Glee -- Third Time Lucky 9: Rum and Coke
Title: Third Time Lucky
Chapter: 9. Rum and Coke
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Karofsky/Kurt
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,970
Warnings: ♥
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: Well, my lovely, lovely, lovely Gleeks… this is it. Will there be more Kurtofsky from me? I wish I could say no, but the honest answer is "God damn it, almost certainly." (And there may be a few little fluffy outtakes/follow-ups to this fic, because I'm kind of attached to it. DAMN THIS FANDOM.) Thank you ALL for joining me in this sandbox, and I hope you had a totally awesome (~totally awesome~) time. ♥;;;;
CHAPTER 9: RUM AND COKE
He’s bracing himself for the worst to have happened already, but no one’s dead yet. Further, Blaine is still perched on the bookshelf-Ryan has joined him, and they now have their arms around one another’s shoulders and are swaying back and forth, singing what might be the “Muppet Babies” theme song. Kurt doesn’t even want to know.
David’s harder to find. After two quick glances around the room, Kurt picks him out in the furthest corner from Blaine. There’s time now to notice that he’s wearing a black button-up shirt that helps him blend into the shadows, although whether or not that’s intentional Kurt can’t quite say, and he has his arms folded tightly across his chest as he watches Azimio and the others unfolding a table for beer pong.
Kurt feels like he’s just become the mediator in his own private Cold War. One wrong move, one wrong word, one chance encounter he doesn’t stop before it happens, and every fragile structure he’s assembled will come down around his ears, probably scattering enough broken glass for all of them to slit their throats.
Finn comes up beside him where he’s standing in the doorway to the living room, holding tight to the frame for balance.
“So when I was talking about hockey masks,” Finn says, “it was kind of just an example. What I really meant was that you should keep out anybody who’s an asshole, and serial killers are assholes, so they fall into that category. So do all of those douchebags.”
“They’re your teammates,” Kurt says faintly.
“They can be douchebags and still be my teammates,” Finn says. He pauses. “Wait, that’s exactly like what Rachel said earlier, only worse.”
“I think it’s about even,” Kurt says.
They both hesitate there for a moment, watching Azimio and his minions line up their red cups and contemplate the ping-pong ball they’ve turned up from Kurt-has-no-desire-to-know-where. Beer is poured, and then the home-base rinsing cups are filled with water, and then one of the kids with weird hair makes a terrible throw, and Finn literally twitches.
Kurt considers this from the alpha male perspective-while Finn is not an A-type personality by any means, he is a leader, and high school is, unfortunately, kind of just one giant, hideous mess of strange dominance battles.
That aside, Finn is a sports fanatic.
“Go on,” Kurt says resignedly. “Show them all how it’s done.”
Finn blinks at him, making a token effort at feigning misunderstanding.
“Just give me your keys,” Kurt says, holding a hand out for them.
Slowly, Finn reveals the shy, uneasy grin that makes him so easy to fall in love with, and then he fishes out his keyring and unceremoniously drops it into Kurt’s open palm.
“Owe you one,” he says.
“Take it easy,” Kurt says. “My dad can smell liquor. And guilt.”
Finn saunters off like a happy puppy, and Kurt… just can’t handle this anymore. Being strung between the worst-case scenarios makes his skin crawl, and his head hurts, and now he definitely can’t drink until the roaring troubles fade to a faint buzzing in his ears.
Wedging Finn’s unnecessarily large keychain-has he ever used the football-shaped LED light? Will he ever?-into his pocket, Kurt stumps over to the squishy couch and flops down onto it. After a moment’s thought, he puts his feet up on the coffee table and crosses his arms. Sitting here is like being in the eye of Hurricane Poor Judgment.
Movement catches his eye. Someday Kurt is going to throw himself a party-a party not at all like this one; perhaps a tea party, possibly black-tie-if the paranoia settles enough that he can go through an entire day without jumping at a shadow.
This shadow is David. He sits down on the other cushion and then stays very still, watching Blaine and Ryan undertake a thumb war so fervid they’re in grave danger of falling off of the shelf. Apparently Rachel has, quite reasonably, given up hope for them, as she’s disappeared from the scene.
“Sorry,” David says after a long moment.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Kurt says. “Unless you cleverly engineered this encounter, which I somehow doubt.”
There’s a pause. Kurt glances over, and David is pulling at a loose thread on his cushion. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be here. Az is just such a-and I am sorry about that, only that’s not what I meant I was sorry about. Fuck. I hate that word.”
Kurt swallows and flattens his tie a little. “Did you mean… yesterday?”
David raises one broad hand to run it down his face. He still hasn’t made eye contact. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that, either,” Kurt says, and if his voice shakes a little, it’s obviously just because the whole room is shaking with some awful bass beat. “It was really courageous of you to put your feelings out there. I should have reacted better, but it kind of caught me off-guard. So… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry kinda world,” David mutters.
“You said it,” Kurt replies.
They sit for another moment. Lauren and Puck amble by, joined at the mouth. They break apart long enough to take synchronized swigs of whatever’s in their respective cups.
“Why do you even put up with my bullshit?” David asks. “You keep saying we’re friends, but I don’t get how you can even like me. Look at all the other friends you’ve got; they all think I’m a dick.”
“Sometimes you are,” Kurt says. “And last year, you definitely were. But I think that’s true for most of us, at least at this stage-we’re all kind of flailing around trying to get our bearings, and we usually end up kicking people, whether we intend to or not.”
David stares at him. “That’s… deep… I guess.”
Kurt elects to pretend he didn’t hear that. “Anyway, it would be stupid of me to say I’m over last year, because I’m not, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before I am. I don’t know if I ever will be, to be honest; it’s… hard. But that doesn’t change the fact that you are likable, David. You’re honest, and you’re smart, and you’re pretty funny when you aren’t too worried about who’s listening. You can be really generous. And you can be really brave. I’m glad I can be friends with someone like that.”
David is still staring at him. David has nice eyelashes.
“I didn’t realize you’d been into the cocaine,” David says.
“You know it,” Kurt says. “I was doing lines off of this couch, actually-right where you’re sitting.”
David manages to keep a straight face for a full three seconds before he laughs.
Kurt grins, but he gets distracted by the tremendous crash-and-crunch as Ryan falls off of the bookshelf. Fortunately for him, a pile of cups that have already been discarded breaks his fall, and he’s not conscious enough to tense for the impact. Everyone in the room applauds when he pops back up, unscathed, and bows.
When Kurt’s finished rolling his eyes, he’s startled to see that they’re about to be visited by at least one spirit-Party Past or Party Future, he doesn’t know; this particular messenger seems to be pretty consistent.
Brittany comes up to their couch and looks down at them thoughtfully. She seems to have misplaced her shirt, although that doesn’t seem to be what she’s thinking about, and she’s wearing Artie’s glasses pushed up into her hair.
“You two should adopt a kitten,” she says, “and name it Squiggles.”
Kurt opens his mouth and then shuts it again when he can’t think of a single thing to send out of it.
“But-” Brittany looks around, leans in close enough that Kurt can count the lime-green polka dots on her bra, and lowers her voice. “Don’t get any kitten related to my cat. I think he might be Fidel Castro. Especially because ‘Castro’ has ‘Cat’ in it if you move the letters around.”
“Um,” David says. “Thanks…?”
Brittany nods sagely and wanders off. Before Kurt and David have even finished exchanging glances, Artie rolls up and takes her place, squinting at them intently. The mystery of Brittany’s lost shirt is solved; it’s on his head.
“You,” he says to David. “I want you to know one thing: I’m not scared of you.” He grins smugly while they sit in stunned silence, but then his face falls. “I will be if I don’t wake up, because this isn’t an awesome dream where I’m supposed to tell everyone what I really think of them. But I’m hoping it is.” He turns to Kurt, squints again, and frowns. “I’m deeply jealous of how well you wear sweaters. And I’ve always secretly wanted to touch your hair.”
