Fic: Freeze Dried Romance (Part 1/7)
Title: Freeze Dried Romance
Author:
lealpotter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kurtofsky
Summary: He would have expected Kurt to fill the silence, just like he seems to fill every single empty hole in Dave's life lately - and yeah, that's either incredibly corny or incredibly gross. First sequel to my Acts Like Summer, Walks Like Rain.
Author's Note: Author's Note: Alright. Yes. This was supposed to be a one-shot sequel. Right.
I've got all of it written out, all seven chapters of it, so no more crazy long waiting periods. I'm planning on posting one chapter per day for seven (obviously) days - that is, unless RL decides to meddle.
And also because I cannot possibly praise or thank her enough, there you go again, THIS and THIS for ALSWLR, by the lovely moodilylit.
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Dave doesn't know the first thing about Kurt.
Really, he doesn't have a fucking clue.
Yeah, sure, he knows just how to stretch his arm over Kurt's shoulders when they're having a movie marathon (old musicals when it's Kurt's turn, Kevin Bacon when it's Dave's - hey, turns out Dave's gay after all, he's allowed to have all the celebrity crushes he fucking well pleases). He knows to rub his knuckles up and down Kurt's arm when his boyfriend - yes, Kurt Fucking Hummel is his boyfriend now, how about that - snuggles tighter into his side.
He has got it covered when it comes to kissing down Kurt's neck, slow enough that he starts giving this staccato breathing, shuddering and arching into the slightest touch.
He knows how to have Kurt squirming under him, and about those ninja tricks Kurt uses to be touching every inch of Dave's body while still looking entirely harmless and innocent. He knows all about the resolute set of Kurt's jaw when he grits his teeth impatiently and forces Dave on his back on the bed, knees in a vice on each side of Dave's waist, his mouth opening over Dave's own, hot and eager.
They have been torturously close on a number of occasions, but they've gotten better. Lately, Dave doesn't even need to pull back anymore; Kurt will kiss his shoulder softly and wriggle out of the bed, rambling on about musicals and plans and something called a Pippa.
And it's not like he's some fucking creep, of course, he can get off just fine on his own and Kurt has been more than helpful when it comes to provide him with jerking off material, but.
But fuck him; fuck him if he knows what goes through Fancy's mind most times. He wants to get this right so badly it wakes him up at night, sweating like a goddamn pig in a poker. And it shouldn't be like this, right? It should be so easy, and confortable, and fucking terrific, it shouldn't feel like sawdust in his stomach, like he's Blonde Chick 3# on any B-movie, walking up to the front door knowing, just being so fucking certain that there's something out there, and opening the goddamn door anyway, because, hey, Dave and the Blonde Chick 3# are stupid like that.
He wants this so badly he's not even sure he ought to have it anymore. So maybe he should end this while he's ahead, while he still remembers how it is to not have Kurt, while he isn't taking it for granted yet. The thought that he ever will is laughable, but that's actually for the best; it will be easier to let go of something he knows he doesn't deserve than of something he feels is his.
The glitch in that plan is that he likes Kurt.
Likes him so fucking much, like he never thought he would, because -
Come on, it's Fancy. Won't throw a ball because he might break a nail, will freak out if it's windy enough to mess up his hair, will bitch and bitch and fucking bitch if the new guy at the 'Stix brings him a regular refill instead of diet - that's Fancy for you.
But it's also Kurt. Can kick a football to the goddamn sky if warmed up right, will let Dave run his fingers through his hair all he wants just because Dave mentioned once how much he liked it, will leave a 20% tip to the older waitress even though she keeps mixing up their orders. That is Kurt for Dave.
Dave hadn't known, no one had fucking told him, when he was lusting after Kurt and it was killing him, when he was utterly terrified of Kurt, when he was tripping himself head over heels in love with Kurt, no one told him that he would ever actually like him.
Because, you know, just because you love someone it doesn't mean you have to like them all that much, okay? It's not in the fucking prerequisites, that's what.
