Glee -- Third Time Lucky 5: Doing the Crazy Thing
Title: Third Time Lucky
Chapter: 5. Doing the Crazy Thing
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Karofsky/Kurt
Rating: R (for pRofanity)
Word Count: 8,919
Warnings: the usual… plus a *bonus* overdose of literary references
Summary: Somehow the dead heat of summer gives rise to the mother(fucker) of all second chances. The road to redemption is paved with fights, phone calls, false starts, and more than a few jokes at the expense of the lovable Finn Hudson.
Author's Note: Dear "League" fans: I am sorry. (But seriously, Oscar Wilde is crying up in Genius Heaven.) HAPPY WEEKEND; HAVE A REALLY LONG-ASS CHAPTER, and seriously, thank you all for sticking with this. ♥
CHAPTER 5: DOING THE CRAZY THING
“No,” Kurt says.
“Whadd’ya mean, ‘no’?” a future West McKinley High socialite whines.
“I mean no,” Kurt tells her. “As in, ‘No, you cannot have a unicorn for free, even if we do have six of them’; ‘No, there is no discount for being the most special artist in your class’; and ‘No, I don’t care that your irresponsible mother left you here for a few hours, because this store is not a playground.’”
Dina covers a laugh with a less-than-convincing cough. Someday-Santana just scowls at him.
“You’re mean,” she says. “And you look dumb in that apron. And you matched your eyes to your shirt. And you’re just mad ’cause I’m specialer than you.”
Kurt considers it an accomplishment that he refrains from saying, “Bitch, it’s on.”
Fortunately, “Young lady, if you don’t behave yourself, we’re going to stop selling unicorns at all” is almost as satisfying.
He smiles politely-and just the slightest bit smugly-at her expression of terror, and then he moves off to reshelve the crocheting kits that some little cretin was kind enough to distribute all over the crafts corner.
It’s been almost three hours, however, and abusing his powers of snark around children who lack the psychological development to process sarcasm has kept him from losing his mind thus far. Not bad for the new kid.
“Are you judging me?” he asks Dina when he makes his way back behind the counter.
“Judging that you’re a natural,” she says, grinning at him.
“At least I’m still a minor,” Kurt says. “That should help my case when the lawsuits start pouring in.”
Dina shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. “I won’t let ’em sue your pants off, sweetheart. Especially not those pants; they’re nice.”
Something crashes in the Lego area.
Dina sees his expression, which Kurt imagines falls between disbelieving and soon-to-be homicidal, and puts a hand on his arm. “Let me.”
As she heads off, probably rescuing him from many hours spent blinking innocently in courtrooms, Kurt glances at the clock and weighs the advantages of lunch at noon or lunch at twelve-thirty. He’s focused on straightening the pyramid of little music boxes next to the birthday card spinner when a mesh bag of marbles alights on the counter.
Well. Obviously it doesn’t alight by itself.
Kurt looks at the bag, glances up at Karofsky, and takes the tag, by which he pulls it closer to the register.
“Any particular reason you need marbles, David?” He flattens the barcode between his first two fingers so that the scanner can be coaxed into reading it. “Did you lose the ones you had?”
“Yeah, very funny,” Karofsky mutters. This time, when Kurt glances at him, he’s looking back. “No. I just realized that they’re the perfect size and shape to throw at people.”
“Is that so?” Kurt taps the key to total it. “Seven thirty-three. At whom, may I ask, will you be throwing them?”
“I dunno,” Karofsky says, digging in his back pocket. “Probably people who are assholes to you.” He flips his worn wallet open, fishes out a ten, lays it on the counter, and pushes it forward just a bit. “Maybe including me.”
Ah, the art of the Karofsky Apology. This one’s something of a pièce de résistance.
Kurt smiles faintly, hits the key for cash, and catches the drawer when it kicks with a ding not unlike that of his email.
“How exactly do you intend to throw marbles at yourself?” he asks.
Karofsky shrugs. Kurt wonders if Shrug is actually his middle name. David Shrug Karofsky. It could work.
Kurt collects the change and the receipt and waits until Karofsky raises one open palm, the better to brush the heel of his own hand against it gently-just for a moment. Just as an acknowledgement; not as acceptance.
“Dina,” he says, sensing her coming up behind him. “I’m going to take lunch now if that’s okay.”
“All yours, hon,” she says.
Kurt ducks out of the apron, hangs it behind the counter, collects his things, and leads the way out to the sidewalk. Then he leads the way directly into the coffee shop.
“Forgive my vices,” he says.
“I don’t think foofy coffee drinks get much airtime in the Bible,” Karofsky says.
“I’m not sure ‘foofy’ was common in the original Hebrew,” Kurt agrees. They reach the front of the line. “Get something. Yesterday I found a gift card Finn gave me for my last birthday, with the inscription ‘two tickets to that thing you like.’”
The cashier grins, and Kurt smiles back.
“Just… coffee,” Karofsky says. He looks profoundly uncomfortable-not just that Kurt’s sharing a pop culture joke with the barista, and not just that Lima’s resident gay kid is trying to buy him a drink. He looks like he’s worried that he’s being watched.
Kurt knows that feeling-the right-behind-you fear, needling, nagging, cold in your stomach and tingling at the back of your neck. Much as he should be reveling in the reversal, celebrating the change of roles, and praising karma’s magnificent bitchiness… this is another thing he couldn’t wish on anyone.
“Relax,” he says softly, handing Karofsky the instantly-filled cup, because regular coffee just comes from a spout, and passing the card to the cashier. “If anybody harasses you, I’ll beat the crap out of them.”
Karofsky cracks a smile and then tries to hide it behind the coffee cup.
The cashier gives the card back, and Kurt pockets it, thanks her, and leads the way over to the pickup counter to wait.
“Are you impugning my guns?” Kurt asks, gesturing to his biceps. “As you can see, I could take Azimio with one hand tied behind my back.”
Karofsky smirks. “Right now, you probably could. He’s probably still passed out with his feet in the fish tank. If anybody else drank that much, they’d be dead.”
Kurt crosses his arms. “You sounded pretty close to death yourself.”
The shutters go down behind Karofsky’s eyes. He rubs his face with his free hand. “Yeah, I still feel like shit. I figure caffeine can’t make it worse when it can’t get worse.” He sets his jaw and glares around in search of eavesdroppers. Apparently the room passes muster. “I woke up on the bathroom floor with my phone in my hand. I don’t remember any of what I said to you.”
Kurt looks at his shoes. These were purchased while at the mall with Mercedes last year, and they were an excellent choice. “None of it was particularly delicate.”
“I figure.”
“Although you did compliment my bone structure.”
Karofsky stares at him.
“That was probably the most tactful thing you said,” Kurt says. “Honestly, I can’t think of a time I’ve ever heard more F-bombs in a row.”
“Fuck,” Karofsky mutters.
“Very much like that, yes.”
Karofsky takes a deep breath, and then he holds it, which probably cancels out the meditative effects of the inhalation. “Hummel, you have to tell me what I said.”
“No,” Kurt says, “I really don’t. And I don’t think you want me to. Suffice to say I’m not going to lord your intoxicated ramblings over you, and we can just let it go. I know it was the rum talking.”
Karofsky looks pained for a moment, and then he looks slightly surprised. “How did you know it was rum?”
“Psychic, remember?” Kurt says. That sounds much better than ‘Lucky guess?’ “You’ve got a little Captain in you.”
“You are so full of shit,” Karofsky says. “Come on, Hummel. What kind of crap was I babbling about?”
“Skinny iced frappucino for Kurt?” the barista says.
“Thank you,” Kurt replies, whisking it off of the counter. “There’s a nice bench on the sidewalk, David.”
Karofsky is watching his back again, and the jitteriness to it is achingly familiar. Kurt wonders just how long Karofsky’s been hiding like this-how long it’s been since the dam of denial gave way, and reality started bleeding through the cracks. Did it start with him? That’s almost how the message made it sound, as though Kurt, in one form, one guise, or another, was the final straw.
Speaking of straws, Kurt tucks the one in his drink into his mouth and sips appreciatively of the caffeinated goodness. Karofsky gets the door for him, which is more than slightly weird, and then flops down on the bench Kurt indicates. Mr. Hardcore Linebacker’s hangover is definitely showing now; he looks haggard and a little bit dazed.
“You would make an effective anti-teen-drinking campaign ad right now,” Kurt says as he sits.
“It’s usually not this bad,” Karofsky says, scrubbing at his eyes. “I feel like shit. And everything in my head sounds like Brittany.”
Kurt honestly isn’t sure whether the next thing he says is meant to be merciful or sadistic. “It did sound like you had a thing for cheerleaders.”
Kurt has never watched someone go pale before.
“What in the fucking fuck.” It sounds so far from a question that Kurt can’t bring himself to punctuate it correctly in his mind.
“Just an intuition I got,” Kurt says mildly, “like my intuition of your liquor affinities. Rum and Coke?”
“What the hell did I say about cheerleaders, Hummel?” Karofsky demands.
“I believe it was a passing mention,” Kurt says. “Something about how you could probably be persuaded to sleep with anything in a Cheerios uniform.”
Now he’s just being vengeful, but he thinks it’s his right.
“You’re making that up,” Karofsky says.
Kurt feels generous. “Possibly.”
Karofsky slouches a little more on the bench and drinks some of his straight-up coffee. He massages the bridge of his nose. “See, my psychic powers are telling me you’ve never been hungover, or you wouldn’t be acting like such a dick about it right now.”
Kurt can’t help smirking a little. “My body is a temple and so on.”
Karofsky glares at him. Maybe it’s decreased in potency simply because Kurt’s seen it so many times, or maybe it’s a softer version of the usual incinerating look, but Kurt’s insides don’t clench and wriggle into knots. “Except for caffeine, you mean.”
“Caffeine is the modern equivalent of Greek nectar,” Kurt says. “It heals, replenishes, rejuvenates, and might stave off cancer. Or it might cause it; they can never decide. In any case, bottoms up, David.”
“You’re a regular laugh riot today,” Karofsky mutters into his cup.
“I’m always this hilarious,” Kurt says. “I’m glad you can appreciate it this afternoon.”
Karofsky sighs feelingly and nurses his coffee for a while. Kurt observes for a few minutes, and it seems to be doing him some good.
“I’m not the right person to do this,” Kurt says.
Karofsky has closed his eyes against the sunlight, but he cracks one open when Kurt speaks. “Do what? Make fun of my bad choices?”
“No,” Kurt says. “Be your mentor. I shouldn’t be the one trying to set an example; I’m kind of an extreme case. And even then, I’m still figuring out who I am. I know you hate him, and I understand that you feel like he violated your privacy, but this is really something Blaine should do.”
“Hell to the goddamn no, Hummel,” Karofsky says flatly. “I don’t care about any of that shit. If I meet that bastard again, I’m going to do more than shove him into a fucking fence. He acts like he’s up at the blackboard in front of a classroom, and you should be taking notes on how to live your fucking life by his fucking rules. At least you talk like you actually give a shit.”
“I do,” Kurt says. “And I know Blaine’s not perfect-he’s sort of like that in everything, where he just goes a hundred miles an hour in a direction that’s made sense to him in the past. He doesn’t always tailor his responses to the situation very well, but… he understands all of this better than I do.”
“Wake up and smell the coffee, Hummel,” Karofsky says. “You’re the smartest fucking kid in this town.”
“My admittedly impressive ability to BS an essay on deconstructionism doesn’t help me know how best to handle a massive emotional powder-keg,” Kurt says.
Karofsky hunches his shoulders. “Yeah, well… you haven’t fucked up yet. Much.”
“Your unconditional faith is inspiring,” Kurt says, trying not to smile. He glances over, watching Karofsky’s mistrustful gaze rove back and forth across the sidewalk, combing the premises for threats. “Okay, I’ve got a lesson for you, but I promise there won’t be a quiz.”
