"Shatter," Glee fic, Kurt/Karofsky, Figment!verse
Title: Shatter (AU sequel to Figment)
Author: emilianadarling
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt/Karofsky
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst like woah
Length: Aprox 7,000
Summary: He hadn’t cornered Hummel, hadn’t threatened him. Hadn’t thrown him into more lockers or tossed slushies in his face or called him names across the Cafeteria like usual. Dave hadn’t done anything at all.
Notes: This is an alternate universe follow-up to " Figment". It breaks off after the confrontation between Kurt, Blaine, and Dave in 2x06. It really struck me upon watching both scenes in the principal's office that Dave really is a remarkable actor. Neither his parents nor his friends seem to know the real him; this was written as a kind of exploration of that notion.
Let me know what you think, duckies. :) Always eager to hear from you.
In the days following the kiss, Dave had considered doing some crazy shit. He’d thought about finding Kurt Hummel and cornering him in some abandoned classroom - or a crowded hallway, for all the help anyone would extend to the smaller boy. Dave had considered threatening Hummel. Coming up to him, all brawn and height and scowling face and saying the kind of shit that stops people from talking.
You tell anyone, I’ll kill you.
He’d thought of hitting Kurt in that pretty mouth of his - soft, and full, and so fucking perfect. It would only take one punch send Kurt flying to the floor, he was sure - and then he’d keep going. His fists would slam into Kurt over and over and over until his lip split and blood filled his mouth and he sobbed and cried and tried to curl against the torrent. Dave would punch, and kick, and crack ribs, and bruise pale skin until he was in control again. Until he wasn’t so fucking helpless anymore.
But every time he’d considered lashing out - of rearing up and daring that faggot to tell anyone - he’s seen the Kurt from that sick, awful, ohgodhowcouldIeventhinkthat daydream. Kurt, struggling and sobbing and beautiful against the locker room wall as Dave touched, and kissed, and took what didn’t belong to him. Kurt, terrified and shaking. Dave remembered the bone-deep disgust and his churning stomach and the horror as come spurted over Dave’s hand. As he got off imagining raping a defenceless boy half his size.
“Please. You don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want - I - you - ah!”
He hadn’t cornered Hummel, hadn’t threatened him. Hadn’t thrown him into more lockers or tossed slushies in his face or called him names across the Cafeteria like usual.
Dave hadn’t done anything at all.
---
The sun is bright on Dave’s eyelids, the heat of it slightly oppressive as he drifts into consciousness.
Afternoon.
Dave opens his eyes reluctantly against the brightness, rolling onto his side and blearily looking at the boxy red numbers of his alarm clock. They inform him that it is 1:03pm.
It’s Thursday. English class will just be starting, then.
Dave used to like English, if only privately. He’d always done well in that class. Even as he noisily complained about assignments and rolled his eyes with Azimio at the gay fucking poetry, he’d always attended. Done well on assignments. Got As and Bs on tests.
But right now, getting up is as unthinkable as winning gold for hockey, or getting asked to join the NFL tomorrow.
Or kissing Kurt Hummel and liking it.
Dave rolls onto his back and stares up at the white spackled ceiling instead. He’s already missed Monday’s class this week; another day can’t make that much of a difference.
The problem is that sleeping is so much easier than going to class, or going to practice, or explaining to Azimio why he doesn’t want to hang out anymore. They used to go to the gym two days a week in addition to practice, used to push losers and faggots into lockers and laugh about it while they patted each other on the back. Dave feels too tired for the gym, or shoving people, or Azimio. When he does go to class, he can’t even concentrate. Teachers call him out on not having done the readings, on not being able to remember their questions. And it’s not as though his parents have noticed his absence from school; his mom and dad both start work early in the morning and generally return after he would already be home.
Dave knows, distantly, that eventually someone at the school will call his parents. Coach Beiste or Principle Figgins or someone is going to call and tell his parents all about the skipping, the failing grades, the falling asleep in class.
The idea should frighten him.
He feels numb instead. The anger that has been with him for so long now - the frustration, the need to hurt - has fizzled up and left him empty, impotent. He has no idea what to do now that it is gone.
Sleep is just easier, Dave decides, and lets his eyes close again.
--
It isn’t that Dave’s parents are abusive. Or bible-thumping fundamentalists. Or angry people at all, really.