And, fine, it's not all about the cool quirks of Kurt's personality, either. That would be rational, at least. And it isn't even that his dick likes Kurt, his dick always liked Kurt well enough, but it's not just that, if it were just his dick, Dave would fucking deal.
The problem, the fucking ginormous problem is that his arms like Kurt, the shape of him against Dave's chest; his hands like the trace of Kurt's bones and tendons; his fingers like Kurt's hair and Kurt's lips. Dave is pretty sure his fucking fingernails kind of fancy Kurt, too.
His mouth likes every part of Kurt's fucking gorgeous body that it has managed to kiss so far, and his eyes like Kurt so fucking much it's as if they itch and burn in their sockets to see, to see Kurt all the time.
Dave wishes he could leave it at that; Kurt's a pretty hot dude, and Dave has been getting down and dirty with this gay thing on a daily basis, so what's the big deal if his body feels like it's getting cold turkey when it goes by one day without him touching Kurt? Shit happens, and all.
Then Kurt will arch his sneaky ninja eyebrows at some stupid thing Finn says, or he'll smile proudly at Carole's choice of outfit, or shake his head and steal his dad's plate whenever Burt gets overly generous with his servings - or he'll simply glance at Dave and honest-to-fucking-God light up and Dave's officially done for, he just throws in the goddamn towel and gives the fuck up.
So it's no wonder he's so fucking in like with Kurt, as if being in love with him wasn't enough, as if wanting him every single hour of the fucking day wasn't enough, he has to like the guy.
This is what Dave's frazzled mind runs through while he just stands there, staring horrified at the splotch of ketchup on Kurt's white pants.
Granted, the pants are not on Kurt, thank all of his lucky stars; they're just on his bed, along with a few other things Kurt had been in the middle of hanging when Dave arrived.
But they're still white.
And Kurt's.
And probably cost more than Dave's entire wardrobe.
Fuck.
He grabs the pants; water, he thinks frantically, soak them, because he's a teenage boy with a really hot cocktease of a boyfriend and he knows in the most uncomfortable way that you should never let stains dry.
The pants are dripping now, and he's managed to get even more water on his own clothes than on them. He dries himself off to the best of his ability, takes the pants and the towel and shoves it all into his gym bag - thanking all the saints and their mothers for having wanted to go work out a bit before coming to Kurt's -, hoping against hope that Kurt won't notice it missing among the mountain of clothes he's got. Then he most likely suffers three near-death experiences while running down the stairs.
He peeks into the kitchen. Burt, Carole and Finn are sitting around the table, munching away on Kurt's cake between 'ohs' and 'ahs', and Kurt's leaning against the counter, wiping off a glass bowl and smiling ever so slightly, one sleeve of his shirt rolled up to his elbow, a rebel strand of hair over his forehead. He looks like something out of a fucking dream, and Dave wants him, wants him all the fucking time, rolling around in his bed, barely coming up for air before sucking Kurt's tongue into his mouth again.
He notices the tray on the counter, looking ready to take upstairs: a glass of Coke - there's a red can in the trash and fuck, it's regular, because Kurt knows he can't drink it any other way, but no one else drinks it like that here, so Kurt must have bought it for Dave, for God's sake - and a piece of cake with his name written on it, no, literally written on it because it's Kurt and he does shit like writing Davewith chocolate syrup on the best piece of seriously mouthwatering cake Dave has ever fucking seen.
He clears his throat, "I have to go," and feels like an asshole.
Four pairs of eyes zero in on him and he gulps, clutching the bag behind him tighter. Then Kurt lifts his eyebrows and tosses the rag aside.
"You're going? Why?" His hand wavers over the tray, uncertainly.
Dave shuffles his feet and bites the inside of his cheek. He has to think of something credible, has to think of - Jesus, Kurt's eyebrows are cleared for take off - something that won't piss him off too much.
"My… mom called. She needs… she wants… stuff."
Kurt blinks at him.
"Stuff?"