Karofsky turns the suspicion on him. “Yeah?”
Kurt holds out his cup, and the ice clicks softly. “Try it.”
In what has become a relatively common pattern, Karofsky’s eyes widen and then narrow to slits. “Hummel, there is no damn way I’m sharing a drink with you in fucking public.”
“I’m not asking you to share,” Kurt says. “I’m far too selfish for that. I’m just asking you to try it.”
Karofsky’s bristling like a cornered alley cat. “And I’m asking you to stop fucking mocking me.”
“I’m not,” Kurt insists. “It just occurred to me that one of the most important parts of establishing your identity to yourself-not for anyone else; just solidifying your sense of who you are-is really just a matter of trying things that fall outside your comfort zone. Sometimes that means embracing things that don’t seem to fit with your current self-image-but the thing to consider is that that image is always in flux.”
“Don’t try to fucking confuse me with your vocabulary,” Karofsky says. “I don’t want any of your fucking girly drink. And if you say one more goddamn thing about embracing myself-”
“Fine,” Kurt says, sipping daintily. “I always find it amusingly ironic that the buffer a guy is, the harder it is for him to man up. Honestly, I think being a man is mostly about being secure enough to recognize the fact that people’s assumptions are usually wrong, and your two options are changing their minds or ignoring them.”
A glance confirms that Karofsky is eyeing him warily, but there’s something a little more receptive in it. Maybe it’s morally wrong to manipulate Karofsky with his own weaknesses, but if everything goes to plan, it’ll be a kindness in the long run.
Kurt holds out his cup, staring straight ahead instead of looking expectantly at his inadvertent pupil.
“My saliva is non-toxic, I promise I don’t have cooties, and even if homosexuality was contagious, we’d be in the clear. What have you got to lose?”
“You really don’t get it,” Karofsky says. “Do you?”
He snatches the drink away, and his eyes dart everywhere as he gingerly sips. He swallows. He shoves the plastic cup back at Kurt.
“Thank you,” Kurt says, taking it. “What did you think?”
“It’s kind of good,” Karofsky says. “But I dunno if coffee should be sweet.”
“That’s all I wanted,” Kurt says contentedly, fighting not to think about the spit they’re sharing as he drinks again. He’s never really cared about that kind of thing before, but this is Karofsky. The last time they had an involved saliva exchange… Right. Not going there. “Your homework is to think about how overpriced coffee is these days.” He hesitates. “While I’ve got you, though, you did mention something really interesting in your message last night.”
“Fuck cheerleaders,” Karofsky says. “Not literally.”
“Different topic,” Kurt says. “What’s this about your secret talent with numbers?”
“What?” Karofsky says. He frowns at his coffee cup, presumably not because it’s almost empty. “Oh. Well, it’s not-it’s not like it’s anything I practice or whatever. It just kind of… is. I thought it was normal until my first-grade teacher read her social security number on the phone, and she totally freaked when I recited the whole thing to ask her what it was.”
“Oh, my God,” Kurt says. “I didn’t even think about the criminal applications. Speaking of which, can you count cards?”
“Planning a super-gay remake of ‘Ocean’s Eleven’?” Karofsky mutters. There’s a pause. “Yeah, I can. Azimio thinks I’m just the luckiest piece of shit on the planet. I let him win sometimes so he doesn’t get suspicious. And it’s not like it always helps that much depending on the game.”
“We should definitely go to Vegas,” Kurt says. “You can easily pass for twenty-one.”
“You, on the other hand,” Karofsky says. He stops there and sips pointedly at his drink.
Kurt rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll stand just off of the casino floor and watch nervously like a Bond girl.”
Karofsky smirks as he pops the top off of his coffee cup to drain the dregs from it. “Dude, did you just cast me as James Bond?”
“For the sake of the analogy,” Kurt says, “yes. Although I think we’re going to have to smooth out some of your rough edges before they’ll let you be a secret agent. And we’ll probably have to change your citizenship before you can join MI-5. And you’ll need four identical tuxedos so that half of them can get ruined with bullet holes.”
“God damn it, Hummel,” Karofsky says. “You can’t cast me as James Bond and then kill me.”
“James Bond gets shot all the time and doesn’t die,” Kurt says. “Or maybe I’m thinking of Vin Diesel. The point is, I haven’t killed you; I’ve just ruined most of your wardrobe.”
“I want to be Daniel Craig James Bond,” Karofsky says. “Not Pierce Brosnan. He’s cool and all, but Daniel Craig kicks way more ass. Like, ‘Quantum of Solace’ was pretty much one big explosion with a couple scenes of firefights and shit.”
“How about Sean Connery James Bond?” Kurt asks.
“Sean Connery talks like he has rocks in his mouth.”
Kurt stares. “You did not just insult Sir Sean Connery.”
“He plays every fucking role as Sean Connery,” Karofsky says. “Have you seen ‘The Hunt for Red October’? He plays a Russian sub captain as fucking Sean Connery. Scottish Sean Connery.”
Kurt chews on his straw and tries to consider the issue from multiple perspectives. “‘The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen’ is high on the list of the worst movies I’ve ever seen,” he recalls.
“I hated that shit,” Karofsky says. “I almost cried for the two hours of my life that I’d never get back.”
Kurt laughs and then feels like he’s done something wrong. Finn and his father would tell him he’s fraternizing with the enemy, but that’s the whole point-it was never Kurt, was it? Kurt was never the problem. Karofsky’s only enemy is himself, and he projected all of the fear and the hatred onto the perfect target: someone who exemplified everything he was trying not to be.
It’s kind of staggering-and not in a good way-to think about all that Karofsky could be if he would just own up to what he already is.
“So the numbers thing,” Kurt says. “Does it make you kind of math savant?”
Karofsky frowns. He’s fiddling with the lid of his cup again. “I guess. I don’t know. Math is really easy, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not, like, some kind of genius.”
“How do you know?” Kurt asks. “You should test its parameters. Try it out.”
“I can’t join Mathletes, Hummel,” Karofsky says. “It’s social suicide.”
Kurt finds himself staring again. “You’ve seen ‘Mean Girls’ too? What kind of football player are you?”
Karofsky shrugs, looking slightly uneasy now. “Everybody’s seen that shit. It’s the last movie Lindsay Lohan made before she turned into a total crackwhore.”
“Okay,” Kurt says. “Don’t be weirded out, but this is the best conversation I’ve had with another male in a long time.”
“James Bond is good for that shit,” Karofsky says.
Kurt’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he juggles the almost-empty cup as he fishes it out. “Sorry-Finn somehow causes kitchen appliances to be actively hostile, and I don’t think he knows where the fire extinguisher is.” Karofsky smirks-only a little bit at Finn’s expense, Kurt thinks-but the text isn’t from the Wondrous Anti-Cook.
Just thought I’d check. <3 Don’t work too hard. (My paranoia says Hi!)
“Pansy boyfriend?” Karofsky asks, his voice low.
“He’s neither a pansy nor my boyfriend,” Kurt says crisply, curling his finger to tap the button on the top of his phone. “We’ve been through this.”
“Yeah, but you want him to be,” Karofsky says. “You get this… look every time you talk about him.”
“It’s not that simple,” Kurt says, which sounds slightly feeble even to him. “He was the first guy I’d ever been allowed to like. Strangely enough, crushing on painfully heterosexual football players gets frustrating after a while.”
Karofsky is emanating homicidal vibes again. Kurt doesn’t know which part of his previous sentence was so dreadfully offensive-the implication that football players are all straight? It’s callous, but Karofsky needs to get accustomed to the idea that people’s expectations have a very particular kind of power, and the difficulty of defying them is matched only by the necessity.
“Yeah,” Karofsky says after a pregnant moment. “I’ll bet it does. Look, it’s been nice and gay, Hummel, but I’ve got to go throw some marbles at people’s heads, and your half-hour’s just about up.”
“I know you resent Blaine,” Kurt tells him, “but it’s ludicrous to take it out on me.”
Karofsky stands, pitching his coffee cup into the nearest trashcan. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s not always about you, Hummel. Check the fucking time.”
Kurt does. His lunch break is over. He’s going to regret this later when the caffeine runs out, and he hasn’t had any actual lunch.
“Marbles are dangerous,” he says. “Practice on something inanimate first.”
Karofsky eyes him, slightly less accusatorily, which Kurt interprets as an in.
“Email me later,” he says. “I’ll probably have a better idea of my schedule by tonight.”
Karofsky nods vaguely, tosses his bag of marbles upward, and snatches it out of the air again. Then he shoves his free hand into his pocket and turns to go.
Kurt isn’t entirely sure what just happened or how he feels about it, which is starting to become a trend.
Smile. Hi, there, find everything you were looking for? Scan. Total. Payment method. Input a cash amount; just swipe a credit card; hit ATM and then swipe for debit. Catch the register drawer when it kicks. Drum fingertips on card-swiping machine while it prints at the approximate speed that grass grows. Collect change or card receipt; staple the latter to register receipt; hand over; slip item into a bag; hand across. Smile. Thanks for coming in. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
(Pry unicorn away from future-Santana. Life does not have discounts for specialness. Life, if you’re curious, adds a specialness tax and then does everything in its power to tear you down.)
Straighten. Tidy. Re-straighten. Resist the urge to shoo children away from things their parents may later buy for them. Shelve. Arrange. Straighten.
(It’ll straighten you out like a flatiron, and you’ll forget what made you special in the first place.)
Resist the urge to tell future-Santana to take the unicorn and run.
“How’s the job thing?” Finn asks when Kurt steps through the door.
“Fine,” Kurt says. “How’s the no-job thing?”
“Fine,” Finn says.
There is a pause.
“Right,” Kurt says. “I’ll be downstairs. Yell if anything gets lit on fire.”
“You know it,” Finn says. “Catch you later, Kurt.”
He checks his email immediately-this goes back to the whole Kurt Hummel is stupid bit-and, finding it unenlightening, plays with his phone for a moment before he calls Mercedes.
“Hey, Kurt,” she says brightly. “I was freaking out for a second, but then I realized that your one phone call from jail wouldn’t be listed as your iPhone.”
“I did not kill any children,” Kurt informs her. “Not even the ones who deserved it. Especially not the ones who deserved it.”
“My baby’s all grown up,” Mercedes says. “And workin’ for the man every night and day-”
“Working for the man’s greedy, undisciplined brats, more like,” Kurt says, but he’s grinning now. “I guess I should count myself lucky that it’s not food service.”
“Yeah,” Mercedes says, “you should. Or you should start selling cookies at the register and make a fortune.”
“I could definitely use a fortune right now,” Kurt says. “And don’t you dare start singing ‘Billionaire.’”
“I wouldn’t,” Mercedes says. “Sam and his Bieberlicious hair were the be-all, end-all on that one.”
“Damn his deceiving Bieber hair,” Kurt says, not with any real fire. “We would have sounded amazing after I tied him to a chair and forced him to sit through eight uninterrupted hours of classic musicals in order to get song ideas.”
“He would’ve busted out of that in a second,” Mercedes says. “I’m pretty sure you have to prove you’re an escape artist before you can be QB.”
“Did Puck tell you that?” Kurt asks. “Because scientific studies have shown that his blood is twenty percent alcohol and twenty percent corn syrup, so you shouldn’t trust anything he says.”
“It’s true,” Mercedes says, although Kurt can hear her trying not to giggle. “Ask your guy.”
Kurt feels his smile slipping off and tries to catch it before it shatters on the floor. “What?”
“Are you not still talking to him? Sorry, I thought-well, I figured you would have called me days ago if you weren’t doing something-”
“He’s not ‘my’ guy,” Kurt says-and only because this is Mercedes is it the right thing to say.
There is a long, delicate pause.
“Do you want him to be?” Mercedes asks, and the tone in her voice carries slightly more curiosity than mortification.