“What,” David says slowly, “inthefuck.”
“Where the hell did Brittany go?” Artie asks, squinting around himself. “Woman!” he shouts, wheeling off. “Where you at?”
David swallows, and then he lifts a hand and runs it through his hair.
“I need some alcohol,” he says.
“Play it safe,” Kurt says. “It’s only ten o’clock.”
David shrugs a little as he gets up, but this is a Yeah, I see your point kind of shrug.
The moment he’s well away from the couch, Rachel appears from nowhere and settles primly on Kurt’s other side.
“Is this like elementary school?” Rachel asks.
Kurt stares at her. He’s not drunk. She’s not drunk. So what the hell is going on?
“Like-” She makes sure to add air quotes. “-‘relationships’ in elementary school. Back when all of the immature boys who didn’t have the capacity or the intellectual development to express their feelings would throw sticks at the girls they liked.”
Kurt doesn’t have the heart to tell her that, if she’s speaking from personal experience, boys were probably throwing sticks at her because she was Rachel, and she’s always been too much for any single human being to take in.
Then he gets it.
“That’s not a fair comparison,” he says, and it sounds extremely weak even to him.
Rachel folds her hands just above the hem of her purple plaid skirt-which clashes nauseatingly with Kurt’s blue-and-green plaid pants-and gazes around the room with the dignity and the posture of a queen surveying her domain.
“You know,” she says as her eyes light on the most predictable target, “I have a Phantom of the Opera fantasy where Finn invents the next Kindle or wins the lottery, and he comes to see me performing an all-new Broadway adaptation of King Lear retold from Cordelia’s point of view. He attends the same night as the panel for the Tonys, and I see him weeping in the front row during my stirring opening number, after which I give the best performance of my already impressive career. I usually cast Jesse-” Kurt is strangely proud of the way she sneers the name. “-as the Phantom figure for the sake of completeness, but it becomes fairly obvious during the scene in the graveyard that Finn and I are, to some degree, destined.”
“That sounds like a fanfiction,” Kurt says.
“I know,” Rachel says. “I wrote one. My reviewers generally found it quite moving, though a few were slightly disturbed by the level of detail used to describe some of the specifics, such as the distribution of Finn’s freckles.”
Kurt summarily introduces his face to his palm.
“My point is,” Rachel says, “that we all have very different ideas of what love means, and the conflicts of opinion are what make love so enticing-and also what make it so soul-shatteringly painful. The problem is that we can’t separate one from the other.” She turns to him and fixes him with an unwavering mascara-lined stare. “Just tell me if you ever need support, and I’ll send my dads to lecture Karofsky on evolutionary offshoots and suppression and behavioral anomalies until he’s so overwhelmed that he never comes near you again.”
Kurt blinks. Rachel does not.
“…thank… you…” he says.
“Certainly,” Rachel says crisply. Her focus shifts to something up over his shoulder, and he swivels to see that David has returned, bearing a red plastic cup that presumably contains about enough Coke and rum to knock Kurt out on the spot.
“Uh,” David says, grasping the cup tight enough to leave dimples in the plastic, “hi.”
“Hello,” Rachel sniffs. She stands fluidly and clasps her hands behind her back. “Personally, I think Kurt is making a mistake in giving you so much as the time of day, but in light of my own somewhat mediocre track record with members of the male species, I feel I should at least try to reserve judgment for now.”
Kurt reels a little. “Rachel, I think that’s the most self-aware statement that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
“I’m trying to be more accessible,” Rachel says. “I have begun to understand that my sheer talent intimidates a lot of people who might otherwise greatly appreciate me, given enough time and monetary incentive. Now, Dave.” David eyes her and says nothing. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I am the de facto leader of New Directions, and I have, for reasons I don’t care to elaborate upon, previously confirmed that every one of the boys owns a baseball bat and/or a lacrosse stick. I hope Kurt’s intellect has influenced you enough that you can draw your own conclusions from those two facts.”
“I haven’t fucking done anything, Rachel,” David says, more calmly than Kurt would have expected considering just how many times he’s been threatened with violence within the last hour. “So if you’re finished implying that Kurt’s stupid for being friends with me, we were kind of in the middle of a conversation.”
Rachel’s contented smile vanishes, replaced by a scowl. “Just remember who he is,” she says. “And remember how many people will fight for him.” She makes a swift about-face and starts stalking off, not before Kurt hears her mutter, “And keep your hand at the level of your eyes.”
Kurt should have been comparing his situation to Phantom all along, not to Shakespeare-except that Blaine and his urbanity could never be anyone but Raoul, but he’s never been in love with Kurt, and they definitely didn’t have a brief summer fling. Besides, it always feels slightly arrogant to cast oneself as Christine, though Rachel can pull it off.
David barely has time to sit down-or collapse, as much as he can do without spilling his drink-before Puck swaggers over to them, a bottle of Tsingtao in one hand and a can of Coors in the other.
“I can tell from your whole glazed expression that Rachel just bitched you out pro-style,” he says to David, “which almost makes me feel sorry for you, so I’m gonna make it quick. One, I think you’re an asshole. Two, New Directions is kind of like a street gang, or the Mafia, or some shit like that, so even though he’s technically on the other team, Kurt is pretty much my bro for life.” He holds out the Tsingtao fist for Kurt to bump-which Kurt does, somewhat gingerly-and then barrels on. “Three, I’ve watched ‘Kill Bill’ four times in the last seventy-two hours; and four, it’s surprisingly easy to buy a katana on eBay.”
“Puck,” Kurt says. “How drunk are you?”
“Five,” Puck says pointedly, but then he grins. “I’m just shittin’ you. That’s it. If you fuck with Kurt, I’ll fuck you up. Later, losers.”
David glares balefully at Puck as he saunters away. “This is epic bullshit.”
“I like that,” Kurt says. “‘Epic bullshit.’ Can I use that?” David shoots him a black look and takes a long draught of the drink in his hand. “They’ll warm up to you,” Kurt says. “Puck was a total douchebag when he first joined. It’s like being part of a big, volatile family… with some incestuous relationships, but you know what I mean. You always love them at least a little bit more than you want to poison them all. And newcomers find their places after a little while-take Lauren as an example.”
“Lauren scares the fuck out of me,” David says.
“Me, too,” Kurt says. “It’s my favorite thing about her.” David rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s like I said the other day,” Kurt persists. “You have to push your own limits to find out where they are.”
“Yeah, comfort zones and shit,” David says. He pauses. “Remember what else you said?”
“I said a lot of things. As you have pointed out on multiple occasions, I have a tendency to do that.”
David holds his red cup out to Kurt. “Try it.”
Kurt wrinkles his nose at the first whiff of rum. “David, I’m the designated driver for more people than I will actually be able to fit into the designated car.”
“Even you can’t get drunk enough in one sip that you’ll feel it by the time this shit is over,” David says, pushing the cup at him. “Just try it. I wanna know what you think.”
Kurt frowns at him, but he’s kind of been backed into a corner by his own arguments at this point. His only alternative is to protest the point on principle until David’s temper sends him storming off, and even aside from the fact that Kurt would then be very bored, it doesn’t sound particularly fair.
Thus does he accept the cup, make a series of exaggerated faces to reinforce his distaste for the issue, and take a very delicate sip.
It’s strong and slightly acrid, but the Coke makes it sweeter than he expects. There’s something smooth and balanced about the way it slips down his throat, and it’s definitely not toxic.
He hands the cup back.
“Well?” David asks.
“It reminds me of you,” Kurt says.
Very, very slowly, David raises an eyebrow. “What the hell does that mean?”
“That’s the part I’m trying to figure out,” Kurt says.