"I -"
"Well, if you have to go, you have to go," and of course Burt would say that. Dave knows he still has got to prove himself, but every fucking time he goes to Kurt's he remembers Burt muttering uncomfortably loud about Blaine being such a nice kid when Kurt told him they were dating. It's only been a week since Burt and Carole know about the whole 'them' package and Dave's already feeling wistful about all the sneaking around he and Kurt had to do before The Great Reveal.
"Honey," Carole reasons, shooting Burt a look that makes him throw his hands up in surrender.
Carole makes awesome snickerdoodles. He remembers that from afternoons with the guys at Finn's before they both grew up into assholish jerks.
"Are you sure, Dave?" She looks warily at Finn, who has got one piece of half-devoured cake on each hand. "I can't guarantee there will be any more left."
Kurt purses his lips.
"The Apocalypse isn't nigh, Finn, god." He looks back at Dave questioningly.
"I - I gotta go, I really - I'm sorry."
"Dude, we're not gonna hold you hostage." Finn grins, easy and friendly, and when the fuck did that happen. "But you're totally missing out."
Dave risks a glance at Kurt and feels the urge to pull down that sleeve and comb back his hair, back him into the counter with his whole body, and Finn couldn't be any more right if he tried.
Kurt rolls his eyes at him, at Finn, at Burt, at the kitchen and the whole world for being so astoundingly inferior.
"Go on, then. Go do whatever mysterious 'stuff' you need to do for your mom who is calling you for 'stuff' right in the middle of her, and I quote, 'seventh circle of Hell ain't got nothing on it, sweetie' shift."
Dave winces and looks down. This is going just swell.
"I'll call you, okay?"
Kurt sighs and nods.
"Fine. I'd wrap this up, but it's really creamy and it would be entirely ruined when you got home," he says, glancing at the cake. Dave can tell he's mad probably thinks it serves him right that Finn will get to eat the Dave slice, but God, he can't, what if the pants are ruined forever because he waited, what if anyone notices his wet clothes, what if Kurt finally sees him for the loser he is and -
"I'll walk you out."
Dave catches a muffled 'I think he knows where the door is by now, son' followed shortly by 'Leave them alone, honey. Have more cake' as Kurt is closing the kitchen door behind them. The walk to Dave's truck is silent and awkward in every way, mostly because Dave keeps trying to use his gym bag to cover the wet spots in his clothes while not drawing too much attention to the bag at the same time, and keeping the most distance he's kept from Kurt since way before got together. He would have expected Kurt to fill the silence, just like he seems to fill every single empty hole in Dave's life lately - and yeah, that's either incredibly corny or incredibly gross.
Except, as he has been noticing for some time now, not really that gross,
Dave coughs and swallows before his mind sidetracks him to pleasanter if even more embarrassing routes.
"Dave."
He almost falls into Kurt when the other boy comes to an abrupt stop in front of him.
"Yeah?" He is holding the bag defensively now, hoping against hope that Kurt doesn't dump him solely on the basis of his obvious mental disorder.
"Is everything - I mean, is - are we -"
Dave freezes. If the next words coming out of Kurt's mouth are 'We need to talk' he'll -
He has no fucking idea what he'll do with himself.
"Forget it." Kurt gives him a half-smile and waves at the pick-up. "Well, aren't you getting in?"
Dave nods and starts leaning in to kiss him goodbye, but the bag is still kind of in the way, and he would drop it in a second, but then Kurt would see his shirt and his jeans, and there would be questions, and Dave still has no fucking clue how one goes about cleaning ketchup off white fabric. Kurt's mouth is soft and open and waiting - he would do anything, sell his house, his parents and his sisters, for fuck's sake, just to kiss him now, his boyfriend, his, Dave's, but he can't. He can't because he's so fucking stupid, and he can't deal with questions and explanations and Kurt breaking it off because Dave can't fucking eat like a semi-civilized human being.
Kurt looks up, all sweet and confused, and steps in, one grounding hand coming up to rest on his arm.