Kurt pinches the bridge of his nose between his first two fingers. “Why is everyone suddenly so interested in my love life or lack thereof?”
“Don’t give me that,” Mercedes says. “I’m always interested. And you’re always interested in my lack of one, and… look, even if you don’t know what you’re doing, you know a little better than anybody else, ’cause we can’t see what’s going on inside your head.”
“I don’t want him to be,” Kurt says. “Not really. I-at least not until he’s proved that he’s a stable and empathetic human being.”
“That’s not a ‘no,’” Mercedes says. “That’s a ‘maybe.’”
“No, it’s not,” Kurt says. “Because the conditions of a ‘yes’ are literally impossible.”
“The dude buys coffee for his mom!” Mercedes persists. “That’s a little weird, but it’s definitely empathetic. Besides, if he can put up with your mood swings, believe me, Kurt-he’s getting more stable all the time.”
Kurt gives that a lengthy moment to sink into the quicksand where it belongs.
“Are you encouraging me to go out with David Karofsky?” he asks.
“You call him David?” Mercedes asks.
Kurt mouths Fuck and then clears his throat. “Answer the question, Miss Jones.”
“Okay, maybe it’s hella screwed-up, but… I just want to see you happy, Kurt. Let’s be honest; you weren’t making a whole lot of progress trying it the normal way. Sometimes doing the crazy thing pays off.”
“And sometimes it gets you murdered by linebackers with repression issues,” Kurt says.
Mercedes makes a disappointed noise. “If you think he’s going to murder you, I take back all of my matchmaking.”
Kurt wants to say something wry and witty, but he’s thinking about it seriously before he can help himself. “He wouldn’t. I think he meant what he said the first time, but he’s really different now-in small ways, but they’re important. He’s been totally alone with this pain for half of a year. I’m the only thing he’s got, because I’m the only person who knows how it feels. He still lashes out when he’s scared, but I think he’s starting to realize that I’m not going to stick around unless he behaves himself, and he can’t afford to lose me.”
“This is so Romeo and Juliet,” Mercedes says. “Hopefully without the crappy end.”
“I actually think it’s more like Twelfth Night,” Kurt says. “Except that then Karofsky is Viola, which is just… weird… and I would be Orsino, and Blaine as Olivia is going to have to fall in love with Karofsky thinking he’s straight. Oh, my God, my head hurts. Why in the hell am I talking about this?”
“That was my next question,” Mercedes says. “Let’s just say it’s a soap opera and leave Shakespeare out of it.”
“It’s really unfair that you’re the cute one and the smart one,” Kurt says, and Mercedes laughs, but he can tell that she’s pleased.
“Don’t forget ‘the talented one,’” she says.
“I thought that was implied,” Kurt says.
“Hell, yeah, it was. Someday I’m gonna put that on a business card.”
“You won’t need a business card to introduce yourself,” Kurt says. “You won’t even need a last name,”
“Knock it off,” Mercedes says, but he can hear her smiling. “Or I won’t let you come on my private jet.”
“Damn you, the Artist Known as Mercedes,” Kurt says. “You are going to let me be your wardrobe artist, right?”
“Kurt, would I ever trust anybody else with that job?”
Kurt grins. “One less dream crushed. You’re the best.”
“I thought that was implied, too.”
“It wa-” Kurt’s phone tweedles at him. “Hang on-” He takes it away from his ear, looks, raises his eyebrows, and sets it against his ear again. “It’s Blaine. It must be a matter of great urgency if he’s not warning me with a text first. Can I call you back?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mercedes says. “Just drop me a line sometime when you’re not called in to glare at children, and we can do coffee.”
“Talk to you later, Talented One.”
“Later, Lover-Boy.”
Someday, Kurt thinks as he taps the button to transfer the line to Blaine, he will make her pay for that. Possibly by dressing her in something ridiculous and convincing her it’s fierce.
“Mister Anderson,” Kurt says.
“Do you think we could pull off a Disney number?” Blaine asks. “I actually woke up in the middle of the night last night going, ‘Oh, my God, The Lion King!’”
“Um,” Kurt says. “Maybe?”
“Strategically,” Blaine says, “I feel like the judges would love it, because it would emphasize that we’re still kids, and it’d be a huge crowd-pleaser. Selfishly, I just really want to sing ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight.’”
“It would lend itself to a capella,” Kurt admits. “I assume you’re looking at the Elton John track, rather than the version in the middle of the movie, which sort of has three parts.”
“I knew you’d understand,” Blaine says, and the only way to describe his voice is loving.
There’s the rub.
“Also consider ‘The Circle of Life,’” Kurt says. “And everything in Aladdin. You would make an amazing Aladdin, you know.”
“I was him for Halloween once,” Blaine says. “Speaking of which-do you think Lion King would fly without costumes? Everybody’s seen the Broadway version with the amazing sets; I bet almost as many people think of that as think of the movie now.”
“Blaine,” Kurt says, “you’re the Warblemaster. You have to make the hard decisions.”
“Kurt,” Blaine returns plaintively. “You’re my co-captain. You have to help me make them.”
“I’m obviously not,” Kurt says. “Send me a spreadsheet with the songs you did at all of the competitions for the last few years, specify whether or not you won, and make a note on how each one was received. We want to make them think we’re breaking out of our comfort zone with something that’s actually a safe bet.”
“You’re devious,” Blaine says happily. “And you obviously are.”
Kurt’s not going to bother today. Even if Blaine knew how to give up the spotlight-and, honestly, Kurt just thinks that wherever Blaine is becomes the foreground-Dalton is founded on the ritualization of traditions, and No, really, Kurt should get a solo wouldn’t budge the Warblers a fraction of an inch. Kurt’s not sure it would be the same if he was wearing a uniform anyway. Somehow it feels like anonymity should be all or nothing.
“I just turn to painstaking organization to distract myself from the cavernous voids in my existence,” Kurt says. “On that topic, how is your summer reading coming along?”
“Well,” Blaine says, “if James Joyce was still alive, I would go to his house and punch him out. I don’t know what in the heck this book is about, only that I hate it. It’s kind of funny, actually-I didn’t realize I was capable of hating things. So maybe after I hit him, I should thank him for expanding my emotional range. How’s yours?”
“Nurse Ratched gives me the creeps,” Kurt says. “She kind of reminds me of Coach Sylvester, at least in their shared tendency to make grown men cry.” He considers. “Although Ratched is passive-aggressive, whereas Coach Sylvester is just… aggressive-aggressive. With a side-dish of aggression and some aggression on top. But she kind of does the same thing-by which I mean, she smashes your soul and then puts the pieces into one of her many blenders.”
“I don’t recall Nurse Ratched making too many soul-and-protein shakes,” Blaine says. “Is Sylvester really that bad?”
“She’s at the zenith of a lifetime of overcompensation,” Kurt says.
And then he sort of… gets it. He gets why there’s so much more at McKinley, so much more in Lima, even though the opportunities are elsewhere-everyone here has suffered, in one way or another. Everyone here has lost something they cared about or desperately wanted, whether that’s a loved one or a fond illusion or their pride. That’s why the Warblers are always more polished, and Vocal Adrenaline is always more precise, but New Directions sounds real. New Directions can make you feel things, because they’ve felt too much.
“I hope your silence means you’re thinking seriously about The Lion King,” Blaine says.
“You should really watch ‘Aladdin,’” Kurt says. He knows that if Blaine does, Blaine will get Blaine-excited, which will eliminate the possibility of Kurt having to design animal masks that match the Dalton blazers. “It would be beautifully ironic if we did the opening song where he’s stealing food and running from the guards.”
“One jump,” Blaine sings jauntily, “ahead of the… something…”
“You need to watch the movie,” Kurt says.
“Do you think I can find it online?” Blaine asks. “Aladdin would never rent it legally, and I want to get into character.”
“Walt Disney’s grandchildren are probably starving to death because of people like you,” Kurt says. “I bet you didn’t buy any concessions when you went to DisneyWorld, either.”
“Cotton candy should not cost six dollars,” Blaine says. “It’s just sugar. But you’re trying to distract me by getting me to rant about it, because you are-as previously stated-devious.”
“Can’t help it,” Kurt says. “Call me again once you’ve watched it-but not tomorrow; I’m being conscripted again.”
“Clarify something for me,” Blaine says. “Is this a part-time job, or full-time torture?”
“Yes,” Kurt says.
“Devious and witty,” Blaine notes. “Stealing you for the Warblers was the smartest thing we ever did.”
Kurt’s cheeks go warm, damn them to a thousand hells as fiery as they are. “Blaine, I think making you the lead was the smartest thing the Warblers ever did.”
“Are we going to have a compliment fight? You know I always win those.”
It’s true. “No, we’re not, because I need to finish this book. I think that if I read it fast enough, I might be able to decrease the psychological scarring of its messages. I thought Lord of the Flies was bad. Did you read that at Dalton?”
“All the choir boys are the evil ones, right?” Blaine says. “Not exactly a Dalton book.”
Kurt smiles faintly. “Well, now that we’ve crammed Sue Sylvester, transformative fiction, and Disney soundtracks into the same conversation… I think I’m just going to call it a day.”
“Catch you later, Kurt.”
“Goodnight, Blaine.”
“So tell me about the young man who was in here yesterday asking about the marbles.”
Kurt’s soul dies a little more. “Not you too.”
Dina grins. “C’mon, sweetheart. The two of you were out there drinking coffee and talking for half an hour straight. Just a friend?”
It’s so quiet this morning that there’s nothing to do and nowhere to run. Kurt spots one remote-control car kit box that’s slightly misaligned and goes over to correct it, but the store’s so small that all Dina has to do is lean over the counter to watch him expectantly.
“I don’t know if ‘friend’ is even the right word,” Kurt says. “He’s still sort of figuring out who he is, and I don’t know if it’s possible for someone to make friends until they know exactly what other people will be befriending.”
“I think ‘make friends’ is a bad way for the people who made up the English language to have put it,” Dina says. “Friends just happen, and maybe you do have to cultivate the relationship to keep it going, but nobody makes their own friends.”
“Except Pygmalion,” Kurt says, returning to the counter for a tissue to attack a spot of something questionable that he’s found on the surface of the kit table.
“Kurt, dear, you’re too clever for your own good.”
“Or anybody else’s,” Kurt says. “But I only know that because of My Fair Lady.”
“All the same,” Dina says, though she’s smiling, and then Kurt’s phone vibrates.
It’s a text from a local number his phone doesn’t know, and it reads workin today?
There isn’t a modicum of doubt in his mind that it’s Karofsky-no one else who’s not already in his address book would text him without pretense or apostrophes.
Like a dog, Kurt texts back. Starting to feel like I live here. Which would be creepy, with all the toys staring while you slept.
He slips his phone back into his pocket only for it to vibrate again.
stfu, i’ll have nightmares. make sure u get a paycheck, i hear slavery is illegal
Dina makes a noise that is half interested and half smug. Kurt ignores her and composes his response:
Damn. I was really hoping they’d let me work for free.
This time he just holds onto the phone as he moves around the store, adjusting things that don’t really need to be adjusted. His precautions pay off.
r u ignoring kids or is it rly quiet there?
Kurt smirks as he stops in his route and applies thumbs to touchscreen. Have you ever tried to ignore a child, David?
Karofsky seems to be getting faster as he goes.
i believe i said stfu, hummel
An uneven display of dinosaurs-some of them are lying on the countertop with their legs in the air, and others are tangled up together in slightly suggestive positions-is a good excuse for turning away from Dina so she won’t see him grin. There’s always time for another test.
This is starting to look like a hate crime. Help, I’m being repressed!
He’s only rescued one diplodocus from a compromising state when he gets his reply.