The three of them are sitting around the small dining room table, a steaming bowl of bigos in front of each of them and a crusty loaf of dark brown bread on a plate in the centre of the table. Paul Karofsky might be second generation, but Dave’s father still remembers how to cook Polish staples. Their dinners are variable and contradictory; pierogi with thick-cut onion one night, hamburgers and wedge fries the next. Regardless, dinner is always hearty and delicious.
“This is good, Paul,” says Dave’s mom, breaking the silence. She cannot cook even a grilled cheese sandwich without potentially causing a house fire. Elaine Karofsky is a tax lawyer at a small local firm, and has more important things to do than learn to cook a roast or boil pasta correctly. Everything about her is tiny; her small hand reaches up to brush her short blonde hair out of her eyes.
Paul nods, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he ducks his head down to catch another spoonful of stew. A professor of Organic Chemistry at Ohio State University Lima Campus, Dave’s father is an intelligent but quiet man: he enjoys his television programs and goes to bed by ten o’clock every night.
Dave isn’t quite sure how the two of them managed to produce him.
“Yes, it’s really nice, Dad,” he says.
Silence reigns again.
Dave could not be more different at home than he is at school. From the way he holds himself to his tone of voice, the Dave Karofsky who struts proudly down the halls of McKinley wearing his letterman’s jacket could not be utterly more dissimilar to Dave-in-his-own-house. He is respectful. Polite. A good student. He would never, ever speak to them in the same way he speaks to his friends at school. Dave sometimes thinks his parents are still recovering from the shock of twelve-year-old-him asking to join the school sports teams in Middle School.
No. It’s not that Dave’s parents are angry people in the slightest.
They are... distant. Detached. Caring in an unspoken kind of way. Both Elaine and Paul are utter individuals; they rotate around each other and their son within the confines of their own home, interacting as though each family member were sketched on separate sheets of overlapping tracing paper. Close, very close - but never quite on the same level, never quite able to relate. The twin beasts of politics and religion are never mentioned at the dinner table; Dave doesn’t even think his parents tell each other who they vote for.
Nevertheless, Dave’s parents do know each other inside and out. They are strong as individuals; they are strong as a unit.
Sometimes Dave doesn’t know why they decided to fuck it all up with a kid.
The silence is long and unbroken, but comfortable. It hadn’t been until Dave had started visiting friends’ houses at the age of ten and eleven that he had realized how unusual his home life was compared to others. The first time he’d visited Azimio’s house, he’d almost been overwhelmed by the sheer noise of it. Azimio’s precocious little sister had taken him immediately by the hand and led him to the kitchen table, where she had regaled him with stories about her day at school and the kind of horses she wanted one day and whateverthefuck else little girls talk about. Mr. Adams had spent the afternoon in the den, shouting out the score of the football game whenever someone made a touchdown. At dinner, Mrs. Adams had smiled brightly while she chided Dave for being too thin and scooped extra potatoes onto his plate.
It had been nice. Normal. Dave still likes spending afternoons there.
The worst thing - the very worst thing - is that Dave is fairly certain his parents wouldn’t be angry if he told them that he’s... like that. He’s almost positive they wouldn’t be pissed, or kick him out of the house, or anything dramatic like they show in movies or T.V. or whatever.
They just wouldn’t know what to say, or how to act, or how to deal with him.
And that is immeasurably more terrifying.
“David,” begins his father, wiping a small amount of stew from his grey beard with a napkin. “Did you have a good day at school?”
“Mmhmm,” Dave says quietly. A pause. “Practice went well.”
His father passes him the bread.
--
The days when he does go to school are worse.
Dave can’t bring himself to really eat lunch anymore - which would be enough to freak anyone out, he thinks bitterly. The cafeteria smells oppressive and greasy and sick, and he finds himself making more and more excuses to not join his friends in shovelling in pizza pockets and chicken strips. When teachers call on him in class now, it catches him by surprise - makes him jolt out of whatever absent daydream he’d fallen into. Dave might stomp and crack his knuckles with the rest of the jocks, but he always used to do readings and homework before everything happened. Azimio had teased him for it mercilessly. Now, Dave can’t even answer their questions half the time.
It makes him cringe.
He hates himself for not being able to care.