David gives him a long look.
“One more riddle,” he says, “and I’m gonna dump this on your head and get another one.”
“Despite our tenuous friendship,” Kurt says, “I would have no qualms whatsoever about clawing your eyes out if you ruined these pants.”
David glares at him for five full seconds before the façade cracks, and he starts to grin.
“I don’t even know why they manufacture shit like that,” he says. “You’re the only person on the planet who can wear it and not look like a fucking idiot. Or like a fucking golf caddy.”
“I’m not sure which would be worse,” Kurt says truthfully.
Santana staggers up to them and points a little to the left of the center of David’s face.
David looks agonized. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Up-shut,” Santana says. “I just want you to know Kurt’s pretty much the only person in all of fucking Lima who hasn’t pissed me off in the last week. Although that might be because I haven’t seen him. Those pants are fucking ridiculous; were you wearing sunglasses in the store when you bought that shit? Somebody get me a pair of scissors, for Chrissake.”
David bristles. “Look, you drunk whore-”
Santana positions her right hand two inches from his face, opening her fingers and her thumb to pantomime a mouth, and then snaps them closed.
“I seen what you did to that boy,” Santana says. “And I am telling you-telling you-that if you do anything else, I will cut you.” She bares her teeth. “With a knife.”
David is silent, possibly because he’s seething so avidly that he has lost the capacity for speech.
“Thank you, Santana,” Kurt says hastily. “Why don’t you… try to talk Blaine down from the bookshelf? He might jump.”
“Dalton boy!” Santana shouts. “You ain’t gettin’ no blood on no Asian-ass carpet on my watch!”
With that glistening pearl of grammatical prowess, she departs.
Kurt dares to look over. David has his head thrown back-when he’s emptied the last of his drink, he puts the cup down on the table, darts his tongue over his lips, and glances back.
“Can we fucking please go outside?” he asks.
“That is a fantastic idea,” Kurt says, jumping up.
Because it’s Ohio-and summer, and Kurt’s life-it’s still obnoxiously warm, and the humidity immediately starts sticking to the insides of Kurt’s elbows and the backs of his knees. David pulls the door shut after them and then drops down onto the front step, splaying his hands behind him and leaning back on his arms. He stretches his legs out onto the start of the pathway and lowers his head.
“Jesus.” It’s more exhalation than really sigh, which kind of mimics Kurt’s feelings.
“There’s a distinct possibility we should just stay out here until they’re all unconscious,” Kurt says.
“So five more minutes.”
Kurt grins. “Oh, four and a half tops.”
David smiles for a moment, but then his expression grows solemn again. “You think Az saw us leave?”
“I don’t know,” Kurt says. “I imagine he was pretty focused on how much Finn was embarrassing him at beer pong, but I wasn’t really paying attention.” The rest of that sentence is to anyone but you. Kurt’s not sure where it came from or if he likes it.
David leans forward, drawing up his knees and rubbing his face with both hands. “Fuck.”
Kurt hesitates, and then he reaches out and pats David’s shoulder.
“It’s just… Az sees everything in fucking black and white.” David stops rubbing his forehead and starts pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, so that sounded like a shitty racist joke.”
“I know what you meant,” Kurt says, trying very hard not to be amused, since he doesn’t think that would help things. “And I know what you mean.” He swallows, realizing his hand is now resting lightly on David’s arm. It would be awkward to withdraw it now, but it’s awkward leaving it there, and… just… crap. “I… thank you for standing up for me earlier.”
“Don’t thank me,” David mutters darkly. “I almost fucking chickened out. He’s getting so fucking close to figuring it out; I don’t… I don’t know what I’m gonna do when he does. ’Cause someday he will.”
“You’re going to hold your head up,” Kurt says, “and ask him if he cares about culture.”
David glances at him sidelong. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve got some of the recent musicians already,” Kurt says, “but that’s just the tip of the iceberg as far as LGBT artists go.” He smiles, trying not to anticipate this part too eagerly. “For instance, historians think Michaelangelo was gay.”
“No shit?” David stares at him in wonder. “Holy crap. My mom would have an aneurysm if she knew that the guy who did the Sistine Chapel ceiling was batting for our team.”
Kurt likes that pronoun, and he likes what it whispers about how far David has come. “We’ve also got Leonardo da Vinci,” he says. “And maybe a few other Ninja Turtles; I’ll get back to you. We definitely have Wilde, almost certainly Hopkins, and arguably Shakespeare.”
“I don’t know who Hopkins is,” David says slowly, “but that’s not bad.”
“I’m just getting started,” Kurt says. “Tony Kushner. W.H. Auden. Truman Capote. Andy Warhol. Noël Coward. Tennessee Williams. Possibly Langston Hughes. Possibly Tchaikovsky. Almost certainly Walt Whitman. Chuck Palahniuk-the guy who wrote Fight Club, which is probably Azimio’s favorite movie. Willa Cather. Ellen DeGeneres. Hmm… Suze Orman-you know, the woman on TV who tells everybody what to do with their money? Bryan Singer, who made the ‘X-Men’ movies. Neil Patrick Harris. Ian freaking McKellan. Billie Joe Armstrong has said that he’s bi. Others have said James Dean was, and Marlon Brando, though not with each other that I know of.”
“You are shitting me,” David says.
“Not in the slightest,” Kurt says, only a little bit smugly. “And… well, virtually every male fashion designer that’s ever been, but that’s another conversation entirely and not one that’ll help right now.”
David is quiet for a moment, looking at his shoes. He shifts his feet, turning his toes in. A cheer goes up inside the house, heedlessly jubilant, and some part of Kurt wants to join in. “I guess… we’re kind of in good company.”
“Oh,” Kurt says. “One more: Alan Turing. His whole story is a tragedy, but… he was one of the most brilliant mathematicians and cryptographers who ever lived, and his mark on technology is indescribable. It’s still hard, David, even here, where the politics are relatively progressive, but… we’re getting there. We’re moving forward. You know very well that I don’t believe in much, but one thing I do believe is that we’re going to see a day where we stop being gays and start being people.”
David gives him a faint smile. “It confuses the hell out of me when you have faith in humanity all of a sudden.”
Kurt smiles back. “That’s kind of what happens when you don’t have a God-humanity’s the only thing left to have faith in.”
David buries his face in his hands again, groaning. “Don’t be cheesy. I’ll throw up.”
Kurt rolls his eyes.
Then the door opens behind them, and he turns so fast his spine protests.
But it’s not Azimio-it’s Blaine. His hair looks like he dipped his head in mousse and then took a stroll through a wind tunnel, which really should not somehow manage to be attractive.
“Oh, my God,” he says dazedly, staggering. He points at Kurt, and his hand wavers. “You… are officially crazy. This guy is so bad for you.” He holds his head with both hands. “Maybe as bad as… the… what’s…”
“Jell-O shots?” Kurt supplies.
“Yes!” Blaine says, pointing at him again, excitedly this time. “Jell-O shots! He’s as bad for you as Jell-O shots are for me, and that’s bad!”
“Fuck off,” David says. Kurt grabs his arm again-this time because he’s tensing to stand, and Kurt predicts that if David gets to his feet, Blaine is going to get thrown into a hydrangea bush. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about it, or me, or fucking anything outside your prissy little life, so fuck off.”
Blaine subjects Kurt to his peerless puppy eyes. “Does he talk to you like this?”
“It’s part of his charm,” Kurt says, pretending he doesn’t notice David’s incredulous stare in his peripheral vision. “Blaine, just go inside. It’s fine; I can handle it.”
“No,” Blaine says staunchly, with the unequivocal conviction unique to five-year-olds and the severely wasted. “No, Kurt. I care about you too much.”