OMG STFU HUMMEL. or i will come over there and s you tfu
Kurt is enjoying this inordinately. He should probably be arrested for violating Karofsky’s Geneva convention rights; psychologically tormenting people cannot possibly be legal, even when the medium is cell phone messaging.
…that sounds dirty.
He barely has time to snicker this round; Karofsky’s really getting the hang of this whole furious battle of texts thing.
WHAT DID I JUST SAY OMFG YOURE ILLITERATE
“Nope,” Dina says idly as Kurt starts to laugh. “Definitely not friends.”
“Oh, stop,” Kurt says. “It’s just… hang on.”
Somebody found the all caps key. :D
He’s saved all of the dinosaurs’ dignity, and then-
i am seriously going over there to knock some literacy into you c u soon
Kurt’s not entirely sure if this counts as a victory.
“Well,” Dina says, much more significantly than he would like.
“Well,” Kurt says. “I guess he used up all of the marbles.”
“Isn’t there a word for what you just did?” Dina asks. “Flirxting?”
Kurt stares at her.
“It’s like ‘flirting’ and ‘texting’ in one,” Dina says. “Isn’t that a thing? I swear, my grandchildren talk in code. So do all of the kids on television.”
“…sexting,” Kurt says.
“That’s the one,” Dina says. She pauses. “Oh. Now I see why that got awkward.” She grins and pats Kurt’s flaming cheek. “Cheer up. You’re young and have one of those unlimited cell phone plans. The world is your oyster, Kurt.”
“I think it’s more like that Japanese blowfish,” Kurt says. “The one that’s a delicacy, but if it’s prepared wrong, it’ll kill you.”
“Fair enough,” Dina says. “Being young can’t be too easy with everyone talking in code all the time.”
Fifteen minutes later, when the door dingles as it admits David Karofsky, the first thing out of Kurt’s mouth is “Thank God you’re here.”
It’s worth the embarrassment and Dina’s knowing grin, because Karofsky smiles, too-the bright, transformative smile that pops up when he’s unguarded and unprepared.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Kurt says hastily, “and I’ve straightened every section of this store four times each.”
“And dolls five times,” Dina says innocently.
“The dolls are the most aesthetic,” Kurt says, pretending his ears aren’t tending towards a firetruck-worthy hue.
“I’ve got something for you,” Karofsky says.
Kurt has time to raise his eyebrows. Then Karofsky takes out a paperback copy of the American Heritage Dictionary, hefts it, and smacks Kurt in the arm with it-rather gently, as book-related violence goes.
“There,” he says as Kurt attempts (unsuccessfully) to generate adequate words for this situation. “Now you can read your damn text messages and actually understand them.”
Kurt looks at him, trying very hard not to laugh. “You came all this way to hit me with a dictionary?”
“Said I would,” Karofsky mutters. “And I remembered that my mom needs some kind of present for a baby shower this weekend anyway. I saw you had, like, teddy bears and stuff.”
“The hard part is narrowing it down,” Kurt says, leading him over to the towering shelves that house the store’s cotton-filled residents. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
Karofsky is staring at the wall of plush toys like they’re liable to grow fangs and jump for his jugular. “Uh…”
“We have plenty of noncommittal options,” Kurt says.
Karofsky looks overwhelmed-and certainly not in the least bit really kind of adorable-examining stuffed bears and bunnies and ducklings with yellow or pale green ribbons tied around their necks.
“I never understood the bows,” Karofsky says vaguely, tugging at the loop of one. “It’s practically like you’re strangling them.”
“First of all, they’re loose enough for the animals to breathe,” Kurt says. “Second, the animals don’t breathe, so it’s not a problem.”
Karofsky rolls his eyes. “Since you’re the expert, just pick for me.”
“Okay,” Kurt says. He considers the options and selects a small brown teddy bear that’s almost excessively soft, which he imagines that a heretofore genderless baby-or anyone-would enjoy snuggling with and holds it out to Karofsky. Watching a linebacker take a teddy bear in both hands and doubtfully squeeze its tummy is an experience Kurt hopes to repeat as many times as possible.
“Do you guys do returns?” Karofsky asks. “Then I could get two and let my mom pick which one she liked. I have no taste.”
That’s untrue; David Karofsky tastes like Coke and something spicy and the faint salt-tang of boy-sweat.
Kurt looks over the army of plush candidates, which is immeasurably better than looking at Karofsky’s mouth.
“All right,” Kurt says. “Let’s go with something very different from the first one, in that case.” He takes up a white rabbit wearing a sage-green T-shirt with a heart on it. “The ears can double as a chew toy.”
“You’re a resourceful man, Hummel,” Karofsky says. He glances over the array of rejects. “You want me to help put the others back?”
“Oh, hell, no,” Kurt says. “We need something to do once we’ve rung you up. Right this way, sir.”
Dina is beaming at them. Kurt can’t quite muster any anger about it-given how mind-numbingly boring the morning’s been, this is kind of a godsend for both of them, however embarrassing on his part.
“Cool,” Karofsky says when the register has ushered them through with the usual cheery ding. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Kurt says as Karofsky starts jamming the receipt into his overstuffed wallet. A flicker of movement catches his eye, and he looks past Karofsky’s shoulder towards the door.
Lately it seems that Kurt is inopportunely popular every time he turns around.
There is just enough time to hope feebly that no one dies inside the store and bleeds all over the chintzy carpet before Blaine pushes the door open, bearing a bright green folder and the grin that never fails to make neurons short out in virtually every quadrant of Kurt’s brain.
“I couldn’t find anyone streaming ‘Aladdin,’” he says, too loud, too happy, too okay; “but I did get that spreadsheet together. And then I couldn’t sleep, so I color-coded it.”
Kurt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His eyes slide to Karofsky, whose every muscle has gone tight. Just as Blaine reaches the counter beside him, slapping the folder down on the sheet of plastic, Karofsky looks up, and Blaine goes very still.
Kurt hopes he just up and dies, rather than continuing to feel like he will; actually up and dying would obviate the dizzying quantity of damage-control that he’s going to have to do starting n-
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” Blaine says, and his voice is light, but his eyes are not.
“I’m shopping,” Karofsky says coldly. “Last I heard that’s what you do in stores.”
“Blaine,” Kurt says warningly, because he can see it building-
“You know,” Blaine says, and his lovely-thick eyebrows draw together, because he means it. “I feel sorry for you. And I think perhaps I should apologize-because I’m just not scared of you. But maybe if I was, you might not be so scared of yourself.”
By the unmitigated terror that flashes in Karofsky’s eyes, Blaine has hit the nail on the head-but far too hard, and far too directly. The problem with Blaine’s analyses is not that they’re incorrect; it’s that he assumes a level of self-awareness in others that matches his own. Most kids their age simply aren’t there yet, and Blaine’s impeccable rhetoric just dragged Karofsky a mile down the asphalt towards a destination he can’t see. He’s too fragile for this. He has to walk that road himself, and coaxing from the sidelines might be the most he can take.
Long story short, Kurt’s not surprised when Karofsky draws his arm back and curls his fingers into a fist.
The counter’s too tall for Kurt to lean across comfortably, but he does it anyway, planting one hand on Karofsky’s chest and holding the other out in front of Blaine.
“No,” he says. “Not a damn chance, either of you. Just stop. At the absolute least, we’re taking this outside.”
Karofsky’s gaze darts to the sidewalk past the doors, then to Dina standing back in bewilderment. His shoulders set in resolution, and he’s subtly angled towards the exit.
“There’s nothing to take,” he snarls, snatching up his plastic bag and starting out, “because I’ve got nothing to say to you. Fuckin’ fags.”
The silence is broken only by his tread on the carpet and the rattling of the windowpanes as he shoulders his way out the door. The bell jingles again, and then it’s quiet.
Kurt doesn’t want to meet Blaine’s eyes, but his only alternative is fiddling with his apron pocket, and he’s better than that.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, and he’s surprised and amazed and a little bit hurt-that has to be manipulation, doesn’t it? “Just… are you insane?”
“You were threatening him,” Kurt says, and Blaine absolutely goggles and moves to protest, but Kurt’s faster. “I’m not blaming you-it’s just that he’s really difficult in public because he’s waiting for someone to find him out. You’re the only person in the world who knows but wouldn’t protect him.”
“Are we talking about the same guy?” Blaine asks, and his beloved eyebrows arc differently, skeptical and confused. “Because I don’t know about you, Kurt, but I just saw the same bully who shoved me down at McKinley, and it sounds to me like you’re keeping in touch with him.”
“Blaine,” Kurt says helplessly-he’s the finest liar he knows, but he’s also a masochistic adherent to the truth. “Try to think about it from his side. You were an outsider to the issue, I told you his secret, and you acted on that knowledge in the middle of a school full of people who would tear him to pieces if they knew. It’s easy for us; we just are who we are, and we’re all right with it, but his reputation and all of its benefits-everything he has-is founded on a series of lies that you were willing to expose on the grounds that he should celebrate his differences. Throwing him into the deep end isn’t going to teach him how to swim, and that’s the only thing he associates with you-drowning. The fact that you’re right doesn’t change that.”
Blaine looks at Kurt for a long moment, and then he slowly shakes his head.
“He’s volatile,” Blaine says. “It’s different to stand up for yourself when you’re surrounded by friends, but to be alone with him like that-”
“Stop talking like there’s something wrong with him,” Kurt says. “He’s not diseased. He’s a perfectly decent person under all of the intimidation. What you said was completely true, and that’s why he hates you so much.”
“That doesn’t justify any of it,” Blaine says.
Kurt flattens his palms on the counter. “I know that.”
Blaine hesitates, and then he takes a deep breath and sighs. “I guess if you’re trying to help him, I should support your efforts. I just don’t want you…”
“To get hurt?” Kurt asks. “Not to be trite, Blaine, but what more can he possibly do to me?”
“Nothing,” Blaine says. “This time you’re doing it to yourself.”
There is a long silence.
“I hate it when you do that,” Kurt hears his voice say.
Blaine wrinkles his nose. “The Significant Conclusion? It’s very Dalton, isn’t it? It sounds like the end of a literature lecture.”
Kurt relaxes a little. Blaine is his friend, even when they disagree; even when they disagree strongly. Blaine is the only real friend he’s had at Dalton-Blaine’s the only one there who feels like another McKinley kid most of the time. Blaine’s the only one who makes Kurt feel like it’s okay to be a McKinley kid himself.
“What time does your shift end?” Blaine asks.
“Two,” Kurt says.
Blaine frowns. “I have to be home by three-but we can have lunch another time.” He smiles. “Or we can catch ‘Aladdin’ together.”
“I like that idea,” Kurt says. “You know how to find me.”
They look at each other for the space of a breath. Kurt can feel the wedge between them, but there’s nothing he can do to shift it aside.
When he thinks about it, it’s so stupid he almost wants to laugh-they’re fighting over a boy.
“Catch you later,” Blaine says, and there isn’t any note of distance to it. “Tell me what you think of the spreadsheet. And of the book.”
“Count on it,” Kurt says, and Blaine smiles and heads back out the door. It jingles.
“Wow,” Dina says after a long moment has passed. “How come you don’t have your own TV show?”
“Improv is much more compelling,” Kurt says, although he’s starting to wish he had a script.
He flips the folder open and looks at the spreadsheet. Blaine color-coded it, all right-in a blinding rainbow scheme. There’s a key at the bottom explaining that all of the different colors correspond to musical genres, and he’s bolded the events that the Warblers have won dating back to the creation of the group.
Kurt thinks that this sums it all up: Blaine makes rainbow-coded order out of chaos. And that’s fine, except when the chaos is more meaningful.
Speaking of chaos, though, there’s a riot of stuffed animals left over from Karofky’s shower gift quest, and those empty shelves have Kurt’s name on them. Just as he finishes, an entire youth soccer team barges in, mud-spattered and clamoring for some kind of promised reward.
Ah, summer.