"So. I'll call you," Dave hurries out and bolts.
He shoots one last look at the rearview mirror after backing into the street. Kurt is hugging himself and is face is all pinched and strange, and Dave wants to drive himself into a wall but he just keeps going.
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He gets home jittery and out of breath, and is quick to lock himself in his room and open the bag, ignoring the quickening drum in his veins. The spot looks huge, bigger than he remembers. There's no one home and he's clueless; he knows basic laundry rules like not mixing white and colors, and cold wash, and 'I swear to God, David, if you don't start checking your pockets before throwing every thing that you don't feel like folding into the washer, I'll get a druggie's urine sample, have it tested, then send the results to your football coach under your name', so he's not entirely hopeless. But this isn't one more pair of his Target jeans; these are Kurt's clothes. He does the only smart thing he can possibly think of and calls his sister.
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"Em's phone. Who this be?"
"Fu-uck."
"Davey? Is that you? Is that really you?"
"Just get my sister, Olivia."
"But we haven't talked in eons."
"Yeah, I might have had something to do with that. My sister, come on."
"Well, she can't right now, you know, a girl's gotta pee when a girl's gotta pee. Let's chat."
"Let's not. Just tell Em I called, I -"
"Dave?"
"Thank fucking God. Em."
"Sorry."
"Can't you change roommates? Pick someone, I don't know, sane."
"It's not that simple."
"Right. Whatever. Still say you've got no taste."
"Well, thank you, Day-Day! Same compliment to your boy -"
"Olivia, enough. Sorry, Dave."
"You fucking told her?"
"Actually, Alex conference-called and told us."
"Swell."
"Really, who is she going to tell?"
"Don't like her knowing stuff about me."
"She's not that -"
"Save it, fuck, I don't have the time."
"Did something happen? I just spoke with Paul this morning, he didn't - are mom and Alex -"
"It's nothing to do with them, calm your shit. I need a favor."
"You have such a way of asking for them."
"C'mon, Em. I'm fucked."
"Out with it."
"It's just - I've got these pants, and they're white, and there was ketchup, and now they're getting dry again and I -"
"You own white pants?"
"They're not mine, they're Kurt's, and that's the problem, 'cause he -"
"Kurt? Isn't that - David, what are you doing with your boyfriend's pants?"
"What? And shut the harpie up, will you?"
"I really think his pants should stay on him for now. How long have you been -"
"Go get it, D-man!"
"Just kill me now."
"Olivia, really. I think he's hyperventilating."
"I'm not!"
"You sound like it."
"They're his goddamn pants, and they're goddamn white, and nice, and fucking expensive, and mom says you shouldn't use bleach on nice stuff, and they weren't on him, he made me a burger and they were on the bed -"
"What were they doing on the bed instead of on him?"
"Fuck, Em, you know what, just forget it -"
"Googling it didn't occur to you?"
"I… no."
"A doomed generation. Well, while you were ranting away, Olivia did a search for you."
"…"
"There's a ton of easy-fixes, but considering that the pants are: one, not yours; two, your boyfriend's; three, apparently expensive enough that you'd think of calling me after not deigning to tell me that you have a boyfriend in the first place - I would recommend you try a professional."
"What -"
"The laundry around the corner of that bakery with the sanitation laws infringing cream-puffs. They're rather efficient and fast with small services. If you need money you can go to my room and -"
"I have money."
"Blast, there goes the interest."
"Thanks, Em. And, y'know, thank Olivia for doing the search and all."
"She says you're welcome. And -"
"What?"
"That you should work out your sexual frustration with your boyfriend instead of venting it on innocent cloth."
"Bye, Em."
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Author's Note 2#: I meant to mention that, the couple of times Dave and Kurt went to Breadstix together, they took Santana and Brittany as cover-up. But it disrupted the flow of the story, so I took it out. Dave is still very much in the closet as far as the general population of Lima is concerned, although with Santana and Brittany holding hands over the table and he and Kurt playing footsie under it, I don't know how effective that really is.