“I’ll bet you do,” David says, pulling out of Kurt’s grasp too quickly for dissuasion. “You care so much that you string him along and treat him like your sidekick and tell him he’s going to regret it when he makes a decision you don’t like. You treat him like your fucking pet.”
Blaine is flabbergasted-and far too drunk to articulate a rebuttal. That’s sort of a good thing, in that David’s less likely to pummel him if he just stands there gaping. Kurt’s also crossing his fingers that Blaine won’t remember much of this encounter tomorrow morning, because he really doesn’t want to be on damage control duty for this one.
And it’s not true-not really. Blaine’s just a very different kind of friend than David is. And Kurt loves them in different ways.
…oh.
…oh, God.
“Well, you know what I learned from Kurt?” David is demanding. “You know the first thing I learned from him?”
“…n-no?” Blaine says.
“If you liked it,” David says, looming over him, “then you should’ve put a ring on it, bitch.”
Silence falls.
Blaine blinks.
David’s fists clench and unclench.
Kurt starts laughing downright hysterically, which he thinks might be the only possible reaction to this situation.
He covers his mouth and tries to stop, but his shoulders are shaking too hard, which causes him to stumble. Stumbling, in turn, causes him to slip off the edge of the path, and slipping sends him straight into the hydrangeas. The hydrangeas, none too pleased with this arrangement, promptly drop him into the dirt.
Kurt has a moment to pant and wonder if his feet protruding from the plant matter are sufficient grounds for a Wizard of Oz reference, and then David is hauling him out, holding him upright, and brushing frantically at his shoulder-blades with one warm hand.
“What the hell, Hummel?” he says. “Kurt, seriously, are you-”
Kurt braces himself by flattening a hand on David’s chest, and the rest of the question vanishes.
“I’m fine,” Kurt answers anyway.
“I’m not,” Blaine says. He’s leaning against the door looking dazed and very pale.
“The bathroom is inside and on your left,” Kurt says.
Blaine whimpers, gets the doorknob to turn on the second try, and staggers inside. The door slams behind him. Kurt’s hand is still resting on David’s chest. In fact, David is staring down at Kurt’s hand where it is still resting on his chest.
“Uh,” he says. “Kurt?”
“Well?” Kurt says, wiggling his fingers a little. “Are you going to put a ring on it, or aren’t you?”
David stares. David clears his throat. David stares at little more.
“What?” David asks.
Kurt’s face is on fire, but he can’t stop grinning. “Third time lucky?”
David stares for another moment, and then his cheeks start staining pink. “You are out of your fucking mind.”
“I know,” Kurt says cheerfully.
David’s hand lifts, hesitates, and then settles on Kurt’s shoulder. “It’s… kinda hot.”
Kurt’s grin widens. “I was hoping.”
David’s fingertips ghost over Kurt’s neck just above his collar. “I-rum and Coke?”
“Bring it on,” Kurt says.
“Are you high?”
“David,” Kurt says.
“Um,” David says. “Kurt.” His other hand rises, and his fingers graze the back of Kurt’s neck and then curl in his hair. Tentatively, he smiles. “Kurt.” He takes a deep breath and leans in.
Soft this time-and dark, since Kurt’s eyes have slipped shut; and damp, as David’s mouth covers his; and heavily warm as they press together in the moist late-night heat.
Well… damn.
“Ah,” Kurt breathes when he remembers how to breathe. “Just… one problem.”
David looks alarmed.
“That…” Right. Breathing. “…was pretty gay.”
He didn’t think this through too well; David has the perfect angle to strangle him.
Except that’s Karofsky. And this is David. And David’s eyebrows rise, and then he grins.
“Shut up,” he says.
“Make me,” Kurt says.
And David does.
Distantly, Kurt hears a rumble, which peters out a little and then dies. He hears another sharp sound-a slamming. And then…
“Holy crap!” Mercedes cries.
David draws back just enough to murmur his favorite word against Kurt’s lips:
“Fuuuuuck.”
The uniform hung up by the closet looks as though it has gained enough sentience to recoil from the dark-blue-with-lightning-bolts pajama pants that Kurt is currently wearing.
He’s just concluded his Cuckoo’s Nest essay with an extremely dubious metaphor-he’ll change it before the final draft, but he can’t wait to see the looks on the faces of his peer editors-when his phone rings. Freddie starts crooning the chorus of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” but Kurt can’t quite find the patience to let him finish before picking up.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur David,” he says. “Comment ça va?”
“Uh,” David says. “Le… yo. Do you have a minute?”
“My roommate just left to take a shower,” Kurt says, saving the essay document with a swift flick of the… hotkey. “In a few hours, I’ll have to send for a search party-but until then, I’m all yours.”
“Cool,” David says. “I… told my parents today.”
Kurt’s mouth falls open, and his hand leaps up over it. He probably looks like something from a thirties film-not that that’s a bad thing in the least. “David-! How did it go?”
Given that David is neither screaming obscenities nor sobbing into the phone, Kurt’s optimistic, but he still wants to tread carefully, just in case.
Besides, David could be in shock at this point. He could be calling from a bus stop at the outskirts of Lima because his mother evicted him, and he needs a place to stay-
“It was… okay,” David says. “I dunno. How is it supposed to go?”
“I guess that depends on a lot of things,” Kurt says, holding tight to the phone and kind of wishing it was David’s hand.
“Yeah, I guess so.” David swallows audibly. “My dad didn’t even seem surprised. Which sort of weirds me out. He’s so friggin’ smart, it’s like… uh, where did I come from?”
“Hush,” Kurt says. “You know very well you’re brilliant.” He softens his voice. “How about your mom?”
“Well…” This time, David sighs. “She didn’t exactly, like, applaud or anything. And she said-I mean, the first thing she said was ‘Why would you do that?’, so… I told her about how Michaelangelo was probably gay, like you said.”
“How did she take that?” Kurt asks.
“She wasn’t too happy, but… I guess at least she listened. She didn’t really flip her shit until I told her you’re gay.”
Kurt pauses. “I’m not sure whether to be offended or kind of flattered.”
“Do both,” David says. “She pretty much thinks you walk on fucking water, so now she has to figure some shit out from scratch.”
“I’d be glad to talk to her,” Kurt says. “Just let me know if it would help.”
There’s silence on the line for a moment. “Okay. Yeah.”
“David,” Kurt says, “this is wonderful. Maybe it doesn’t feel like it yet, but it’ll sink in. They’re your parents. They’re always going to love you, or at least they will until you get a flaming skull tattoo on your chest and join a hair band. I am so proud of you. And I’m really, really happy.”
There’s another stretch of quiet, but it’s shorter this time.
“I…” David says. “I kind of am, too.”
“I’ll be down this weekend,” Kurt says. “Are you going to be around?”
“Yeah. Unless Mercedes tells Finn, and he castrates me, at which point I figure I’ll be in the hospital.”
“I’m going to buy you a slice of pie,” Kurt says. “I’ll bring it to the ICU if I have to. What’s your favorite kind?”
“Everything,” David says. “Pick something you like, and we can share or-whatever.” He clears his throat. “How’s… what’s-his-face taking it?”
“Blaine?” Kurt asks. “Taking what? Oh. Well, I suppose he’s a bit put-out that he’s no longer the only cute gay guy in my circle of acquaintances-”
“Shut up,” David mutters, but Kurt can almost hear him blushing.
“-but he’s a good friend. And I think he’s going to stay that way. I even maintain hope that the two of you will someday come to understand each other.”
“Over my dead, gay-as-hell body,” David says. “I… All right, fuck it. I have a ton of homework, but I just-wanted to tell you first.”
“In my mind,” Kurt says, “I am hugging you.”
“I can totally feel it,” David says, “’cause you’re psychic.”
Kurt grins. “Fabulous. Goodnight, David.”
“Holy shit, Kurt,” David says. “It is a good night.”