[Chapter 4] [Chapter 6]
Chapter: 5. Doing the Crazy Thing
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Karofsky/Kurt
Rating: R (for pRofanity)
Word Count: 8,919
Warnings: the usual… plus a *bonus* overdose of literary references
Summary: Somehow the dead heat of summer gives rise to the mother(fucker) of all second chances. The road to redemption is paved with fights, phone calls, false starts, and more than a few jokes at the expense of the lovable Finn Hudson.
Author's Note: Dear "League" fans: I am sorry. (But seriously, Oscar Wilde is crying up in Genius Heaven.) HAPPY WEEKEND; HAVE A REALLY LONG-ASS CHAPTER, and seriously, thank you all for sticking with this. ♥
CHAPTER 5: DOING THE CRAZY THING
“No,” Kurt says.
“Whadd’ya mean, ‘no’?” a future West McKinley High socialite whines.
“I mean no,” Kurt tells her. “As in, ‘No, you cannot have a unicorn for free, even if we do have six of them’; ‘No, there is no discount for being the most special artist in your class’; and ‘No, I don’t care that your irresponsible mother left you here for a few hours, because this store is not a playground.’”
Dina covers a laugh with a less-than-convincing cough. Someday-Santana just scowls at him.
“You’re mean,” she says. “And you look dumb in that apron. And you matched your eyes to your shirt. And you’re just mad ’cause I’m specialer than you.”
Kurt considers it an accomplishment that he refrains from saying, “Bitch, it’s on.”
Fortunately, “Young lady, if you don’t behave yourself, we’re going to stop selling unicorns at all” is almost as satisfying.
He smiles politely-and just the slightest bit smugly-at her expression of terror, and then he moves off to reshelve the crocheting kits that some little cretin was kind enough to distribute all over the crafts corner.
It’s been almost three hours, however, and abusing his powers of snark around children who lack the psychological development to process sarcasm has kept him from losing his mind thus far. Not bad for the new kid.
“Are you judging me?” he asks Dina when he makes his way back behind the counter.
“Judging that you’re a natural,” she says, grinning at him.
“At least I’m still a minor,” Kurt says. “That should help my case when the lawsuits start pouring in.”
Dina shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. “I won’t let ’em sue your pants off, sweetheart. Especially not those pants; they’re nice.”
Something crashes in the Lego area.
Dina sees his expression, which Kurt imagines falls between disbelieving and soon-to-be homicidal, and puts a hand on his arm. “Let me.”
As she heads off, probably rescuing him from many hours spent blinking innocently in courtrooms, Kurt glances at the clock and weighs the advantages of lunch at noon or lunch at twelve-thirty. He’s focused on straightening the pyramid of little music boxes next to the birthday card spinner when a mesh bag of marbles alights on the counter.
Well. Obviously it doesn’t alight by itself.
Kurt looks at the bag, glances up at Karofsky, and takes the tag, by which he pulls it closer to the register.
“Any particular reason you need marbles, David?” He flattens the barcode between his first two fingers so that the scanner can be coaxed into reading it. “Did you lose the ones you had?”
“Yeah, very funny,” Karofsky mutters. This time, when Kurt glances at him, he’s looking back. “No. I just realized that they’re the perfect size and shape to throw at people.”
“Is that so?” Kurt taps the key to total it. “Seven thirty-three. At whom, may I ask, will you be throwing them?”
“I dunno,” Karofsky says, digging in his back pocket. “Probably people who are assholes to you.” He flips his worn wallet open, fishes out a ten, lays it on the counter, and pushes it forward just a bit. “Maybe including me.”
Ah, the art of the Karofsky Apology. This one’s something of a pièce de résistance.
Kurt smiles faintly, hits the key for cash, and catches the drawer when it kicks with a ding not unlike that of his email.
“How exactly do you intend to throw marbles at yourself?” he asks.
Karofsky shrugs. Kurt wonders if Shrug is actually his middle name. David Shrug Karofsky. It could work.
Kurt collects the change and the receipt and waits until Karofsky raises one open palm, the better to brush the heel of his own hand against it gently-just for a moment. Just as an acknowledgement; not as acceptance.
“Dina,” he says, sensing her coming up behind him. “I’m going to take lunch now if that’s okay.”
“All yours, hon,” she says.
Kurt ducks out of the apron, hangs it behind the counter, collects his things, and leads the way out to the sidewalk. Then he leads the way directly into the coffee shop.
“Forgive my vices,” he says.
“I don’t think foofy coffee drinks get much airtime in the Bible,” Karofsky says.
“I’m not sure ‘foofy’ was common in the original Hebrew,” Kurt agrees. They reach the front of the line. “Get something. Yesterday I found a gift card Finn gave me for my last birthday, with the inscription ‘two tickets to that thing you like.’”
The cashier grins, and Kurt smiles back.
“Just… coffee,” Karofsky says. He looks profoundly uncomfortable-not just that Kurt’s sharing a pop culture joke with the barista, and not just that Lima’s resident gay kid is trying to buy him a drink. He looks like he’s worried that he’s being watched.
Kurt knows that feeling-the right-behind-you fear, needling, nagging, cold in your stomach and tingling at the back of your neck. Much as he should be reveling in the reversal, celebrating the change of roles, and praising karma’s magnificent bitchiness… this is another thing he couldn’t wish on anyone.
“Relax,” he says softly, handing Karofsky the instantly-filled cup, because regular coffee just comes from a spout, and passing the card to the cashier. “If anybody harasses you, I’ll beat the crap out of them.”
Karofsky cracks a smile and then tries to hide it behind the coffee cup.
The cashier gives the card back, and Kurt pockets it, thanks her, and leads the way over to the pickup counter to wait.
“Are you impugning my guns?” Kurt asks, gesturing to his biceps. “As you can see, I could take Azimio with one hand tied behind my back.”
Karofsky smirks. “Right now, you probably could. He’s probably still passed out with his feet in the fish tank. If anybody else drank that much, they’d be dead.”
Kurt crosses his arms. “You sounded pretty close to death yourself.”
The shutters go down behind Karofsky’s eyes. He rubs his face with his free hand. “Yeah, I still feel like shit. I figure caffeine can’t make it worse when it can’t get worse.” He sets his jaw and glares around in search of eavesdroppers. Apparently the room passes muster. “I woke up on the bathroom floor with my phone in my hand. I don’t remember any of what I said to you.”
Kurt looks at his shoes. These were purchased while at the mall with Mercedes last year, and they were an excellent choice. “None of it was particularly delicate.”
“I figure.”
“Although you did compliment my bone structure.”
Karofsky stares at him.
“That was probably the most tactful thing you said,” Kurt says. “Honestly, I can’t think of a time I’ve ever heard more F-bombs in a row.”
“Fuck,” Karofsky mutters.
“Very much like that, yes.”
Karofsky takes a deep breath, and then he holds it, which probably cancels out the meditative effects of the inhalation. “Hummel, you have to tell me what I said.”
“No,” Kurt says, “I really don’t. And I don’t think you want me to. Suffice to say I’m not going to lord your intoxicated ramblings over you, and we can just let it go. I know it was the rum talking.”
Karofsky looks pained for a moment, and then he looks slightly surprised. “How did you know it was rum?”
“Psychic, remember?” Kurt says. That sounds much better than ‘Lucky guess?’ “You’ve got a little Captain in you.”
“You are so full of shit,” Karofsky says. “Come on, Hummel. What kind of crap was I babbling about?”
“Skinny iced frappucino for Kurt?” the barista says.
“Thank you,” Kurt replies, whisking it off of the counter. “There’s a nice bench on the sidewalk, David.”
Karofsky is watching his back again, and the jitteriness to it is achingly familiar. Kurt wonders just how long Karofsky’s been hiding like this-how long it’s been since the dam of denial gave way, and reality started bleeding through the cracks. Did it start with him? That’s almost how the message made it sound, as though Kurt, in one form, one guise, or another, was the final straw.
Speaking of straws, Kurt tucks the one in his drink into his mouth and sips appreciatively of the caffeinated goodness. Karofsky gets the door for him, which is more than slightly weird, and then flops down on the bench Kurt indicates. Mr. Hardcore Linebacker’s hangover is definitely showing now; he looks haggard and a little bit dazed.
“You would make an effective anti-teen-drinking campaign ad right now,” Kurt says as he sits.
“It’s usually not this bad,” Karofsky says, scrubbing at his eyes. “I feel like shit. And everything in my head sounds like Brittany.”
Kurt honestly isn’t sure whether the next thing he says is meant to be merciful or sadistic. “It did sound like you had a thing for cheerleaders.”
Kurt has never watched someone go pale before.
“What in the fucking fuck.” It sounds so far from a question that Kurt can’t bring himself to punctuate it correctly in his mind.
“Just an intuition I got,” Kurt says mildly, “like my intuition of your liquor affinities. Rum and Coke?”
“What the hell did I say about cheerleaders, Hummel?” Karofsky demands.
“I believe it was a passing mention,” Kurt says. “Something about how you could probably be persuaded to sleep with anything in a Cheerios uniform.”
Now he’s just being vengeful, but he thinks it’s his right.
“You’re making that up,” Karofsky says.
Kurt feels generous. “Possibly.”
Karofsky slouches a little more on the bench and drinks some of his straight-up coffee. He massages the bridge of his nose. “See, my psychic powers are telling me you’ve never been hungover, or you wouldn’t be acting like such a dick about it right now.”
Kurt can’t help smirking a little. “My body is a temple and so on.”
Karofsky glares at him. Maybe it’s decreased in potency simply because Kurt’s seen it so many times, or maybe it’s a softer version of the usual incinerating look, but Kurt’s insides don’t clench and wriggle into knots. “Except for caffeine, you mean.”
“Caffeine is the modern equivalent of Greek nectar,” Kurt says. “It heals, replenishes, rejuvenates, and might stave off cancer. Or it might cause it; they can never decide. In any case, bottoms up, David.”
“You’re a regular laugh riot today,” Karofsky mutters into his cup.
“I’m always this hilarious,” Kurt says. “I’m glad you can appreciate it this afternoon.”
Karofsky sighs feelingly and nurses his coffee for a while. Kurt observes for a few minutes, and it seems to be doing him some good.
“I’m not the right person to do this,” Kurt says.
Karofsky has closed his eyes against the sunlight, but he cracks one open when Kurt speaks. “Do what? Make fun of my bad choices?”
“No,” Kurt says. “Be your mentor. I shouldn’t be the one trying to set an example; I’m kind of an extreme case. And even then, I’m still figuring out who I am. I know you hate him, and I understand that you feel like he violated your privacy, but this is really something Blaine should do.”
“Hell to the goddamn no, Hummel,” Karofsky says flatly. “I don’t care about any of that shit. If I meet that bastard again, I’m going to do more than shove him into a fucking fence. He acts like he’s up at the blackboard in front of a classroom, and you should be taking notes on how to live your fucking life by his fucking rules. At least you talk like you actually give a shit.”
“I do,” Kurt says. “And I know Blaine’s not perfect-he’s sort of like that in everything, where he just goes a hundred miles an hour in a direction that’s made sense to him in the past. He doesn’t always tailor his responses to the situation very well, but… he understands all of this better than I do.”
“Wake up and smell the coffee, Hummel,” Karofsky says. “You’re the smartest fucking kid in this town.”
“My admittedly impressive ability to BS an essay on deconstructionism doesn’t help me know how best to handle a massive emotional powder-keg,” Kurt says.
Karofsky hunches his shoulders. “Yeah, well… you haven’t fucked up yet. Much.”
“Your unconditional faith is inspiring,” Kurt says, trying not to smile. He glances over, watching Karofsky’s mistrustful gaze rove back and forth across the sidewalk, combing the premises for threats. “Okay, I’ve got a lesson for you, but I promise there won’t be a quiz.”
