soprano folds his arms across his chest and glares at Karofsky, who somehow holds a wavering gaze with hazy, alcohol-clouded eyes. His hands is still at his mouth, and after one last look with a different expression than exhaustion or drunkenness or hatred, Dave turns and falls into his bed, laying on his side facing the wall.

Kart shakes his head briskly, ridding himself of a single care or worry remotely concerning why his dumbass of a roommate is drunk and definitely rids himself of thinking he should help the thug at all. Instead, Kurt returns to his bed where he had been reading moments ago and sets his novel aside. He clicks off the light, rubs a hand through the headband in his hair he had used while letting the skincare products on his face settle in, and settles down into his clean sheets that thankfully still smell of home.

And before Kurt joins Karofsky in slumber (he can clearly hear the jock snoring softly), he distantly wishes he had his stuffed rabbit already. He could use the comfort after such a bizarre day.

XXX

Dave tosses and turns halfway through the night, thrashing on his covers. His mind is still thick and hazy, but his dream all too vivid:

A moan escapes the lips hovering just below Dave's, and he grins to himself as he rubs his thumb across something bulging and stiff beneath the fabric of the person's underwear. Dave kisses, wet and tender, down the person's flat, lean chest, and gladly runs his large hands down the sides of the person's lithe body.

He moans, inhaling the person's scent and pressing himself flush against the smaller body as his hand slips under their underwear. The person lets out a gasp, and then melts under Dave's hand as he works it around their shaft.

Shaft? This isn't a girl? But it feels so good when it's not a girl, and it's rougher and more addicting that touching the soft curves of a woman, and Dave is all too happy to bend to the person's wishes when they whisper, "Touch me… more, David…"

And suddenly things get too bright, like lightning flashing, and Dave finds himself peering into eyes that are blue, then green, then blue again, shifting back and forth until it merges into a single color, and soft aquamarine with silver flecks in the irises, and aside from the stifling heat and overpowering arousal, all Dave can see are those damn eyes, and all he can taste is something bitter on his tongue, but he knows that if he just leans down and places his lips over this person's lips, the bitterness will go away and give way to something so very, very sweet.

Dave bolts upright in bed, his dream falling apart. He can't even remember it, now; he only figures that it must have been sexual, because he can feel a raging hard-on in his pants.

As Dave's head throbs with a painful ache and his stomach churns, he groans pathetically. The jock rolls out of bed and trips over something until he finds himself in the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face, quickly finishes himself off so that he can pee, and then washes his hands.

Dave stares at the mirror in the dim lighting (leave it to Hummel to put a night-light in the bathroom, but it's actually pretty handy, so Dave decides not to trash the thing), and frowns at himself.

He knows he had dreamt of Hummel. He doesn't remember the details through his building migraine, but he remembers the eyes. And those eyes could only belong to the homo. He knows it.

Dave sighs and rubs his face. He reaches behind the mirror, into the cabinet, and withdraws some painkillers. He takes two for his headache, and then cups water in his hands from the sink to swallow them both. Tiredly, he shuffles back into his bed, but not before he glances over at Kurt's sleeping face in the moonlight leaking in through the window.

Kurt…

Why does he have to be so damn attractive? This would be so much easier – the denial about his sexuality, living with another guy, being around Hummel in general – if Hummel was either hideous or utterly straight or, better yet, both.

But no. As drunk as he still is, Dave is still able to think enough to know that things are never that simple. He wishes they were, would trade anything to have it different, but at the same time…

He's really glad this happened.

He hates/has the hots for/detests/feels lust for/etcetera Kurt Hummel, and it's so conflicting and wonderful and God-awful all at once that it makes Dave feel like he should have drank even more to kill off the brain cells in his head to cease it all. Cease the thoughts, the desires, the urges… To admit to being gay, to wanting Kurt's body in his grasp, to beat the shit out of the prettyboy…

All of it.

Just… make it vanish with an overdose of alcohol. That's all Dave ponders doing anymore.

Psh, as if he can do it. He'd probably die trying, or disappoint his prideful father so much that he'd get disowned. And all that jazz.

"Life sucks," Dave whispers in a raspy voice as he gently brushes his fingers over the skin of Kurt's exposed wrist where it lies atop the covers on his stomach. Dave then turns and flops back into his own bed, the mattress squeaking in protest at the sudden deadweight. Murmuring the lyrics of 'The Answer' by Blue October to himself, the jock drifts back into blissfully unaware sleep, the meds kicking in, 'drowsiness' oddly one of its better side effects.