Azimio, the hockey team, and the football team have no idea what’s wrong with him. He goes to practice most days, but it’s impossible to pay attention - to run the right way or tackle the right guy. Everyone’s all in red and white, wrapped in brightness and armour and muscle and they all look the same. After a few days of barely trying, Coach Beiste takes him aside. Every line on her gruff face reads ‘serious conversation’.
Gotta pick it up, Karofsky. Gotta bring your A-game. Can’t keep showing up all half-assed, boy; we have a game to worry about soon.
Dave nods, apologizes. Makes all the right sounds in all the right places. Starts tying little harder to make it look like he gives a shit.
She doesn’t talk to him about it again.
Azimio is harder to shake off.
“C’mon, man,” he says, holding up the teeming Big Quench cup . “Cherry’s your favourite, right? Well, fucking Glee Club just had some huge competition or whatever last night. I figure we can give ‘em a friendly welcome back this morning.” Azimio waggles his eyebrows. The icy red slushie sloshes around in the cup.
It would be so easy to take it. To find Hummel in the hallway, all dressed up in something tight and faggy. To throw the liquid ice into his perfect fucking face. Mess him up. Give Fancy something to think about all day. It would make Azimio happy, and that would be something. His best friend has been looking more and more confused and hurt and suspicious every time he begs off a dumpster toss. Every time he ditches the gym for some reason or another; Dave can’t even keep all his excuses straight anymore.
It would be so easy.
And all at once, the look of utter shock and revulsion on Kurt’s face after Dave had kissed him springs into his mind. The terror in Kurt’s pretty blue eyes in the dream; scrunching up his delicate, soft features and Karofsky, please stop. Please. You don’t know what you’re doing.
His stomach clenches painfully and bile rises in the back of his throat. Azimio’s eyes widen.
“Shit, man. You just went white like a sheet or some shit. You okay?”
“Fuck, ‘m gonna be sick,” chokes Dave, and without another word he turns and stumbles to the bathroom.
Later, sitting together right before French, Dave mumbles something about stomach flu and apologizes. Azimio nods, claps him on the shoulder. Says everything is okay.
Azimio stops talking to him as much, after that. The Glee Club losers start giving him weird looks in the hallway, glancing at each other in quiet bewilderment.
Kurt... Kurt doesn’t look at him at all. Just rushes past with his head down, clutching that bookbag of his tightly and never, ever looking Dave in the eyes.
And Dave can’t tell. Has no idea if Kurt is scared of him, or pissed, or repulsed, or if he’s going to be a huge bitch and tell everyone about just how messed up Dave Karofsky really is. Like he told that fucking fairy boyfriend of his, all tiny and curly-haired and smug. (Fuck, that guy. What a douche bag. Didn’t even try to stop Dave when he shoved Kurt into the fence, or take him on, or fight back. Fucking pussy, not brave enough to stand up for Kurt, perfect Kurt, tinydecliatefuckingfuck.)
Dave has no idea if Kurt’s told that asshole everything. Maybe Kurt cries about it to him - whines about how school is hard, and people hate him - right before their small bodies twine together, and Pretty Boy kisses the curve of Kurt’s neck just there and makes him shudder and moan.
He has no idea whether Kurt is just angry about Dave deigning to touch him, or if he’s terrified that the hulking bully of his nightmares will grab him and shove him into an empty classroom. Push him. Humiliate him. Force him.
Dave thinks that not knowing what the hell Kurt is thinking might be the worst of all.
-
Three weeks after Dave Karofsky kissed Kurt Hummel and ruined everything, Dave writes a math test.
More accurately, he attempts to write a math test.
Dave is good at math. Numbers and equations are simple, finite. No complicated responses, no grey areas. Just a + b = c. Math used to be a class he didn’t have to pretend to hate, either. Because literature is faggy and history is a waste of time, but even jocks can be good at math and not have to hide it. It’s manly, all hard lines and rationality. It was always acceptable.
But on this day, the equations and lines and graphs on the page don’t make any sense. It probably doesn’t help that his sleep schedule is completely fucked from too many days’ spent dozing through school and staying up late until night turns to morning. He’s exhausted, and his whole body aches, and he’s hungry but can’t make himself eat the food here anymore. The room is so silent except for frantically scribbling pencils and the too-loud tick-tick-tick of the clock at the front of the room, and it’s just too much. Dave reads the written questions over and over before realizing that they are, in fact, illegible. He recognizes the words and numbers, knows what they mean individually; but putting them into strings is too much, too much and it doesn’t make sense anymore.