Author:
lealpotter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kurtofsky
Summary: He would have expected Kurt to fill the silence, just like he seems to fill every single empty hole in Dave's life lately - and yeah, that's either incredibly corny or incredibly gross. First sequel to my Acts Like Summer, Walks Like Rain.
Author's Note: Author's Note: Alright. Yes. This was supposed to be a one-shot sequel. Right.
I've got all of it written out, all seven chapters of it, so no more crazy long waiting periods. I'm planning on posting one chapter per day for seven (obviously) days - that is, unless RL decides to meddle.
And also because I cannot possibly praise or thank her enough, there you go again, THIS and THIS for ALSWLR, by the lovely moodilylit.
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Dave doesn't know the first thing about Kurt.
Really, he doesn't have a fucking clue.
Yeah, sure, he knows just how to stretch his arm over Kurt's shoulders when they're having a movie marathon (old musicals when it's Kurt's turn, Kevin Bacon when it's Dave's - hey, turns out Dave's gay after all, he's allowed to have all the celebrity crushes he fucking well pleases). He knows to rub his knuckles up and down Kurt's arm when his boyfriend - yes, Kurt Fucking Hummel is his boyfriend now, how about that - snuggles tighter into his side.
He has got it covered when it comes to kissing down Kurt's neck, slow enough that he starts giving this staccato breathing, shuddering and arching into the slightest touch.
He knows how to have Kurt squirming under him, and about those ninja tricks Kurt uses to be touching every inch of Dave's body while still looking entirely harmless and innocent. He knows all about the resolute set of Kurt's jaw when he grits his teeth impatiently and forces Dave on his back on the bed, knees in a vice on each side of Dave's waist, his mouth opening over Dave's own, hot and eager.
They have been torturously close on a number of occasions, but they've gotten better. Lately, Dave doesn't even need to pull back anymore; Kurt will kiss his shoulder softly and wriggle out of the bed, rambling on about musicals and plans and something called a Pippa.
And it's not like he's some fucking creep, of course, he can get off just fine on his own and Kurt has been more than helpful when it comes to provide him with jerking off material, but.
But fuck him; fuck him if he knows what goes through Fancy's mind most times. He wants to get this right so badly it wakes him up at night, sweating like a goddamn pig in a poker. And it shouldn't be like this, right? It should be so easy, and confortable, and fucking terrific, it shouldn't feel like sawdust in his stomach, like he's Blonde Chick 3# on any B-movie, walking up to the front door knowing, just being so fucking certain that there's something out there, and opening the goddamn door anyway, because, hey, Dave and the Blonde Chick 3# are stupid like that.
He wants this so badly he's not even sure he ought to have it anymore. So maybe he should end this while he's ahead, while he still remembers how it is to not have Kurt, while he isn't taking it for granted yet. The thought that he ever will is laughable, but that's actually for the best; it will be easier to let go of something he knows he doesn't deserve than of something he feels is his.
The glitch in that plan is that he likes Kurt.
Likes him so fucking much, like he never thought he would, because -
Come on, it's Fancy. Won't throw a ball because he might break a nail, will freak out if it's windy enough to mess up his hair, will bitch and bitch and fucking bitch if the new guy at the 'Stix brings him a regular refill instead of diet - that's Fancy for you.
But it's also Kurt. Can kick a football to the goddamn sky if warmed up right, will let Dave run his fingers through his hair all he wants just because Dave mentioned once how much he liked it, will leave a 20% tip to the older waitress even though she keeps mixing up their orders. That is Kurt for Dave.
Dave hadn't known, no one had fucking told him, when he was lusting after Kurt and it was killing him, when he was utterly terrified of Kurt, when he was tripping himself head over heels in love with Kurt, no one told him that he would ever actually like him.
Because, you know, just because you love someone it doesn't mean you have to like them all that much, okay? It's not in the fucking prerequisites, that's what.