And it’s the first of many.
[Chapter 8]
Chapter: 9. Rum and Coke
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Karofsky/Kurt
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,970
Warnings: ♥
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: Well, my lovely, lovely, lovely Gleeks… this is it. Will there be more Kurtofsky from me? I wish I could say no, but the honest answer is "God damn it, almost certainly." (And there may be a few little fluffy outtakes/follow-ups to this fic, because I'm kind of attached to it. DAMN THIS FANDOM.) Thank you ALL for joining me in this sandbox, and I hope you had a totally awesome (~totally awesome~) time. ♥;;;;
CHAPTER 9: RUM AND COKE
He’s bracing himself for the worst to have happened already, but no one’s dead yet. Further, Blaine is still perched on the bookshelf-Ryan has joined him, and they now have their arms around one another’s shoulders and are swaying back and forth, singing what might be the “Muppet Babies” theme song. Kurt doesn’t even want to know.
David’s harder to find. After two quick glances around the room, Kurt picks him out in the furthest corner from Blaine. There’s time now to notice that he’s wearing a black button-up shirt that helps him blend into the shadows, although whether or not that’s intentional Kurt can’t quite say, and he has his arms folded tightly across his chest as he watches Azimio and the others unfolding a table for beer pong.
Kurt feels like he’s just become the mediator in his own private Cold War. One wrong move, one wrong word, one chance encounter he doesn’t stop before it happens, and every fragile structure he’s assembled will come down around his ears, probably scattering enough broken glass for all of them to slit their throats.
Finn comes up beside him where he’s standing in the doorway to the living room, holding tight to the frame for balance.
“So when I was talking about hockey masks,” Finn says, “it was kind of just an example. What I really meant was that you should keep out anybody who’s an asshole, and serial killers are assholes, so they fall into that category. So do all of those douchebags.”
“They’re your teammates,” Kurt says faintly.
“They can be douchebags and still be my teammates,” Finn says. He pauses. “Wait, that’s exactly like what Rachel said earlier, only worse.”
“I think it’s about even,” Kurt says.
They both hesitate there for a moment, watching Azimio and his minions line up their red cups and contemplate the ping-pong ball they’ve turned up from Kurt-has-no-desire-to-know-where. Beer is poured, and then the home-base rinsing cups are filled with water, and then one of the kids with weird hair makes a terrible throw, and Finn literally twitches.
Kurt considers this from the alpha male perspective-while Finn is not an A-type personality by any means, he is a leader, and high school is, unfortunately, kind of just one giant, hideous mess of strange dominance battles.
That aside, Finn is a sports fanatic.
“Go on,” Kurt says resignedly. “Show them all how it’s done.”
Finn blinks at him, making a token effort at feigning misunderstanding.
“Just give me your keys,” Kurt says, holding a hand out for them.
Slowly, Finn reveals the shy, uneasy grin that makes him so easy to fall in love with, and then he fishes out his keyring and unceremoniously drops it into Kurt’s open palm.
“Owe you one,” he says.
“Take it easy,” Kurt says. “My dad can smell liquor. And guilt.”
Finn saunters off like a happy puppy, and Kurt… just can’t handle this anymore. Being strung between the worst-case scenarios makes his skin crawl, and his head hurts, and now he definitely can’t drink until the roaring troubles fade to a faint buzzing in his ears.
Wedging Finn’s unnecessarily large keychain-has he ever used the football-shaped LED light? Will he ever?-into his pocket, Kurt stumps over to the squishy couch and flops down onto it. After a moment’s thought, he puts his feet up on the coffee table and crosses his arms. Sitting here is like being in the eye of Hurricane Poor Judgment.
Movement catches his eye. Someday Kurt is going to throw himself a party-a party not at all like this one; perhaps a tea party, possibly black-tie-if the paranoia settles enough that he can go through an entire day without jumping at a shadow.
This shadow is David. He sits down on the other cushion and then stays very still, watching Blaine and Ryan undertake a thumb war so fervid they’re in grave danger of falling off of the shelf. Apparently Rachel has, quite reasonably, given up hope for them, as she’s disappeared from the scene.
“Sorry,” David says after a long moment.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Kurt says. “Unless you cleverly engineered this encounter, which I somehow doubt.”
There’s a pause. Kurt glances over, and David is pulling at a loose thread on his cushion. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be here. Az is just such a-and I am sorry about that, only that’s not what I meant I was sorry about. Fuck. I hate that word.”
Kurt swallows and flattens his tie a little. “Did you mean… yesterday?”
David raises one broad hand to run it down his face. He still hasn’t made eye contact. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that, either,” Kurt says, and if his voice shakes a little, it’s obviously just because the whole room is shaking with some awful bass beat. “It was really courageous of you to put your feelings out there. I should have reacted better, but it kind of caught me off-guard. So… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry kinda world,” David mutters.
“You said it,” Kurt replies.
They sit for another moment. Lauren and Puck amble by, joined at the mouth. They break apart long enough to take synchronized swigs of whatever’s in their respective cups.
“Why do you even put up with my bullshit?” David asks. “You keep saying we’re friends, but I don’t get how you can even like me. Look at all the other friends you’ve got; they all think I’m a dick.”
“Sometimes you are,” Kurt says. “And last year, you definitely were. But I think that’s true for most of us, at least at this stage-we’re all kind of flailing around trying to get our bearings, and we usually end up kicking people, whether we intend to or not.”
David stares at him. “That’s… deep… I guess.”
Kurt elects to pretend he didn’t hear that. “Anyway, it would be stupid of me to say I’m over last year, because I’m not, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before I am. I don’t know if I ever will be, to be honest; it’s… hard. But that doesn’t change the fact that you are likable, David. You’re honest, and you’re smart, and you’re pretty funny when you aren’t too worried about who’s listening. You can be really generous. And you can be really brave. I’m glad I can be friends with someone like that.”
David is still staring at him. David has nice eyelashes.
“I didn’t realize you’d been into the cocaine,” David says.
“You know it,” Kurt says. “I was doing lines off of this couch, actually-right where you’re sitting.”
David manages to keep a straight face for a full three seconds before he laughs.
Kurt grins, but he gets distracted by the tremendous crash-and-crunch as Ryan falls off of the bookshelf. Fortunately for him, a pile of cups that have already been discarded breaks his fall, and he’s not conscious enough to tense for the impact. Everyone in the room applauds when he pops back up, unscathed, and bows.
When Kurt’s finished rolling his eyes, he’s startled to see that they’re about to be visited by at least one spirit-Party Past or Party Future, he doesn’t know; this particular messenger seems to be pretty consistent.
Brittany comes up to their couch and looks down at them thoughtfully. She seems to have misplaced her shirt, although that doesn’t seem to be what she’s thinking about, and she’s wearing Artie’s glasses pushed up into her hair.
“You two should adopt a kitten,” she says, “and name it Squiggles.”
Kurt opens his mouth and then shuts it again when he can’t think of a single thing to send out of it.
“But-” Brittany looks around, leans in close enough that Kurt can count the lime-green polka dots on her bra, and lowers her voice. “Don’t get any kitten related to my cat. I think he might be Fidel Castro. Especially because ‘Castro’ has ‘Cat’ in it if you move the letters around.”
“Um,” David says. “Thanks…?”
Brittany nods sagely and wanders off. Before Kurt and David have even finished exchanging glances, Artie rolls up and takes her place, squinting at them intently. The mystery of Brittany’s lost shirt is solved; it’s on his head.
“You,” he says to David. “I want you to know one thing: I’m not scared of you.” He grins smugly while they sit in stunned silence, but then his face falls. “I will be if I don’t wake up, because this isn’t an awesome dream where I’m supposed to tell everyone what I really think of them. But I’m hoping it is.” He turns to Kurt, squints again, and frowns. “I’m deeply jealous of how well you wear sweaters. And I’ve always secretly wanted to touch your hair.”