Train A is travelling west from New York to Los Angeles at X miles per hour. Train B is travelling North at Y miles per hour from Tallahassee to Lansing. Based on the map above, how long will it take before Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky collide and explode into a million pieces of Dave’s stupid, useless, faggot life?
And now the Xs and Ys and coefficients and divisors are sliding together on the page as though someone has tipped the paper up. The lines all tumble together into a heap, a great pile of graphite on lined paper and Dave’s head tips backward and his eyes flutter mercifully closed.
And then there is Kurt.
Kurt Hummel, draped over the desk haphazardly as Dave pounds into his hot, tight ass. The smaller boy is all slender legs and mussed up hair, rosy cheeks and a small, proud erection. Kurt’s moaning like a whore, hands clenching the legs of the desk intermittently as Dave gives him exactly what he deserves.
Dave feels Kurt’s heat around him, and he knows he can’t possibly be the first man to do this. Because Kurt is confident, and brave, and astonishingly beautiful, and there is no way other guys haven’t seen that and wanted it and taken it. It doesn’t matter that there are no other self-admitted fags at school; everyone thinks Dave’s straight. That doesn’t stop him from wanting the boy.
God, he wants him more than anything.
Kurt hisses as Dave slams into him particularly hard, and Dave smoothes his hands over the smaller boy’s slim, perfectly curved-in waist before his large hand slides down to grip his cock.
“Dave - oh, fuck, I want it so bad,” he moans, and his legs clench around Dave’s thick middle. “Want it - want you, I -”
The sensation of falling surrounds him, and Dave jerks awake as his head falls onto his shoulder. He’s hard, and wanting, and in the middle of taking a fucking math test, Jesus Christ. He becomes aware that he’s breathing heavier than he should be, and looks around the room slightly frantically. If he made any noise, or said anything, or -
But everyone is still scribbling madly, utterly focused on the test. Dave looks up at the clock. There is only ten minutes left in the period.
He mentally slaps himself across the face, tries to focus. At the end of the class, the test he hands in is maybe a quarter complete.
Dave skips the rest of his classes and goes home to sleep it off instead.
--
One day, when Dave arrives home in what should be the middle of his school day, his dad is sitting at the dining room table surrounded by stacks of paper. A large, steaming mug of tea sits amid the chaos. Internally, Dave swears. He’d completely spaced that it was Wednesday. Due to the university’s rather eccentric schedule, Paul Karofsky generally doesn’t have any classes after mid-morning on Wednesdays, and he often chooses to work from home instead.
His father looks mildly surprised to see him.
“David,” he says, confusion drawing his grey, bushy eyebrows together. “What are you doing home? It’s-”
“I don’t feel very well,” says Dave, a little too quickly.
“Are you sure you -?”
“It’s fine, dad.” Dave’s voice sounds strained and gruff to his own ears. He just wants to finish this conversation and return to the safety of his own bed. Lie down, close his eyes, block it all out. But snapping at his dad won’t solve anything; will only make the older man confused and suspicious.
Dave never snaps at his parents.
He breathes, reigns himself in, and then speaks again. “I just feel really sick. I think I want to go to bed, if that’s okay.”
Paul Karofsky hesitates, a strange look coming over his face. He picks up the cup of tea and sips it thoughtfully. Dave can smell lemongrass from across the room. Eventually, his dad speaks again.
“Your football coach called here a few days ago,” says Paul carefully, neutrally. Not quite looking Dave in the eye. “Coach... ‘Beast’, is that even her real name?” He shakes his head. “She told me you’ve been cutting practice lately.”
Dave can’t think of anything to say to that.
“David,” says Paul, looking profoundly uncomfortable with this conversation. He takes another long sip of tea before continuing. “You know your mother and I... we just want you to be happy. We want you to know that.”
What the fuck does that even mean?
“Okay,” says Dave. “Okay, I know. Can I just go back to bed now?”
“Of course,” says Paul, and as Dave tries to avoid looking at his worried, slightly crumpled face as he turns and heads up the stairs.