Karofsky turns the suspicion on him. “Yeah?”
Kurt holds out his cup, and the ice clicks softly. “Try it.”
In what has become a relatively common pattern, Karofsky’s eyes widen and then narrow to slits. “Hummel, there is no damn way I’m sharing a drink with you in fucking public.”
“I’m not asking you to share,” Kurt says. “I’m far too selfish for that. I’m just asking you to try it.”
Karofsky’s bristling like a cornered alley cat. “And I’m asking you to stop fucking mocking me.”
“I’m not,” Kurt insists. “It just occurred to me that one of the most important parts of establishing your identity to yourself-not for anyone else; just solidifying your sense of who you are-is really just a matter of trying things that fall outside your comfort zone. Sometimes that means embracing things that don’t seem to fit with your current self-image-but the thing to consider is that that image is always in flux.”
“Don’t try to fucking confuse me with your vocabulary,” Karofsky says. “I don’t want any of your fucking girly drink. And if you say one more goddamn thing about embracing myself-”
“Fine,” Kurt says, sipping daintily. “I always find it amusingly ironic that the buffer a guy is, the harder it is for him to man up. Honestly, I think being a man is mostly about being secure enough to recognize the fact that people’s assumptions are usually wrong, and your two options are changing their minds or ignoring them.”
A glance confirms that Karofsky is eyeing him warily, but there’s something a little more receptive in it. Maybe it’s morally wrong to manipulate Karofsky with his own weaknesses, but if everything goes to plan, it’ll be a kindness in the long run.
Kurt holds out his cup, staring straight ahead instead of looking expectantly at his inadvertent pupil.
“My saliva is non-toxic, I promise I don’t have cooties, and even if homosexuality was contagious, we’d be in the clear. What have you got to lose?”
“You really don’t get it,” Karofsky says. “Do you?”
He snatches the drink away, and his eyes dart everywhere as he gingerly sips. He swallows. He shoves the plastic cup back at Kurt.
“Thank you,” Kurt says, taking it. “What did you think?”
“It’s kind of good,” Karofsky says. “But I dunno if coffee should be sweet.”
“That’s all I wanted,” Kurt says contentedly, fighting not to think about the spit they’re sharing as he drinks again. He’s never really cared about that kind of thing before, but this is Karofsky. The last time they had an involved saliva exchange… Right. Not going there. “Your homework is to think about how overpriced coffee is these days.” He hesitates. “While I’ve got you, though, you did mention something really interesting in your message last night.”
“Fuck cheerleaders,” Karofsky says. “Not literally.”
“Different topic,” Kurt says. “What’s this about your secret talent with numbers?”
“What?” Karofsky says. He frowns at his coffee cup, presumably not because it’s almost empty. “Oh. Well, it’s not-it’s not like it’s anything I practice or whatever. It just kind of… is. I thought it was normal until my first-grade teacher read her social security number on the phone, and she totally freaked when I recited the whole thing to ask her what it was.”
“Oh, my God,” Kurt says. “I didn’t even think about the criminal applications. Speaking of which, can you count cards?”
“Planning a super-gay remake of ‘Ocean’s Eleven’?” Karofsky mutters. There’s a pause. “Yeah, I can. Azimio thinks I’m just the luckiest piece of shit on the planet. I let him win sometimes so he doesn’t get suspicious. And it’s not like it always helps that much depending on the game.”
“We should definitely go to Vegas,” Kurt says. “You can easily pass for twenty-one.”
“You, on the other hand,” Karofsky says. He stops there and sips pointedly at his drink.
Kurt rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll stand just off of the casino floor and watch nervously like a Bond girl.”
Karofsky smirks as he pops the top off of his coffee cup to drain the dregs from it. “Dude, did you just cast me as James Bond?”
“For the sake of the analogy,” Kurt says, “yes. Although I think we’re going to have to smooth out some of your rough edges before they’ll let you be a secret agent. And we’ll probably have to change your citizenship before you can join MI-5. And you’ll need four identical tuxedos so that half of them can get ruined with bullet holes.”
“God damn it, Hummel,” Karofsky says. “You can’t cast me as James Bond and then kill me.”
“James Bond gets shot all the time and doesn’t die,” Kurt says. “Or maybe I’m thinking of Vin Diesel. The point is, I haven’t killed you; I’ve just ruined most of your wardrobe.”
“I want to be Daniel Craig James Bond,” Karofsky says. “Not Pierce Brosnan. He’s cool and all, but Daniel Craig kicks way more ass. Like, ‘Quantum of Solace’ was pretty much one big explosion with a couple scenes of firefights and shit.”
“How about Sean Connery James Bond?” Kurt asks.
“Sean Connery talks like he has rocks in his mouth.”
Kurt stares. “You did not just insult Sir Sean Connery.”
“He plays every fucking role as Sean Connery,” Karofsky says. “Have you seen ‘The Hunt for Red October’? He plays a Russian sub captain as fucking Sean Connery. Scottish Sean Connery.”
Kurt chews on his straw and tries to consider the issue from multiple perspectives. “‘The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen’ is high on the list of the worst movies I’ve ever seen,” he recalls.
“I hated that shit,” Karofsky says. “I almost cried for the two hours of my life that I’d never get back.”
Kurt laughs and then feels like he’s done something wrong. Finn and his father would tell him he’s fraternizing with the enemy, but that’s the whole point-it was never Kurt, was it? Kurt was never the problem. Karofsky’s only enemy is himself, and he projected all of the fear and the hatred onto the perfect target: someone who exemplified everything he was trying not to be.
It’s kind of staggering-and not in a good way-to think about all that Karofsky could be if he would just own up to what he already is.
“So the numbers thing,” Kurt says. “Does it make you kind of math savant?”
Karofsky frowns. He’s fiddling with the lid of his cup again. “I guess. I don’t know. Math is really easy, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not, like, some kind of genius.”
“How do you know?” Kurt asks. “You should test its parameters. Try it out.”
“I can’t join Mathletes, Hummel,” Karofsky says. “It’s social suicide.”
Kurt finds himself staring again. “You’ve seen ‘Mean Girls’ too? What kind of football player are you?”
Karofsky shrugs, looking slightly uneasy now. “Everybody’s seen that shit. It’s the last movie Lindsay Lohan made before she turned into a total crackwhore.”
“Okay,” Kurt says. “Don’t be weirded out, but this is the best conversation I’ve had with another male in a long time.”
“James Bond is good for that shit,” Karofsky says.
Kurt’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he juggles the almost-empty cup as he fishes it out. “Sorry-Finn somehow causes kitchen appliances to be actively hostile, and I don’t think he knows where the fire extinguisher is.” Karofsky smirks-only a little bit at Finn’s expense, Kurt thinks-but the text isn’t from the Wondrous Anti-Cook.
Just thought I’d check. <3 Don’t work too hard. (My paranoia says Hi!)
“Pansy boyfriend?” Karofsky asks, his voice low.
“He’s neither a pansy nor my boyfriend,” Kurt says crisply, curling his finger to tap the button on the top of his phone. “We’ve been through this.”
“Yeah, but you want him to be,” Karofsky says. “You get this… look every time you talk about him.”
“It’s not that simple,” Kurt says, which sounds slightly feeble even to him. “He was the first guy I’d ever been allowed to like. Strangely enough, crushing on painfully heterosexual football players gets frustrating after a while.”
Karofsky is emanating homicidal vibes again. Kurt doesn’t know which part of his previous sentence was so dreadfully offensive-the implication that football players are all straight? It’s callous, but Karofsky needs to get accustomed to the idea that people’s expectations have a very particular kind of power, and the difficulty of defying them is matched only by the necessity.
“Yeah,” Karofsky says after a pregnant moment. “I’ll bet it does. Look, it’s been nice and gay, Hummel, but I’ve got to go throw some marbles at people’s heads, and your half-hour’s just about up.”
“I know you resent Blaine,” Kurt tells him, “but it’s ludicrous to take it out on me.”
Karofsky stands, pitching his coffee cup into the nearest trashcan. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s not always about you, Hummel. Check the fucking time.”
Kurt does. His lunch break is over. He’s going to regret this later when the caffeine runs out, and he hasn’t had any actual lunch.
“Marbles are dangerous,” he says. “Practice on something inanimate first.”
Karofsky eyes him, slightly less accusatorily, which Kurt interprets as an in.
“Email me later,” he says. “I’ll probably have a better idea of my schedule by tonight.”
Karofsky nods vaguely, tosses his bag of marbles upward, and snatches it out of the air again. Then he shoves his free hand into his pocket and turns to go.
Kurt isn’t entirely sure what just happened or how he feels about it, which is starting to become a trend.
Smile. Hi, there, find everything you were looking for? Scan. Total. Payment method. Input a cash amount; just swipe a credit card; hit ATM and then swipe for debit. Catch the register drawer when it kicks. Drum fingertips on card-swiping machine while it prints at the approximate speed that grass grows. Collect change or card receipt; staple the latter to register receipt; hand over; slip item into a bag; hand across. Smile. Thanks for coming in. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
(Pry unicorn away from future-Santana. Life does not have discounts for specialness. Life, if you’re curious, adds a specialness tax and then does everything in its power to tear you down.)
Straighten. Tidy. Re-straighten. Resist the urge to shoo children away from things their parents may later buy for them. Shelve. Arrange. Straighten.
(It’ll straighten you out like a flatiron, and you’ll forget what made you special in the first place.)
Resist the urge to tell future-Santana to take the unicorn and run.
“How’s the job thing?” Finn asks when Kurt steps through the door.
“Fine,” Kurt says. “How’s the no-job thing?”
“Fine,” Finn says.
There is a pause.
“Right,” Kurt says. “I’ll be downstairs. Yell if anything gets lit on fire.”
“You know it,” Finn says. “Catch you later, Kurt.”
He checks his email immediately-this goes back to the whole Kurt Hummel is stupid bit-and, finding it unenlightening, plays with his phone for a moment before he calls Mercedes.
“Hey, Kurt,” she says brightly. “I was freaking out for a second, but then I realized that your one phone call from jail wouldn’t be listed as your iPhone.”
“I did not kill any children,” Kurt informs her. “Not even the ones who deserved it. Especially not the ones who deserved it.”
“My baby’s all grown up,” Mercedes says. “And workin’ for the man every night and day-”
“Working for the man’s greedy, undisciplined brats, more like,” Kurt says, but he’s grinning now. “I guess I should count myself lucky that it’s not food service.”
“Yeah,” Mercedes says, “you should. Or you should start selling cookies at the register and make a fortune.”
“I could definitely use a fortune right now,” Kurt says. “And don’t you dare start singing ‘Billionaire.’”
“I wouldn’t,” Mercedes says. “Sam and his Bieberlicious hair were the be-all, end-all on that one.”
“Damn his deceiving Bieber hair,” Kurt says, not with any real fire. “We would have sounded amazing after I tied him to a chair and forced him to sit through eight uninterrupted hours of classic musicals in order to get song ideas.”
“He would’ve busted out of that in a second,” Mercedes says. “I’m pretty sure you have to prove you’re an escape artist before you can be QB.”
“Did Puck tell you that?” Kurt asks. “Because scientific studies have shown that his blood is twenty percent alcohol and twenty percent corn syrup, so you shouldn’t trust anything he says.”
“It’s true,” Mercedes says, although Kurt can hear her trying not to giggle. “Ask your guy.”
Kurt feels his smile slipping off and tries to catch it before it shatters on the floor. “What?”
“Are you not still talking to him? Sorry, I thought-well, I figured you would have called me days ago if you weren’t doing something-”
“He’s not ‘my’ guy,” Kurt says-and only because this is Mercedes is it the right thing to say.
There is a long, delicate pause.
“Do you want him to be?” Mercedes asks, and the tone in her voice carries slightly more curiosity than mortification.