And, fine, it's not all about the cool quirks of Kurt's personality, either. That would be rational, at least. And it isn't even that his dick likes Kurt, his dick always liked Kurt well enough, but it's not just that, if it were just his dick, Dave would fucking deal.
The problem, the fucking ginormous problem is that his arms like Kurt, the shape of him against Dave's chest; his hands like the trace of Kurt's bones and tendons; his fingers like Kurt's hair and Kurt's lips. Dave is pretty sure his fucking fingernails kind of fancy Kurt, too.
His mouth likes every part of Kurt's fucking gorgeous body that it has managed to kiss so far, and his eyes like Kurt so fucking much it's as if they itch and burn in their sockets to see, to see Kurt all the time.
Dave wishes he could leave it at that; Kurt's a pretty hot dude, and Dave has been getting down and dirty with this gay thing on a daily basis, so what's the big deal if his body feels like it's getting cold turkey when it goes by one day without him touching Kurt? Shit happens, and all.
Then Kurt will arch his sneaky ninja eyebrows at some stupid thing Finn says, or he'll smile proudly at Carole's choice of outfit, or shake his head and steal his dad's plate whenever Burt gets overly generous with his servings - or he'll simply glance at Dave and honest-to-fucking-God light up and Dave's officially done for, he just throws in the goddamn towel and gives the fuck up.
So it's no wonder he's so fucking in like with Kurt, as if being in love with him wasn't enough, as if wanting him every single hour of the fucking day wasn't enough, he has to like the guy.
This is what Dave's frazzled mind runs through while he just stands there, staring horrified at the splotch of ketchup on Kurt's white pants.
Granted, the pants are not on Kurt, thank all of his lucky stars; they're just on his bed, along with a few other things Kurt had been in the middle of hanging when Dave arrived.
But they're still white.
And Kurt's.
And probably cost more than Dave's entire wardrobe.
Fuck.
He grabs the pants; water, he thinks frantically, soak them, because he's a teenage boy with a really hot cocktease of a boyfriend and he knows in the most uncomfortable way that you should never let stains dry.
The pants are dripping now, and he's managed to get even more water on his own clothes than on them. He dries himself off to the best of his ability, takes the pants and the towel and shoves it all into his gym bag - thanking all the saints and their mothers for having wanted to go work out a bit before coming to Kurt's -, hoping against hope that Kurt won't notice it missing among the mountain of clothes he's got. Then he most likely suffers three near-death experiences while running down the stairs.
He peeks into the kitchen. Burt, Carole and Finn are sitting around the table, munching away on Kurt's cake between 'ohs' and 'ahs', and Kurt's leaning against the counter, wiping off a glass bowl and smiling ever so slightly, one sleeve of his shirt rolled up to his elbow, a rebel strand of hair over his forehead. He looks like something out of a fucking dream, and Dave wants him, wants him all the fucking time, rolling around in his bed, barely coming up for air before sucking Kurt's tongue into his mouth again.
He notices the tray on the counter, looking ready to take upstairs: a glass of Coke - there's a red can in the trash and fuck, it's regular, because Kurt knows he can't drink it any other way, but no one else drinks it like that here, so Kurt must have bought it for Dave, for God's sake - and a piece of cake with his name written on it, no, literally written on it because it's Kurt and he does shit like writing Davewith chocolate syrup on the best piece of seriously mouthwatering cake Dave has ever fucking seen.
He clears his throat, "I have to go," and feels like an asshole.
Four pairs of eyes zero in on him and he gulps, clutching the bag behind him tighter. Then Kurt lifts his eyebrows and tosses the rag aside.
"You're going? Why?" His hand wavers over the tray, uncertainly.
Dave shuffles his feet and bites the inside of his cheek. He has to think of something credible, has to think of - Jesus, Kurt's eyebrows are cleared for take off - something that won't piss him off too much.
"My… mom called. She needs… she wants… stuff."
Kurt blinks at him.
"Stuff?"