Part Two
Author: emilianadarling
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Kurt/Karofsky
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst like woah
Length: Aprox 7,000
Summary: He hadn’t cornered Hummel, hadn’t threatened him. Hadn’t thrown him into more lockers or tossed slushies in his face or called him names across the Cafeteria like usual. Dave hadn’t done anything at all.
Notes: This is an alternate universe follow-up to " Figment". It breaks off after the confrontation between Kurt, Blaine, and Dave in 2x06. It really struck me upon watching both scenes in the principal's office that Dave really is a remarkable actor. Neither his parents nor his friends seem to know the real him; this was written as a kind of exploration of that notion.
Let me know what you think, duckies. :) Always eager to hear from you.
In the days following the kiss, Dave had considered doing some crazy shit. He’d thought about finding Kurt Hummel and cornering him in some abandoned classroom - or a crowded hallway, for all the help anyone would extend to the smaller boy. Dave had considered threatening Hummel. Coming up to him, all brawn and height and scowling face and saying the kind of shit that stops people from talking.
You tell anyone, I’ll kill you.
He’d thought of hitting Kurt in that pretty mouth of his - soft, and full, and so fucking perfect. It would only take one punch send Kurt flying to the floor, he was sure - and then he’d keep going. His fists would slam into Kurt over and over and over until his lip split and blood filled his mouth and he sobbed and cried and tried to curl against the torrent. Dave would punch, and kick, and crack ribs, and bruise pale skin until he was in control again. Until he wasn’t so fucking helpless anymore.
But every time he’d considered lashing out - of rearing up and daring that faggot to tell anyone - he’s seen the Kurt from that sick, awful, ohgodhowcouldIeventhinkthat daydream. Kurt, struggling and sobbing and beautiful against the locker room wall as Dave touched, and kissed, and took what didn’t belong to him. Kurt, terrified and shaking. Dave remembered the bone-deep disgust and his churning stomach and the horror as come spurted over Dave’s hand. As he got off imagining raping a defenceless boy half his size.
“Please. You don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want - I - you - ah!”
He hadn’t cornered Hummel, hadn’t threatened him. Hadn’t thrown him into more lockers or tossed slushies in his face or called him names across the Cafeteria like usual.
Dave hadn’t done anything at all.
---
The sun is bright on Dave’s eyelids, the heat of it slightly oppressive as he drifts into consciousness.
Afternoon.
Dave opens his eyes reluctantly against the brightness, rolling onto his side and blearily looking at the boxy red numbers of his alarm clock. They inform him that it is 1:03pm.
It’s Thursday. English class will just be starting, then.
Dave used to like English, if only privately. He’d always done well in that class. Even as he noisily complained about assignments and rolled his eyes with Azimio at the gay fucking poetry, he’d always attended. Done well on assignments. Got As and Bs on tests.
But right now, getting up is as unthinkable as winning gold for hockey, or getting asked to join the NFL tomorrow.
Or kissing Kurt Hummel and liking it.
Dave rolls onto his back and stares up at the white spackled ceiling instead. He’s already missed Monday’s class this week; another day can’t make that much of a difference.
The problem is that sleeping is so much easier than going to class, or going to practice, or explaining to Azimio why he doesn’t want to hang out anymore. They used to go to the gym two days a week in addition to practice, used to push losers and faggots into lockers and laugh about it while they patted each other on the back. Dave feels too tired for the gym, or shoving people, or Azimio. When he does go to class, he can’t even concentrate. Teachers call him out on not having done the readings, on not being able to remember their questions. And it’s not as though his parents have noticed his absence from school; his mom and dad both start work early in the morning and generally return after he would already be home.
Dave knows, distantly, that eventually someone at the school will call his parents. Coach Beiste or Principle Figgins or someone is going to call and tell his parents all about the skipping, the failing grades, the falling asleep in class.
The idea should frighten him.
He feels numb instead. The anger that has been with him for so long now - the frustration, the need to hurt - has fizzled up and left him empty, impotent. He has no idea what to do now that it is gone.
Sleep is just easier, Dave decides, and lets his eyes close again.
--
It isn’t that Dave’s parents are abusive. Or bible-thumping fundamentalists. Or angry people at all, really.