Kurt pinches the bridge of his nose between his first two fingers. “Why is everyone suddenly so interested in my love life or lack thereof?”
“Don’t give me that,” Mercedes says. “I’m always interested. And you’re always interested in my lack of one, and… look, even if you don’t know what you’re doing, you know a little better than anybody else, ’cause we can’t see what’s going on inside your head.”
“I don’t want him to be,” Kurt says. “Not really. I-at least not until he’s proved that he’s a stable and empathetic human being.”
“That’s not a ‘no,’” Mercedes says. “That’s a ‘maybe.’”
“No, it’s not,” Kurt says. “Because the conditions of a ‘yes’ are literally impossible.”
“The dude buys coffee for his mom!” Mercedes persists. “That’s a little weird, but it’s definitely empathetic. Besides, if he can put up with your mood swings, believe me, Kurt-he’s getting more stable all the time.”
Kurt gives that a lengthy moment to sink into the quicksand where it belongs.
“Are you encouraging me to go out with David Karofsky?” he asks.
“You call him David?” Mercedes asks.
Kurt mouths Fuck and then clears his throat. “Answer the question, Miss Jones.”
“Okay, maybe it’s hella screwed-up, but… I just want to see you happy, Kurt. Let’s be honest; you weren’t making a whole lot of progress trying it the normal way. Sometimes doing the crazy thing pays off.”
“And sometimes it gets you murdered by linebackers with repression issues,” Kurt says.
Mercedes makes a disappointed noise. “If you think he’s going to murder you, I take back all of my matchmaking.”
Kurt wants to say something wry and witty, but he’s thinking about it seriously before he can help himself. “He wouldn’t. I think he meant what he said the first time, but he’s really different now-in small ways, but they’re important. He’s been totally alone with this pain for half of a year. I’m the only thing he’s got, because I’m the only person who knows how it feels. He still lashes out when he’s scared, but I think he’s starting to realize that I’m not going to stick around unless he behaves himself, and he can’t afford to lose me.”
“This is so Romeo and Juliet,” Mercedes says. “Hopefully without the crappy end.”
“I actually think it’s more like Twelfth Night,” Kurt says. “Except that then Karofsky is Viola, which is just… weird… and I would be Orsino, and Blaine as Olivia is going to have to fall in love with Karofsky thinking he’s straight. Oh, my God, my head hurts. Why in the hell am I talking about this?”
“That was my next question,” Mercedes says. “Let’s just say it’s a soap opera and leave Shakespeare out of it.”
“It’s really unfair that you’re the cute one and the smart one,” Kurt says, and Mercedes laughs, but he can tell that she’s pleased.
“Don’t forget ‘the talented one,’” she says.
“I thought that was implied,” Kurt says.
“Hell, yeah, it was. Someday I’m gonna put that on a business card.”
“You won’t need a business card to introduce yourself,” Kurt says. “You won’t even need a last name,”
“Knock it off,” Mercedes says, but he can hear her smiling. “Or I won’t let you come on my private jet.”
“Damn you, the Artist Known as Mercedes,” Kurt says. “You are going to let me be your wardrobe artist, right?”
“Kurt, would I ever trust anybody else with that job?”
Kurt grins. “One less dream crushed. You’re the best.”
“I thought that was implied, too.”
“It wa-” Kurt’s phone tweedles at him. “Hang on-” He takes it away from his ear, looks, raises his eyebrows, and sets it against his ear again. “It’s Blaine. It must be a matter of great urgency if he’s not warning me with a text first. Can I call you back?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mercedes says. “Just drop me a line sometime when you’re not called in to glare at children, and we can do coffee.”
“Talk to you later, Talented One.”
“Later, Lover-Boy.”
Someday, Kurt thinks as he taps the button to transfer the line to Blaine, he will make her pay for that. Possibly by dressing her in something ridiculous and convincing her it’s fierce.
“Mister Anderson,” Kurt says.
“Do you think we could pull off a Disney number?” Blaine asks. “I actually woke up in the middle of the night last night going, ‘Oh, my God, The Lion King!’”
“Um,” Kurt says. “Maybe?”
“Strategically,” Blaine says, “I feel like the judges would love it, because it would emphasize that we’re still kids, and it’d be a huge crowd-pleaser. Selfishly, I just really want to sing ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight.’”
“It would lend itself to a capella,” Kurt admits. “I assume you’re looking at the Elton John track, rather than the version in the middle of the movie, which sort of has three parts.”
“I knew you’d understand,” Blaine says, and the only way to describe his voice is loving.
There’s the rub.
“Also consider ‘The Circle of Life,’” Kurt says. “And everything in Aladdin. You would make an amazing Aladdin, you know.”
“I was him for Halloween once,” Blaine says. “Speaking of which-do you think Lion King would fly without costumes? Everybody’s seen the Broadway version with the amazing sets; I bet almost as many people think of that as think of the movie now.”
“Blaine,” Kurt says, “you’re the Warblemaster. You have to make the hard decisions.”
“Kurt,” Blaine returns plaintively. “You’re my co-captain. You have to help me make them.”
“I’m obviously not,” Kurt says. “Send me a spreadsheet with the songs you did at all of the competitions for the last few years, specify whether or not you won, and make a note on how each one was received. We want to make them think we’re breaking out of our comfort zone with something that’s actually a safe bet.”
“You’re devious,” Blaine says happily. “And you obviously are.”
Kurt’s not going to bother today. Even if Blaine knew how to give up the spotlight-and, honestly, Kurt just thinks that wherever Blaine is becomes the foreground-Dalton is founded on the ritualization of traditions, and No, really, Kurt should get a solo wouldn’t budge the Warblers a fraction of an inch. Kurt’s not sure it would be the same if he was wearing a uniform anyway. Somehow it feels like anonymity should be all or nothing.
“I just turn to painstaking organization to distract myself from the cavernous voids in my existence,” Kurt says. “On that topic, how is your summer reading coming along?”
“Well,” Blaine says, “if James Joyce was still alive, I would go to his house and punch him out. I don’t know what in the heck this book is about, only that I hate it. It’s kind of funny, actually-I didn’t realize I was capable of hating things. So maybe after I hit him, I should thank him for expanding my emotional range. How’s yours?”
“Nurse Ratched gives me the creeps,” Kurt says. “She kind of reminds me of Coach Sylvester, at least in their shared tendency to make grown men cry.” He considers. “Although Ratched is passive-aggressive, whereas Coach Sylvester is just… aggressive-aggressive. With a side-dish of aggression and some aggression on top. But she kind of does the same thing-by which I mean, she smashes your soul and then puts the pieces into one of her many blenders.”
“I don’t recall Nurse Ratched making too many soul-and-protein shakes,” Blaine says. “Is Sylvester really that bad?”
“She’s at the zenith of a lifetime of overcompensation,” Kurt says.
And then he sort of… gets it. He gets why there’s so much more at McKinley, so much more in Lima, even though the opportunities are elsewhere-everyone here has suffered, in one way or another. Everyone here has lost something they cared about or desperately wanted, whether that’s a loved one or a fond illusion or their pride. That’s why the Warblers are always more polished, and Vocal Adrenaline is always more precise, but New Directions sounds real. New Directions can make you feel things, because they’ve felt too much.
“I hope your silence means you’re thinking seriously about The Lion King,” Blaine says.
“You should really watch ‘Aladdin,’” Kurt says. He knows that if Blaine does, Blaine will get Blaine-excited, which will eliminate the possibility of Kurt having to design animal masks that match the Dalton blazers. “It would be beautifully ironic if we did the opening song where he’s stealing food and running from the guards.”
“One jump,” Blaine sings jauntily, “ahead of the… something…”
“You need to watch the movie,” Kurt says.
“Do you think I can find it online?” Blaine asks. “Aladdin would never rent it legally, and I want to get into character.”
“Walt Disney’s grandchildren are probably starving to death because of people like you,” Kurt says. “I bet you didn’t buy any concessions when you went to DisneyWorld, either.”
“Cotton candy should not cost six dollars,” Blaine says. “It’s just sugar. But you’re trying to distract me by getting me to rant about it, because you are-as previously stated-devious.”
“Can’t help it,” Kurt says. “Call me again once you’ve watched it-but not tomorrow; I’m being conscripted again.”
“Clarify something for me,” Blaine says. “Is this a part-time job, or full-time torture?”
“Yes,” Kurt says.
“Devious and witty,” Blaine notes. “Stealing you for the Warblers was the smartest thing we ever did.”
Kurt’s cheeks go warm, damn them to a thousand hells as fiery as they are. “Blaine, I think making you the lead was the smartest thing the Warblers ever did.”
“Are we going to have a compliment fight? You know I always win those.”
It’s true. “No, we’re not, because I need to finish this book. I think that if I read it fast enough, I might be able to decrease the psychological scarring of its messages. I thought Lord of the Flies was bad. Did you read that at Dalton?”
“All the choir boys are the evil ones, right?” Blaine says. “Not exactly a Dalton book.”
Kurt smiles faintly. “Well, now that we’ve crammed Sue Sylvester, transformative fiction, and Disney soundtracks into the same conversation… I think I’m just going to call it a day.”
“Catch you later, Kurt.”
“Goodnight, Blaine.”
“So tell me about the young man who was in here yesterday asking about the marbles.”
Kurt’s soul dies a little more. “Not you too.”
Dina grins. “C’mon, sweetheart. The two of you were out there drinking coffee and talking for half an hour straight. Just a friend?”
It’s so quiet this morning that there’s nothing to do and nowhere to run. Kurt spots one remote-control car kit box that’s slightly misaligned and goes over to correct it, but the store’s so small that all Dina has to do is lean over the counter to watch him expectantly.
“I don’t know if ‘friend’ is even the right word,” Kurt says. “He’s still sort of figuring out who he is, and I don’t know if it’s possible for someone to make friends until they know exactly what other people will be befriending.”
“I think ‘make friends’ is a bad way for the people who made up the English language to have put it,” Dina says. “Friends just happen, and maybe you do have to cultivate the relationship to keep it going, but nobody makes their own friends.”
“Except Pygmalion,” Kurt says, returning to the counter for a tissue to attack a spot of something questionable that he’s found on the surface of the kit table.
“Kurt, dear, you’re too clever for your own good.”
“Or anybody else’s,” Kurt says. “But I only know that because of My Fair Lady.”
“All the same,” Dina says, though she’s smiling, and then Kurt’s phone vibrates.
It’s a text from a local number his phone doesn’t know, and it reads workin today?
There isn’t a modicum of doubt in his mind that it’s Karofsky-no one else who’s not already in his address book would text him without pretense or apostrophes.
Like a dog, Kurt texts back. Starting to feel like I live here. Which would be creepy, with all the toys staring while you slept.
He slips his phone back into his pocket only for it to vibrate again.
stfu, i’ll have nightmares. make sure u get a paycheck, i hear slavery is illegal
Dina makes a noise that is half interested and half smug. Kurt ignores her and composes his response:
Damn. I was really hoping they’d let me work for free.
This time he just holds onto the phone as he moves around the store, adjusting things that don’t really need to be adjusted. His precautions pay off.
r u ignoring kids or is it rly quiet there?
Kurt smirks as he stops in his route and applies thumbs to touchscreen. Have you ever tried to ignore a child, David?
Karofsky seems to be getting faster as he goes.
i believe i said stfu, hummel
An uneven display of dinosaurs-some of them are lying on the countertop with their legs in the air, and others are tangled up together in slightly suggestive positions-is a good excuse for turning away from Dina so she won’t see him grin. There’s always time for another test.
This is starting to look like a hate crime. Help, I’m being repressed!
He’s only rescued one diplodocus from a compromising state when he gets his reply.
OMG STFU HUMMEL. or i will come over there and s you tfu
Kurt is enjoying this inordinately. He should probably be arrested for violating Karofsky’s Geneva convention rights; psychologically tormenting people cannot possibly be legal, even when the medium is cell phone messaging.