“What,” David says slowly, “inthefuck.”
“Where the hell did Brittany go?” Artie asks, squinting around himself. “Woman!” he shouts, wheeling off. “Where you at?”
David swallows, and then he lifts a hand and runs it through his hair.
“I need some alcohol,” he says.
“Play it safe,” Kurt says. “It’s only ten o’clock.”
David shrugs a little as he gets up, but this is a Yeah, I see your point kind of shrug.
The moment he’s well away from the couch, Rachel appears from nowhere and settles primly on Kurt’s other side.
“Is this like elementary school?” Rachel asks.
Kurt stares at her. He’s not drunk. She’s not drunk. So what the hell is going on?
“Like-” She makes sure to add air quotes. “-‘relationships’ in elementary school. Back when all of the immature boys who didn’t have the capacity or the intellectual development to express their feelings would throw sticks at the girls they liked.”
Kurt doesn’t have the heart to tell her that, if she’s speaking from personal experience, boys were probably throwing sticks at her because she was Rachel, and she’s always been too much for any single human being to take in.
Then he gets it.
“That’s not a fair comparison,” he says, and it sounds extremely weak even to him.
Rachel folds her hands just above the hem of her purple plaid skirt-which clashes nauseatingly with Kurt’s blue-and-green plaid pants-and gazes around the room with the dignity and the posture of a queen surveying her domain.
“You know,” she says as her eyes light on the most predictable target, “I have a Phantom of the Opera fantasy where Finn invents the next Kindle or wins the lottery, and he comes to see me performing an all-new Broadway adaptation of King Lear retold from Cordelia’s point of view. He attends the same night as the panel for the Tonys, and I see him weeping in the front row during my stirring opening number, after which I give the best performance of my already impressive career. I usually cast Jesse-” Kurt is strangely proud of the way she sneers the name. “-as the Phantom figure for the sake of completeness, but it becomes fairly obvious during the scene in the graveyard that Finn and I are, to some degree, destined.”
“That sounds like a fanfiction,” Kurt says.
“I know,” Rachel says. “I wrote one. My reviewers generally found it quite moving, though a few were slightly disturbed by the level of detail used to describe some of the specifics, such as the distribution of Finn’s freckles.”
Kurt summarily introduces his face to his palm.
“My point is,” Rachel says, “that we all have very different ideas of what love means, and the conflicts of opinion are what make love so enticing-and also what make it so soul-shatteringly painful. The problem is that we can’t separate one from the other.” She turns to him and fixes him with an unwavering mascara-lined stare. “Just tell me if you ever need support, and I’ll send my dads to lecture Karofsky on evolutionary offshoots and suppression and behavioral anomalies until he’s so overwhelmed that he never comes near you again.”
Kurt blinks. Rachel does not.
“…thank… you…” he says.
“Certainly,” Rachel says crisply. Her focus shifts to something up over his shoulder, and he swivels to see that David has returned, bearing a red plastic cup that presumably contains about enough Coke and rum to knock Kurt out on the spot.
“Uh,” David says, grasping the cup tight enough to leave dimples in the plastic, “hi.”
“Hello,” Rachel sniffs. She stands fluidly and clasps her hands behind her back. “Personally, I think Kurt is making a mistake in giving you so much as the time of day, but in light of my own somewhat mediocre track record with members of the male species, I feel I should at least try to reserve judgment for now.”
Kurt reels a little. “Rachel, I think that’s the most self-aware statement that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
“I’m trying to be more accessible,” Rachel says. “I have begun to understand that my sheer talent intimidates a lot of people who might otherwise greatly appreciate me, given enough time and monetary incentive. Now, Dave.” David eyes her and says nothing. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I am the de facto leader of New Directions, and I have, for reasons I don’t care to elaborate upon, previously confirmed that every one of the boys owns a baseball bat and/or a lacrosse stick. I hope Kurt’s intellect has influenced you enough that you can draw your own conclusions from those two facts.”
“I haven’t fucking done anything, Rachel,” David says, more calmly than Kurt would have expected considering just how many times he’s been threatened with violence within the last hour. “So if you’re finished implying that Kurt’s stupid for being friends with me, we were kind of in the middle of a conversation.”
Rachel’s contented smile vanishes, replaced by a scowl. “Just remember who he is,” she says. “And remember how many people will fight for him.” She makes a swift about-face and starts stalking off, not before Kurt hears her mutter, “And keep your hand at the level of your eyes.”
Kurt should have been comparing his situation to Phantom all along, not to Shakespeare-except that Blaine and his urbanity could never be anyone but Raoul, but he’s never been in love with Kurt, and they definitely didn’t have a brief summer fling. Besides, it always feels slightly arrogant to cast oneself as Christine, though Rachel can pull it off.
David barely has time to sit down-or collapse, as much as he can do without spilling his drink-before Puck swaggers over to them, a bottle of Tsingtao in one hand and a can of Coors in the other.
“I can tell from your whole glazed expression that Rachel just bitched you out pro-style,” he says to David, “which almost makes me feel sorry for you, so I’m gonna make it quick. One, I think you’re an asshole. Two, New Directions is kind of like a street gang, or the Mafia, or some shit like that, so even though he’s technically on the other team, Kurt is pretty much my bro for life.” He holds out the Tsingtao fist for Kurt to bump-which Kurt does, somewhat gingerly-and then barrels on. “Three, I’ve watched ‘Kill Bill’ four times in the last seventy-two hours; and four, it’s surprisingly easy to buy a katana on eBay.”
“Puck,” Kurt says. “How drunk are you?”
“Five,” Puck says pointedly, but then he grins. “I’m just shittin’ you. That’s it. If you fuck with Kurt, I’ll fuck you up. Later, losers.”
David glares balefully at Puck as he saunters away. “This is epic bullshit.”
“I like that,” Kurt says. “‘Epic bullshit.’ Can I use that?” David shoots him a black look and takes a long draught of the drink in his hand. “They’ll warm up to you,” Kurt says. “Puck was a total douchebag when he first joined. It’s like being part of a big, volatile family… with some incestuous relationships, but you know what I mean. You always love them at least a little bit more than you want to poison them all. And newcomers find their places after a little while-take Lauren as an example.”
“Lauren scares the fuck out of me,” David says.
“Me, too,” Kurt says. “It’s my favorite thing about her.” David rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s like I said the other day,” Kurt persists. “You have to push your own limits to find out where they are.”
“Yeah, comfort zones and shit,” David says. He pauses. “Remember what else you said?”
“I said a lot of things. As you have pointed out on multiple occasions, I have a tendency to do that.”
David holds his red cup out to Kurt. “Try it.”
Kurt wrinkles his nose at the first whiff of rum. “David, I’m the designated driver for more people than I will actually be able to fit into the designated car.”
“Even you can’t get drunk enough in one sip that you’ll feel it by the time this shit is over,” David says, pushing the cup at him. “Just try it. I wanna know what you think.”
Kurt frowns at him, but he’s kind of been backed into a corner by his own arguments at this point. His only alternative is to protest the point on principle until David’s temper sends him storming off, and even aside from the fact that Kurt would then be very bored, it doesn’t sound particularly fair.
Thus does he accept the cup, make a series of exaggerated faces to reinforce his distaste for the issue, and take a very delicate sip.
It’s strong and slightly acrid, but the Coke makes it sweeter than he expects. There’s something smooth and balanced about the way it slips down his throat, and it’s definitely not toxic.
He hands the cup back.
“Well?” David asks.
“It reminds me of you,” Kurt says.
Very, very slowly, David raises an eyebrow. “What the hell does that mean?”
“That’s the part I’m trying to figure out,” Kurt says.
David gives him a long look.