The three of them are sitting around the small dining room table, a steaming bowl of bigos in front of each of them and a crusty loaf of dark brown bread on a plate in the centre of the table. Paul Karofsky might be second generation, but Dave’s father still remembers how to cook Polish staples. Their dinners are variable and contradictory; pierogi with thick-cut onion one night, hamburgers and wedge fries the next. Regardless, dinner is always hearty and delicious.
“This is good, Paul,” says Dave’s mom, breaking the silence. She cannot cook even a grilled cheese sandwich without potentially causing a house fire. Elaine Karofsky is a tax lawyer at a small local firm, and has more important things to do than learn to cook a roast or boil pasta correctly. Everything about her is tiny; her small hand reaches up to brush her short blonde hair out of her eyes.
Paul nods, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he ducks his head down to catch another spoonful of stew. A professor of Organic Chemistry at Ohio State University Lima Campus, Dave’s father is an intelligent but quiet man: he enjoys his television programs and goes to bed by ten o’clock every night.
Dave isn’t quite sure how the two of them managed to produce him.
“Yes, it’s really nice, Dad,” he says.
Silence reigns again.
Dave could not be more different at home than he is at school. From the way he holds himself to his tone of voice, the Dave Karofsky who struts proudly down the halls of McKinley wearing his letterman’s jacket could not be utterly more dissimilar to Dave-in-his-own-house. He is respectful. Polite. A good student. He would never, ever speak to them in the same way he speaks to his friends at school. Dave sometimes thinks his parents are still recovering from the shock of twelve-year-old-him asking to join the school sports teams in Middle School.
No. It’s not that Dave’s parents are angry people in the slightest.
They are... distant. Detached. Caring in an unspoken kind of way. Both Elaine and Paul are utter individuals; they rotate around each other and their son within the confines of their own home, interacting as though each family member were sketched on separate sheets of overlapping tracing paper. Close, very close - but never quite on the same level, never quite able to relate. The twin beasts of politics and religion are never mentioned at the dinner table; Dave doesn’t even think his parents tell each other who they vote for.
Nevertheless, Dave’s parents do know each other inside and out. They are strong as individuals; they are strong as a unit.
Sometimes Dave doesn’t know why they decided to fuck it all up with a kid.
The silence is long and unbroken, but comfortable. It hadn’t been until Dave had started visiting friends’ houses at the age of ten and eleven that he had realized how unusual his home life was compared to others. The first time he’d visited Azimio’s house, he’d almost been overwhelmed by the sheer noise of it. Azimio’s precocious little sister had taken him immediately by the hand and led him to the kitchen table, where she had regaled him with stories about her day at school and the kind of horses she wanted one day and whateverthefuck else little girls talk about. Mr. Adams had spent the afternoon in the den, shouting out the score of the football game whenever someone made a touchdown. At dinner, Mrs. Adams had smiled brightly while she chided Dave for being too thin and scooped extra potatoes onto his plate.
It had been nice. Normal. Dave still likes spending afternoons there.
The worst thing - the very worst thing - is that Dave is fairly certain his parents wouldn’t be angry if he told them that he’s... like that. He’s almost positive they wouldn’t be pissed, or kick him out of the house, or anything dramatic like they show in movies or T.V. or whatever.
They just wouldn’t know what to say, or how to act, or how to deal with him.
And that is immeasurably more terrifying.
“David,” begins his father, wiping a small amount of stew from his grey beard with a napkin. “Did you have a good day at school?”
“Mmhmm,” Dave says quietly. A pause. “Practice went well.”
His father passes him the bread.
--
The days when he does go to school are worse.
Dave can’t bring himself to really eat lunch anymore - which would be enough to freak anyone out, he thinks bitterly. The cafeteria smells oppressive and greasy and sick, and he finds himself making more and more excuses to not join his friends in shovelling in pizza pockets and chicken strips. When teachers call on him in class now, it catches him by surprise - makes him jolt out of whatever absent daydream he’d fallen into. Dave might stomp and crack his knuckles with the rest of the jocks, but he always used to do readings and homework before everything happened. Azimio had teased him for it mercilessly. Now, Dave can’t even answer their questions half the time.
It makes him cringe.
He hates himself for not being able to care.