…that sounds dirty.
He barely has time to snicker this round; Karofsky’s really getting the hang of this whole furious battle of texts thing.
WHAT DID I JUST SAY OMFG YOURE ILLITERATE
“Nope,” Dina says idly as Kurt starts to laugh. “Definitely not friends.”
“Oh, stop,” Kurt says. “It’s just… hang on.”
Somebody found the all caps key. :D
He’s saved all of the dinosaurs’ dignity, and then-
i am seriously going over there to knock some literacy into you c u soon
Kurt’s not entirely sure if this counts as a victory.
“Well,” Dina says, much more significantly than he would like.
“Well,” Kurt says. “I guess he used up all of the marbles.”
“Isn’t there a word for what you just did?” Dina asks. “Flirxting?”
Kurt stares at her.
“It’s like ‘flirting’ and ‘texting’ in one,” Dina says. “Isn’t that a thing? I swear, my grandchildren talk in code. So do all of the kids on television.”
“…sexting,” Kurt says.
“That’s the one,” Dina says. She pauses. “Oh. Now I see why that got awkward.” She grins and pats Kurt’s flaming cheek. “Cheer up. You’re young and have one of those unlimited cell phone plans. The world is your oyster, Kurt.”
“I think it’s more like that Japanese blowfish,” Kurt says. “The one that’s a delicacy, but if it’s prepared wrong, it’ll kill you.”
“Fair enough,” Dina says. “Being young can’t be too easy with everyone talking in code all the time.”
Fifteen minutes later, when the door dingles as it admits David Karofsky, the first thing out of Kurt’s mouth is “Thank God you’re here.”
It’s worth the embarrassment and Dina’s knowing grin, because Karofsky smiles, too-the bright, transformative smile that pops up when he’s unguarded and unprepared.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Kurt says hastily, “and I’ve straightened every section of this store four times each.”
“And dolls five times,” Dina says innocently.
“The dolls are the most aesthetic,” Kurt says, pretending his ears aren’t tending towards a firetruck-worthy hue.
“I’ve got something for you,” Karofsky says.
Kurt has time to raise his eyebrows. Then Karofsky takes out a paperback copy of the American Heritage Dictionary, hefts it, and smacks Kurt in the arm with it-rather gently, as book-related violence goes.
“There,” he says as Kurt attempts (unsuccessfully) to generate adequate words for this situation. “Now you can read your damn text messages and actually understand them.”
Kurt looks at him, trying very hard not to laugh. “You came all this way to hit me with a dictionary?”
“Said I would,” Karofsky mutters. “And I remembered that my mom needs some kind of present for a baby shower this weekend anyway. I saw you had, like, teddy bears and stuff.”
“The hard part is narrowing it down,” Kurt says, leading him over to the towering shelves that house the store’s cotton-filled residents. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
Karofsky is staring at the wall of plush toys like they’re liable to grow fangs and jump for his jugular. “Uh…”
“We have plenty of noncommittal options,” Kurt says.
Karofsky looks overwhelmed-and certainly not in the least bit really kind of adorable-examining stuffed bears and bunnies and ducklings with yellow or pale green ribbons tied around their necks.
“I never understood the bows,” Karofsky says vaguely, tugging at the loop of one. “It’s practically like you’re strangling them.”
“First of all, they’re loose enough for the animals to breathe,” Kurt says. “Second, the animals don’t breathe, so it’s not a problem.”
Karofsky rolls his eyes. “Since you’re the expert, just pick for me.”
“Okay,” Kurt says. He considers the options and selects a small brown teddy bear that’s almost excessively soft, which he imagines that a heretofore genderless baby-or anyone-would enjoy snuggling with and holds it out to Karofsky. Watching a linebacker take a teddy bear in both hands and doubtfully squeeze its tummy is an experience Kurt hopes to repeat as many times as possible.
“Do you guys do returns?” Karofsky asks. “Then I could get two and let my mom pick which one she liked. I have no taste.”
That’s untrue; David Karofsky tastes like Coke and something spicy and the faint salt-tang of boy-sweat.
Kurt looks over the army of plush candidates, which is immeasurably better than looking at Karofsky’s mouth.
“All right,” Kurt says. “Let’s go with something very different from the first one, in that case.” He takes up a white rabbit wearing a sage-green T-shirt with a heart on it. “The ears can double as a chew toy.”
“You’re a resourceful man, Hummel,” Karofsky says. He glances over the array of rejects. “You want me to help put the others back?”
“Oh, hell, no,” Kurt says. “We need something to do once we’ve rung you up. Right this way, sir.”
Dina is beaming at them. Kurt can’t quite muster any anger about it-given how mind-numbingly boring the morning’s been, this is kind of a godsend for both of them, however embarrassing on his part.
“Cool,” Karofsky says when the register has ushered them through with the usual cheery ding. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Kurt says as Karofsky starts jamming the receipt into his overstuffed wallet. A flicker of movement catches his eye, and he looks past Karofsky’s shoulder towards the door.
Lately it seems that Kurt is inopportunely popular every time he turns around.
There is just enough time to hope feebly that no one dies inside the store and bleeds all over the chintzy carpet before Blaine pushes the door open, bearing a bright green folder and the grin that never fails to make neurons short out in virtually every quadrant of Kurt’s brain.
“I couldn’t find anyone streaming ‘Aladdin,’” he says, too loud, too happy, too okay; “but I did get that spreadsheet together. And then I couldn’t sleep, so I color-coded it.”
Kurt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His eyes slide to Karofsky, whose every muscle has gone tight. Just as Blaine reaches the counter beside him, slapping the folder down on the sheet of plastic, Karofsky looks up, and Blaine goes very still.
Kurt hopes he just up and dies, rather than continuing to feel like he will; actually up and dying would obviate the dizzying quantity of damage-control that he’s going to have to do starting n-
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” Blaine says, and his voice is light, but his eyes are not.
“I’m shopping,” Karofsky says coldly. “Last I heard that’s what you do in stores.”
“Blaine,” Kurt says warningly, because he can see it building-
“You know,” Blaine says, and his lovely-thick eyebrows draw together, because he means it. “I feel sorry for you. And I think perhaps I should apologize-because I’m just not scared of you. But maybe if I was, you might not be so scared of yourself.”
By the unmitigated terror that flashes in Karofsky’s eyes, Blaine has hit the nail on the head-but far too hard, and far too directly. The problem with Blaine’s analyses is not that they’re incorrect; it’s that he assumes a level of self-awareness in others that matches his own. Most kids their age simply aren’t there yet, and Blaine’s impeccable rhetoric just dragged Karofsky a mile down the asphalt towards a destination he can’t see. He’s too fragile for this. He has to walk that road himself, and coaxing from the sidelines might be the most he can take.
Long story short, Kurt’s not surprised when Karofsky draws his arm back and curls his fingers into a fist.
The counter’s too tall for Kurt to lean across comfortably, but he does it anyway, planting one hand on Karofsky’s chest and holding the other out in front of Blaine.
“No,” he says. “Not a damn chance, either of you. Just stop. At the absolute least, we’re taking this outside.”
Karofsky’s gaze darts to the sidewalk past the doors, then to Dina standing back in bewilderment. His shoulders set in resolution, and he’s subtly angled towards the exit.
“There’s nothing to take,” he snarls, snatching up his plastic bag and starting out, “because I’ve got nothing to say to you. Fuckin’ fags.”
The silence is broken only by his tread on the carpet and the rattling of the windowpanes as he shoulders his way out the door. The bell jingles again, and then it’s quiet.
Kurt doesn’t want to meet Blaine’s eyes, but his only alternative is fiddling with his apron pocket, and he’s better than that.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, and he’s surprised and amazed and a little bit hurt-that has to be manipulation, doesn’t it? “Just… are you insane?”
“You were threatening him,” Kurt says, and Blaine absolutely goggles and moves to protest, but Kurt’s faster. “I’m not blaming you-it’s just that he’s really difficult in public because he’s waiting for someone to find him out. You’re the only person in the world who knows but wouldn’t protect him.”
“Are we talking about the same guy?” Blaine asks, and his beloved eyebrows arc differently, skeptical and confused. “Because I don’t know about you, Kurt, but I just saw the same bully who shoved me down at McKinley, and it sounds to me like you’re keeping in touch with him.”
“Blaine,” Kurt says helplessly-he’s the finest liar he knows, but he’s also a masochistic adherent to the truth. “Try to think about it from his side. You were an outsider to the issue, I told you his secret, and you acted on that knowledge in the middle of a school full of people who would tear him to pieces if they knew. It’s easy for us; we just are who we are, and we’re all right with it, but his reputation and all of its benefits-everything he has-is founded on a series of lies that you were willing to expose on the grounds that he should celebrate his differences. Throwing him into the deep end isn’t going to teach him how to swim, and that’s the only thing he associates with you-drowning. The fact that you’re right doesn’t change that.”
Blaine looks at Kurt for a long moment, and then he slowly shakes his head.
“He’s volatile,” Blaine says. “It’s different to stand up for yourself when you’re surrounded by friends, but to be alone with him like that-”
“Stop talking like there’s something wrong with him,” Kurt says. “He’s not diseased. He’s a perfectly decent person under all of the intimidation. What you said was completely true, and that’s why he hates you so much.”
“That doesn’t justify any of it,” Blaine says.
Kurt flattens his palms on the counter. “I know that.”
Blaine hesitates, and then he takes a deep breath and sighs. “I guess if you’re trying to help him, I should support your efforts. I just don’t want you…”
“To get hurt?” Kurt asks. “Not to be trite, Blaine, but what more can he possibly do to me?”
“Nothing,” Blaine says. “This time you’re doing it to yourself.”
There is a long silence.
“I hate it when you do that,” Kurt hears his voice say.
Blaine wrinkles his nose. “The Significant Conclusion? It’s very Dalton, isn’t it? It sounds like the end of a literature lecture.”
Kurt relaxes a little. Blaine is his friend, even when they disagree; even when they disagree strongly. Blaine is the only real friend he’s had at Dalton-Blaine’s the only one there who feels like another McKinley kid most of the time. Blaine’s the only one who makes Kurt feel like it’s okay to be a McKinley kid himself.
“What time does your shift end?” Blaine asks.
“Two,” Kurt says.
Blaine frowns. “I have to be home by three-but we can have lunch another time.” He smiles. “Or we can catch ‘Aladdin’ together.”
“I like that idea,” Kurt says. “You know how to find me.”
They look at each other for the space of a breath. Kurt can feel the wedge between them, but there’s nothing he can do to shift it aside.
When he thinks about it, it’s so stupid he almost wants to laugh-they’re fighting over a boy.
“Catch you later,” Blaine says, and there isn’t any note of distance to it. “Tell me what you think of the spreadsheet. And of the book.”
“Count on it,” Kurt says, and Blaine smiles and heads back out the door. It jingles.
“Wow,” Dina says after a long moment has passed. “How come you don’t have your own TV show?”
“Improv is much more compelling,” Kurt says, although he’s starting to wish he had a script.
He flips the folder open and looks at the spreadsheet. Blaine color-coded it, all right-in a blinding rainbow scheme. There’s a key at the bottom explaining that all of the different colors correspond to musical genres, and he’s bolded the events that the Warblers have won dating back to the creation of the group.
Kurt thinks that this sums it all up: Blaine makes rainbow-coded order out of chaos. And that’s fine, except when the chaos is more meaningful.
Speaking of chaos, though, there’s a riot of stuffed animals left over from Karofky’s shower gift quest, and those empty shelves have Kurt’s name on them. Just as he finishes, an entire youth soccer team barges in, mud-spattered and clamoring for some kind of promised reward.
Ah, summer.
[Chapter 4] [Chapter 6]