“One more riddle,” he says, “and I’m gonna dump this on your head and get another one.”
“Despite our tenuous friendship,” Kurt says, “I would have no qualms whatsoever about clawing your eyes out if you ruined these pants.”
David glares at him for five full seconds before the façade cracks, and he starts to grin.
“I don’t even know why they manufacture shit like that,” he says. “You’re the only person on the planet who can wear it and not look like a fucking idiot. Or like a fucking golf caddy.”
“I’m not sure which would be worse,” Kurt says truthfully.
Santana staggers up to them and points a little to the left of the center of David’s face.
David looks agonized. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Up-shut,” Santana says. “I just want you to know Kurt’s pretty much the only person in all of fucking Lima who hasn’t pissed me off in the last week. Although that might be because I haven’t seen him. Those pants are fucking ridiculous; were you wearing sunglasses in the store when you bought that shit? Somebody get me a pair of scissors, for Chrissake.”
David bristles. “Look, you drunk whore-”
Santana positions her right hand two inches from his face, opening her fingers and her thumb to pantomime a mouth, and then snaps them closed.
“I seen what you did to that boy,” Santana says. “And I am telling you-telling you-that if you do anything else, I will cut you.” She bares her teeth. “With a knife.”
David is silent, possibly because he’s seething so avidly that he has lost the capacity for speech.
“Thank you, Santana,” Kurt says hastily. “Why don’t you… try to talk Blaine down from the bookshelf? He might jump.”
“Dalton boy!” Santana shouts. “You ain’t gettin’ no blood on no Asian-ass carpet on my watch!”
With that glistening pearl of grammatical prowess, she departs.
Kurt dares to look over. David has his head thrown back-when he’s emptied the last of his drink, he puts the cup down on the table, darts his tongue over his lips, and glances back.
“Can we fucking please go outside?” he asks.
“That is a fantastic idea,” Kurt says, jumping up.
Because it’s Ohio-and summer, and Kurt’s life-it’s still obnoxiously warm, and the humidity immediately starts sticking to the insides of Kurt’s elbows and the backs of his knees. David pulls the door shut after them and then drops down onto the front step, splaying his hands behind him and leaning back on his arms. He stretches his legs out onto the start of the pathway and lowers his head.
“Jesus.” It’s more exhalation than really sigh, which kind of mimics Kurt’s feelings.
“There’s a distinct possibility we should just stay out here until they’re all unconscious,” Kurt says.
“So five more minutes.”
Kurt grins. “Oh, four and a half tops.”
David smiles for a moment, but then his expression grows solemn again. “You think Az saw us leave?”
“I don’t know,” Kurt says. “I imagine he was pretty focused on how much Finn was embarrassing him at beer pong, but I wasn’t really paying attention.” The rest of that sentence is to anyone but you. Kurt’s not sure where it came from or if he likes it.
David leans forward, drawing up his knees and rubbing his face with both hands. “Fuck.”
Kurt hesitates, and then he reaches out and pats David’s shoulder.
“It’s just… Az sees everything in fucking black and white.” David stops rubbing his forehead and starts pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, so that sounded like a shitty racist joke.”
“I know what you meant,” Kurt says, trying very hard not to be amused, since he doesn’t think that would help things. “And I know what you mean.” He swallows, realizing his hand is now resting lightly on David’s arm. It would be awkward to withdraw it now, but it’s awkward leaving it there, and… just… crap. “I… thank you for standing up for me earlier.”
“Don’t thank me,” David mutters darkly. “I almost fucking chickened out. He’s getting so fucking close to figuring it out; I don’t… I don’t know what I’m gonna do when he does. ’Cause someday he will.”
“You’re going to hold your head up,” Kurt says, “and ask him if he cares about culture.”
David glances at him sidelong. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve got some of the recent musicians already,” Kurt says, “but that’s just the tip of the iceberg as far as LGBT artists go.” He smiles, trying not to anticipate this part too eagerly. “For instance, historians think Michaelangelo was gay.”
“No shit?” David stares at him in wonder. “Holy crap. My mom would have an aneurysm if she knew that the guy who did the Sistine Chapel ceiling was batting for our team.”
Kurt likes that pronoun, and he likes what it whispers about how far David has come. “We’ve also got Leonardo da Vinci,” he says. “And maybe a few other Ninja Turtles; I’ll get back to you. We definitely have Wilde, almost certainly Hopkins, and arguably Shakespeare.”
“I don’t know who Hopkins is,” David says slowly, “but that’s not bad.”
“I’m just getting started,” Kurt says. “Tony Kushner. W.H. Auden. Truman Capote. Andy Warhol. Noël Coward. Tennessee Williams. Possibly Langston Hughes. Possibly Tchaikovsky. Almost certainly Walt Whitman. Chuck Palahniuk-the guy who wrote Fight Club, which is probably Azimio’s favorite movie. Willa Cather. Ellen DeGeneres. Hmm… Suze Orman-you know, the woman on TV who tells everybody what to do with their money? Bryan Singer, who made the ‘X-Men’ movies. Neil Patrick Harris. Ian freaking McKellan. Billie Joe Armstrong has said that he’s bi. Others have said James Dean was, and Marlon Brando, though not with each other that I know of.”
“You are shitting me,” David says.
“Not in the slightest,” Kurt says, only a little bit smugly. “And… well, virtually every male fashion designer that’s ever been, but that’s another conversation entirely and not one that’ll help right now.”
David is quiet for a moment, looking at his shoes. He shifts his feet, turning his toes in. A cheer goes up inside the house, heedlessly jubilant, and some part of Kurt wants to join in. “I guess… we’re kind of in good company.”
“Oh,” Kurt says. “One more: Alan Turing. His whole story is a tragedy, but… he was one of the most brilliant mathematicians and cryptographers who ever lived, and his mark on technology is indescribable. It’s still hard, David, even here, where the politics are relatively progressive, but… we’re getting there. We’re moving forward. You know very well that I don’t believe in much, but one thing I do believe is that we’re going to see a day where we stop being gays and start being people.”
David gives him a faint smile. “It confuses the hell out of me when you have faith in humanity all of a sudden.”
Kurt smiles back. “That’s kind of what happens when you don’t have a God-humanity’s the only thing left to have faith in.”
David buries his face in his hands again, groaning. “Don’t be cheesy. I’ll throw up.”
Kurt rolls his eyes.
Then the door opens behind them, and he turns so fast his spine protests.
But it’s not Azimio-it’s Blaine. His hair looks like he dipped his head in mousse and then took a stroll through a wind tunnel, which really should not somehow manage to be attractive.
“Oh, my God,” he says dazedly, staggering. He points at Kurt, and his hand wavers. “You… are officially crazy. This guy is so bad for you.” He holds his head with both hands. “Maybe as bad as… the… what’s…”
“Jell-O shots?” Kurt supplies.
“Yes!” Blaine says, pointing at him again, excitedly this time. “Jell-O shots! He’s as bad for you as Jell-O shots are for me, and that’s bad!”
“Fuck off,” David says. Kurt grabs his arm again-this time because he’s tensing to stand, and Kurt predicts that if David gets to his feet, Blaine is going to get thrown into a hydrangea bush. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about it, or me, or fucking anything outside your prissy little life, so fuck off.”
Blaine subjects Kurt to his peerless puppy eyes. “Does he talk to you like this?”
“It’s part of his charm,” Kurt says, pretending he doesn’t notice David’s incredulous stare in his peripheral vision. “Blaine, just go inside. It’s fine; I can handle it.”
“No,” Blaine says staunchly, with the unequivocal conviction unique to five-year-olds and the severely wasted. “No, Kurt. I care about you too much.”
“I’ll bet you do,” David says, pulling out of Kurt’s grasp too quickly for dissuasion. “You care so much that you string him along and treat him like your sidekick and tell him he’s going to regret it when he makes a decision you don’t like. You treat him like your fucking pet.”