Azimio, the hockey team, and the football team have no idea what’s wrong with him. He goes to practice most days, but it’s impossible to pay attention - to run the right way or tackle the right guy. Everyone’s all in red and white, wrapped in brightness and armour and muscle and they all look the same. After a few days of barely trying, Coach Beiste takes him aside. Every line on her gruff face reads ‘serious conversation’.
Gotta pick it up, Karofsky. Gotta bring your A-game. Can’t keep showing up all half-assed, boy; we have a game to worry about soon.
Dave nods, apologizes. Makes all the right sounds in all the right places. Starts tying little harder to make it look like he gives a shit.
She doesn’t talk to him about it again.
Azimio is harder to shake off.
“C’mon, man,” he says, holding up the teeming Big Quench cup . “Cherry’s your favourite, right? Well, fucking Glee Club just had some huge competition or whatever last night. I figure we can give ‘em a friendly welcome back this morning.” Azimio waggles his eyebrows. The icy red slushie sloshes around in the cup.
It would be so easy to take it. To find Hummel in the hallway, all dressed up in something tight and faggy. To throw the liquid ice into his perfect fucking face. Mess him up. Give Fancy something to think about all day. It would make Azimio happy, and that would be something. His best friend has been looking more and more confused and hurt and suspicious every time he begs off a dumpster toss. Every time he ditches the gym for some reason or another; Dave can’t even keep all his excuses straight anymore.
It would be so easy.
And all at once, the look of utter shock and revulsion on Kurt’s face after Dave had kissed him springs into his mind. The terror in Kurt’s pretty blue eyes in the dream; scrunching up his delicate, soft features and Karofsky, please stop. Please. You don’t know what you’re doing.
His stomach clenches painfully and bile rises in the back of his throat. Azimio’s eyes widen.
“Shit, man. You just went white like a sheet or some shit. You okay?”
“Fuck, ‘m gonna be sick,” chokes Dave, and without another word he turns and stumbles to the bathroom.
Later, sitting together right before French, Dave mumbles something about stomach flu and apologizes. Azimio nods, claps him on the shoulder. Says everything is okay.
Azimio stops talking to him as much, after that. The Glee Club losers start giving him weird looks in the hallway, glancing at each other in quiet bewilderment.
Kurt... Kurt doesn’t look at him at all. Just rushes past with his head down, clutching that bookbag of his tightly and never, ever looking Dave in the eyes.
And Dave can’t tell. Has no idea if Kurt is scared of him, or pissed, or repulsed, or if he’s going to be a huge bitch and tell everyone about just how messed up Dave Karofsky really is. Like he told that fucking fairy boyfriend of his, all tiny and curly-haired and smug. (Fuck, that guy. What a douche bag. Didn’t even try to stop Dave when he shoved Kurt into the fence, or take him on, or fight back. Fucking pussy, not brave enough to stand up for Kurt, perfect Kurt, tinydecliatefuckingfuck.)
Dave has no idea if Kurt’s told that asshole everything. Maybe Kurt cries about it to him - whines about how school is hard, and people hate him - right before their small bodies twine together, and Pretty Boy kisses the curve of Kurt’s neck just there and makes him shudder and moan.
He has no idea whether Kurt is just angry about Dave deigning to touch him, or if he’s terrified that the hulking bully of his nightmares will grab him and shove him into an empty classroom. Push him. Humiliate him. Force him.
Dave thinks that not knowing what the hell Kurt is thinking might be the worst of all.
-
Three weeks after Dave Karofsky kissed Kurt Hummel and ruined everything, Dave writes a math test.
More accurately, he attempts to write a math test.
Dave is good at math. Numbers and equations are simple, finite. No complicated responses, no grey areas. Just a + b = c. Math used to be a class he didn’t have to pretend to hate, either. Because literature is faggy and history is a waste of time, but even jocks can be good at math and not have to hide it. It’s manly, all hard lines and rationality. It was always acceptable.
But on this day, the equations and lines and graphs on the page don’t make any sense. It probably doesn’t help that his sleep schedule is completely fucked from too many days’ spent dozing through school and staying up late until night turns to morning. He’s exhausted, and his whole body aches, and he’s hungry but can’t make himself eat the food here anymore. The room is so silent except for frantically scribbling pencils and the too-loud tick-tick-tick of the clock at the front of the room, and it’s just too much. Dave reads the written questions over and over before realizing that they are, in fact, illegible. He recognizes the words and numbers, knows what they mean individually; but putting them into strings is too much, too much and it doesn’t make sense anymore.