"I -"
"Well, if you have to go, you have to go," and of course Burt would say that. Dave knows he still has got to prove himself, but every fucking time he goes to Kurt's he remembers Burt muttering uncomfortably loud about Blaine being such a nice kid when Kurt told him they were dating. It's only been a week since Burt and Carole know about the whole 'them' package and Dave's already feeling wistful about all the sneaking around he and Kurt had to do before The Great Reveal.
"Honey," Carole reasons, shooting Burt a look that makes him throw his hands up in surrender.
Carole makes awesome snickerdoodles. He remembers that from afternoons with the guys at Finn's before they both grew up into assholish jerks.
"Are you sure, Dave?" She looks warily at Finn, who has got one piece of half-devoured cake on each hand. "I can't guarantee there will be any more left."
Kurt purses his lips.
"The Apocalypse isn't nigh, Finn, god." He looks back at Dave questioningly.
"I - I gotta go, I really - I'm sorry."
"Dude, we're not gonna hold you hostage." Finn grins, easy and friendly, and when the fuck did that happen. "But you're totally missing out."
Dave risks a glance at Kurt and feels the urge to pull down that sleeve and comb back his hair, back him into the counter with his whole body, and Finn couldn't be any more right if he tried.
Kurt rolls his eyes at him, at Finn, at Burt, at the kitchen and the whole world for being so astoundingly inferior.
"Go on, then. Go do whatever mysterious 'stuff' you need to do for your mom who is calling you for 'stuff' right in the middle of her, and I quote, 'seventh circle of Hell ain't got nothing on it, sweetie' shift."
Dave winces and looks down. This is going just swell.
"I'll call you, okay?"
Kurt sighs and nods.
"Fine. I'd wrap this up, but it's really creamy and it would be entirely ruined when you got home," he says, glancing at the cake. Dave can tell he's mad probably thinks it serves him right that Finn will get to eat the Dave slice, but God, he can't, what if the pants are ruined forever because he waited, what if anyone notices his wet clothes, what if Kurt finally sees him for the loser he is and -
"I'll walk you out."
Dave catches a muffled 'I think he knows where the door is by now, son' followed shortly by 'Leave them alone, honey. Have more cake' as Kurt is closing the kitchen door behind them. The walk to Dave's truck is silent and awkward in every way, mostly because Dave keeps trying to use his gym bag to cover the wet spots in his clothes while not drawing too much attention to the bag at the same time, and keeping the most distance he's kept from Kurt since way before got together. He would have expected Kurt to fill the silence, just like he seems to fill every single empty hole in Dave's life lately - and yeah, that's either incredibly corny or incredibly gross.
Except, as he has been noticing for some time now, not really that gross,
Dave coughs and swallows before his mind sidetracks him to pleasanter if even more embarrassing routes.
"Dave."
He almost falls into Kurt when the other boy comes to an abrupt stop in front of him.
"Yeah?" He is holding the bag defensively now, hoping against hope that Kurt doesn't dump him solely on the basis of his obvious mental disorder.
"Is everything - I mean, is - are we -"
Dave freezes. If the next words coming out of Kurt's mouth are 'We need to talk' he'll -
He has no fucking idea what he'll do with himself.
"Forget it." Kurt gives him a half-smile and waves at the pick-up. "Well, aren't you getting in?"
Dave nods and starts leaning in to kiss him goodbye, but the bag is still kind of in the way, and he would drop it in a second, but then Kurt would see his shirt and his jeans, and there would be questions, and Dave still has no fucking clue how one goes about cleaning ketchup off white fabric. Kurt's mouth is soft and open and waiting - he would do anything, sell his house, his parents and his sisters, for fuck's sake, just to kiss him now, his boyfriend, his, Dave's, but he can't. He can't because he's so fucking stupid, and he can't deal with questions and explanations and Kurt breaking it off because Dave can't fucking eat like a semi-civilized human being.
Kurt looks up, all sweet and confused, and steps in, one grounding hand coming up to rest on his arm.
"So. I'll call you," Dave hurries out and bolts.