Blaine is flabbergasted-and far too drunk to articulate a rebuttal. That’s sort of a good thing, in that David’s less likely to pummel him if he just stands there gaping. Kurt’s also crossing his fingers that Blaine won’t remember much of this encounter tomorrow morning, because he really doesn’t want to be on damage control duty for this one.
And it’s not true-not really. Blaine’s just a very different kind of friend than David is. And Kurt loves them in different ways.
…oh.
…oh, God.
“Well, you know what I learned from Kurt?” David is demanding. “You know the first thing I learned from him?”
“…n-no?” Blaine says.
“If you liked it,” David says, looming over him, “then you should’ve put a ring on it, bitch.”
Silence falls.
Blaine blinks.
David’s fists clench and unclench.
Kurt starts laughing downright hysterically, which he thinks might be the only possible reaction to this situation.
He covers his mouth and tries to stop, but his shoulders are shaking too hard, which causes him to stumble. Stumbling, in turn, causes him to slip off the edge of the path, and slipping sends him straight into the hydrangeas. The hydrangeas, none too pleased with this arrangement, promptly drop him into the dirt.
Kurt has a moment to pant and wonder if his feet protruding from the plant matter are sufficient grounds for a Wizard of Oz reference, and then David is hauling him out, holding him upright, and brushing frantically at his shoulder-blades with one warm hand.
“What the hell, Hummel?” he says. “Kurt, seriously, are you-”
Kurt braces himself by flattening a hand on David’s chest, and the rest of the question vanishes.
“I’m fine,” Kurt answers anyway.
“I’m not,” Blaine says. He’s leaning against the door looking dazed and very pale.
“The bathroom is inside and on your left,” Kurt says.
Blaine whimpers, gets the doorknob to turn on the second try, and staggers inside. The door slams behind him. Kurt’s hand is still resting on David’s chest. In fact, David is staring down at Kurt’s hand where it is still resting on his chest.
“Uh,” he says. “Kurt?”
“Well?” Kurt says, wiggling his fingers a little. “Are you going to put a ring on it, or aren’t you?”
David stares. David clears his throat. David stares at little more.
“What?” David asks.
Kurt’s face is on fire, but he can’t stop grinning. “Third time lucky?”
David stares for another moment, and then his cheeks start staining pink. “You are out of your fucking mind.”
“I know,” Kurt says cheerfully.
David’s hand lifts, hesitates, and then settles on Kurt’s shoulder. “It’s… kinda hot.”
Kurt’s grin widens. “I was hoping.”
David’s fingertips ghost over Kurt’s neck just above his collar. “I-rum and Coke?”
“Bring it on,” Kurt says.
“Are you high?”
“David,” Kurt says.
“Um,” David says. “Kurt.” His other hand rises, and his fingers graze the back of Kurt’s neck and then curl in his hair. Tentatively, he smiles. “Kurt.” He takes a deep breath and leans in.
Soft this time-and dark, since Kurt’s eyes have slipped shut; and damp, as David’s mouth covers his; and heavily warm as they press together in the moist late-night heat.
Well… damn.
“Ah,” Kurt breathes when he remembers how to breathe. “Just… one problem.”
David looks alarmed.
“That…” Right. Breathing. “…was pretty gay.”
He didn’t think this through too well; David has the perfect angle to strangle him.
Except that’s Karofsky. And this is David. And David’s eyebrows rise, and then he grins.
“Shut up,” he says.
“Make me,” Kurt says.
And David does.
Distantly, Kurt hears a rumble, which peters out a little and then dies. He hears another sharp sound-a slamming. And then…
“Holy crap!” Mercedes cries.
David draws back just enough to murmur his favorite word against Kurt’s lips:
“Fuuuuuck.”
The uniform hung up by the closet looks as though it has gained enough sentience to recoil from the dark-blue-with-lightning-bolts pajama pants that Kurt is currently wearing.
He’s just concluded his Cuckoo’s Nest essay with an extremely dubious metaphor-he’ll change it before the final draft, but he can’t wait to see the looks on the faces of his peer editors-when his phone rings. Freddie starts crooning the chorus of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” but Kurt can’t quite find the patience to let him finish before picking up.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur David,” he says. “Comment ça va?”
“Uh,” David says. “Le… yo. Do you have a minute?”
“My roommate just left to take a shower,” Kurt says, saving the essay document with a swift flick of the… hotkey. “In a few hours, I’ll have to send for a search party-but until then, I’m all yours.”
“Cool,” David says. “I… told my parents today.”
Kurt’s mouth falls open, and his hand leaps up over it. He probably looks like something from a thirties film-not that that’s a bad thing in the least. “David-! How did it go?”
Given that David is neither screaming obscenities nor sobbing into the phone, Kurt’s optimistic, but he still wants to tread carefully, just in case.
Besides, David could be in shock at this point. He could be calling from a bus stop at the outskirts of Lima because his mother evicted him, and he needs a place to stay-
“It was… okay,” David says. “I dunno. How is it supposed to go?”
“I guess that depends on a lot of things,” Kurt says, holding tight to the phone and kind of wishing it was David’s hand.
“Yeah, I guess so.” David swallows audibly. “My dad didn’t even seem surprised. Which sort of weirds me out. He’s so friggin’ smart, it’s like… uh, where did I come from?”
“Hush,” Kurt says. “You know very well you’re brilliant.” He softens his voice. “How about your mom?”
“Well…” This time, David sighs. “She didn’t exactly, like, applaud or anything. And she said-I mean, the first thing she said was ‘Why would you do that?’, so… I told her about how Michaelangelo was probably gay, like you said.”
“How did she take that?” Kurt asks.
“She wasn’t too happy, but… I guess at least she listened. She didn’t really flip her shit until I told her you’re gay.”
Kurt pauses. “I’m not sure whether to be offended or kind of flattered.”
“Do both,” David says. “She pretty much thinks you walk on fucking water, so now she has to figure some shit out from scratch.”
“I’d be glad to talk to her,” Kurt says. “Just let me know if it would help.”
There’s silence on the line for a moment. “Okay. Yeah.”
“David,” Kurt says, “this is wonderful. Maybe it doesn’t feel like it yet, but it’ll sink in. They’re your parents. They’re always going to love you, or at least they will until you get a flaming skull tattoo on your chest and join a hair band. I am so proud of you. And I’m really, really happy.”
There’s another stretch of quiet, but it’s shorter this time.
“I…” David says. “I kind of am, too.”
“I’ll be down this weekend,” Kurt says. “Are you going to be around?”
“Yeah. Unless Mercedes tells Finn, and he castrates me, at which point I figure I’ll be in the hospital.”
“I’m going to buy you a slice of pie,” Kurt says. “I’ll bring it to the ICU if I have to. What’s your favorite kind?”
“Everything,” David says. “Pick something you like, and we can share or-whatever.” He clears his throat. “How’s… what’s-his-face taking it?”
“Blaine?” Kurt asks. “Taking what? Oh. Well, I suppose he’s a bit put-out that he’s no longer the only cute gay guy in my circle of acquaintances-”
“Shut up,” David mutters, but Kurt can almost hear him blushing.
“-but he’s a good friend. And I think he’s going to stay that way. I even maintain hope that the two of you will someday come to understand each other.”
“Over my dead, gay-as-hell body,” David says. “I… All right, fuck it. I have a ton of homework, but I just-wanted to tell you first.”
“In my mind,” Kurt says, “I am hugging you.”
“I can totally feel it,” David says, “’cause you’re psychic.”
Kurt grins. “Fabulous. Goodnight, David.”
“Holy shit, Kurt,” David says. “It is a good night.”
And it’s the first of many.
[Chapter 8]