Train A is travelling west from New York to Los Angeles at X miles per hour. Train B is travelling North at Y miles per hour from Tallahassee to Lansing. Based on the map above, how long will it take before Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky collide and explode into a million pieces of Dave’s stupid, useless, faggot life?
And now the Xs and Ys and coefficients and divisors are sliding together on the page as though someone has tipped the paper up. The lines all tumble together into a heap, a great pile of graphite on lined paper and Dave’s head tips backward and his eyes flutter mercifully closed.
And then there is Kurt.
Kurt Hummel, draped over the desk haphazardly as Dave pounds into his hot, tight ass. The smaller boy is all slender legs and mussed up hair, rosy cheeks and a small, proud erection. Kurt’s moaning like a whore, hands clenching the legs of the desk intermittently as Dave gives him exactly what he deserves.
Dave feels Kurt’s heat around him, and he knows he can’t possibly be the first man to do this. Because Kurt is confident, and brave, and astonishingly beautiful, and there is no way other guys haven’t seen that and wanted it and taken it. It doesn’t matter that there are no other self-admitted fags at school; everyone thinks Dave’s straight. That doesn’t stop him from wanting the boy.
God, he wants him more than anything.
Kurt hisses as Dave slams into him particularly hard, and Dave smoothes his hands over the smaller boy’s slim, perfectly curved-in waist before his large hand slides down to grip his cock.
“Dave - oh, fuck, I want it so bad,” he moans, and his legs clench around Dave’s thick middle. “Want it - want you, I -”
The sensation of falling surrounds him, and Dave jerks awake as his head falls onto his shoulder. He’s hard, and wanting, and in the middle of taking a fucking math test, Jesus Christ. He becomes aware that he’s breathing heavier than he should be, and looks around the room slightly frantically. If he made any noise, or said anything, or -
But everyone is still scribbling madly, utterly focused on the test. Dave looks up at the clock. There is only ten minutes left in the period.
He mentally slaps himself across the face, tries to focus. At the end of the class, the test he hands in is maybe a quarter complete.
Dave skips the rest of his classes and goes home to sleep it off instead.
--
One day, when Dave arrives home in what should be the middle of his school day, his dad is sitting at the dining room table surrounded by stacks of paper. A large, steaming mug of tea sits amid the chaos. Internally, Dave swears. He’d completely spaced that it was Wednesday. Due to the university’s rather eccentric schedule, Paul Karofsky generally doesn’t have any classes after mid-morning on Wednesdays, and he often chooses to work from home instead.
His father looks mildly surprised to see him.
“David,” he says, confusion drawing his grey, bushy eyebrows together. “What are you doing home? It’s-”
“I don’t feel very well,” says Dave, a little too quickly.
“Are you sure you -?”
“It’s fine, dad.” Dave’s voice sounds strained and gruff to his own ears. He just wants to finish this conversation and return to the safety of his own bed. Lie down, close his eyes, block it all out. But snapping at his dad won’t solve anything; will only make the older man confused and suspicious.
Dave never snaps at his parents.
He breathes, reigns himself in, and then speaks again. “I just feel really sick. I think I want to go to bed, if that’s okay.”
Paul Karofsky hesitates, a strange look coming over his face. He picks up the cup of tea and sips it thoughtfully. Dave can smell lemongrass from across the room. Eventually, his dad speaks again.
“Your football coach called here a few days ago,” says Paul carefully, neutrally. Not quite looking Dave in the eye. “Coach... ‘Beast’, is that even her real name?” He shakes his head. “She told me you’ve been cutting practice lately.”
Dave can’t think of anything to say to that.
“David,” says Paul, looking profoundly uncomfortable with this conversation. He takes another long sip of tea before continuing. “You know your mother and I... we just want you to be happy. We want you to know that.”
What the fuck does that even mean?
“Okay,” says Dave. “Okay, I know. Can I just go back to bed now?”
“Of course,” says Paul, and as Dave tries to avoid looking at his worried, slightly crumpled face as he turns and heads up the stairs.
Part Two