He shoots one last look at the rearview mirror after backing into the street. Kurt is hugging himself and is face is all pinched and strange, and Dave wants to drive himself into a wall but he just keeps going.
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He gets home jittery and out of breath, and is quick to lock himself in his room and open the bag, ignoring the quickening drum in his veins. The spot looks huge, bigger than he remembers. There's no one home and he's clueless; he knows basic laundry rules like not mixing white and colors, and cold wash, and 'I swear to God, David, if you don't start checking your pockets before throwing every thing that you don't feel like folding into the washer, I'll get a druggie's urine sample, have it tested, then send the results to your football coach under your name', so he's not entirely hopeless. But this isn't one more pair of his Target jeans; these are Kurt's clothes. He does the only smart thing he can possibly think of and calls his sister.
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"Em's phone. Who this be?"
"Fu-uck."
"Davey? Is that you? Is that really you?"
"Just get my sister, Olivia."
"But we haven't talked in eons."
"Yeah, I might have had something to do with that. My sister, come on."
"Well, she can't right now, you know, a girl's gotta pee when a girl's gotta pee. Let's chat."
"Let's not. Just tell Em I called, I -"
"Dave?"
"Thank fucking God. Em."
"Sorry."
"Can't you change roommates? Pick someone, I don't know, sane."
"It's not that simple."
"Right. Whatever. Still say you've got no taste."
"Well, thank you, Day-Day! Same compliment to your boy -"
"Olivia, enough. Sorry, Dave."
"You fucking told her?"
"Actually, Alex conference-called and told us."
"Swell."
"Really, who is she going to tell?"
"Don't like her knowing stuff about me."
"She's not that -"
"Save it, fuck, I don't have the time."
"Did something happen? I just spoke with Paul this morning, he didn't - are mom and Alex -"
"It's nothing to do with them, calm your shit. I need a favor."
"You have such a way of asking for them."
"C'mon, Em. I'm fucked."
"Out with it."
"It's just - I've got these pants, and they're white, and there was ketchup, and now they're getting dry again and I -"
"You own white pants?"
"They're not mine, they're Kurt's, and that's the problem, 'cause he -"
"Kurt? Isn't that - David, what are you doing with your boyfriend's pants?"
"What? And shut the harpie up, will you?"
"I really think his pants should stay on him for now. How long have you been -"
"Go get it, D-man!"
"Just kill me now."
"Olivia, really. I think he's hyperventilating."
"I'm not!"
"You sound like it."
"They're his goddamn pants, and they're goddamn white, and nice, and fucking expensive, and mom says you shouldn't use bleach on nice stuff, and they weren't on him, he made me a burger and they were on the bed -"
"What were they doing on the bed instead of on him?"
"Fuck, Em, you know what, just forget it -"
"Googling it didn't occur to you?"
"I… no."
"A doomed generation. Well, while you were ranting away, Olivia did a search for you."
"…"
"There's a ton of easy-fixes, but considering that the pants are: one, not yours; two, your boyfriend's; three, apparently expensive enough that you'd think of calling me after not deigning to tell me that you have a boyfriend in the first place - I would recommend you try a professional."
"What -"
"The laundry around the corner of that bakery with the sanitation laws infringing cream-puffs. They're rather efficient and fast with small services. If you need money you can go to my room and -"
"I have money."
"Blast, there goes the interest."
"Thanks, Em. And, y'know, thank Olivia for doing the search and all."
"She says you're welcome. And -"
"What?"
"That you should work out your sexual frustration with your boyfriend instead of venting it on innocent cloth."
"Bye, Em."
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Author's Note 2#: I meant to mention that, the couple of times Dave and Kurt went to Breadstix together, they took Santana and Brittany as cover-up. But it disrupted the flow of the story, so I took it out. Dave is still very much in the closet as far as the general population of Lima is concerned, although with Santana and Brittany holding hands over the table and he and Kurt playing footsie under it, I don't know how effective that really is.