Pairing: one-sided Kurt/Karofsky
Word count: ~2,500
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 2x06 "Never Been Kissed"
Author's Note: Inspired by this picspam. I read the line "I am of the opinion that [Karofsky] may have used [shoving Kurt into a locker] simply as an excuse to stare at Kurt for a few seconds" and immediately thought "!!!" and "OMW, I have to write this fic!" So I did. While at work. On prescription pads. Between patients. Like Karofsky in my fic, I'm going to pretend that's not nearly as pathetic as it sounds.
Summary: It maybe starts as an excuse to look at Hummel, which is seriously not as pathetic as it sounds.
It maybe starts as an excuse to look at Hummel, which is seriously not as pathetic as it sounds.
Jocks like Dave don't have a lot of socially acceptable reasons to stare at the gay kid, okay? Not if they don't plan on joining him in social loserdom. But put a slushie in the hand of the jock? Presto! Instant excuse to be watching the kid like a hawk, no questions asked.
Of course, the question of why Dave is looking for excuses to watch Hummel is another matter entirely.
Dave's not gay. At least, he's pretty sure he's not. He's never been caught sneaking peeks in the locker room and when his aunt made him see Brokeback Mountain he honestly thought it was the most boring movie ever. When frumpy Rachel Berry did a complete 180 and showed up to school all dressed up like Britney Spears, he could totally recognize the appeal even if all he managed to throw out was some generic comment about gay guys getting all the hot chicks.
So yeah. Not gay. Whatever his fascination with Hummel is, it clearly has nothing to do with the fact he's a dude and everything to do with the guy himself, something Hummel-specific.
Dave thinks it might have something to do with the way Hummel flaunts his flagrant disregard for the rules. When Dave joined the hockey team, his grade in geometry dropped from an A-minus to a C-plus overnight. Being able to calculate trajectory angles and velocities in your head just wasn't something you advertised if you were a jock. So Dave ducked his head down and just let it be the silent power behind his awesome hockey game. He'd never in a million years wear a corset to second period just because it "matched his hat." That kind of crazy, pointless defiance was something unique to Hummel.
So was the way he walked down the halls. Every prideful strut and swing of his hips in those ridiculous ensembles was a clear promise that Hummel was going to get out of Lima, was going to one day laugh and leave them all in the dust. Maybe he'd toss an "Adios, suckers!" over his shoulder just to rub it in.
Dave thinks it was that look more than anything that was the reason behind the first slushie facial. He'd just wanted to give everyone a break and wipe the haughty, untouchable smirk from Hummel's face for a few freaking seconds.
Later on, he'd kept buying the ice-filled drinks simply because it didn't seem to matter whether or not he did. Even covered in red and blue syrup the look of superiority never faded from Hummel's face, and the slushie was as good a reason as any for Dave's continued obsession with the little line Hummel got between his eyes when he was angry and the stupid curve of his cupid's bow.
At least, it was until one day when Dave forgot his wallet at home and didn't have a slushie on hand with him when he came across Hummel in the hall. The guy's eyes had riveted on him immediately -- pure instinct after months of immersion in frozen beverage torture -- and Dave had full-out panicked. He shoved Hummel into a locker to cover the fact he no longer had any excuse to be staring and oh, that was a mistake.
It was a mistake because his hands tingled with the aftershocks of touching Hummel and all he wanted immediately was to do it again.
He might have, right then and there and hang the consequences, but Hummel was already glaring at him from his sprawl against the row of lockers, eyes somehow managing to be simultaneously angry and contemptuously dismissive. Dave offered him a sarcastic parody of his own little smug smirk and continued on his way to History, resisting the urge to rub his hands together to see if he could recapture that strange elusive spark.
After that day, there are no more slushies. Dave keeps the money he used to spend on them in a box in his dresser drawer right next to his socks. Instead, he indulges his unbelievably ill-advised preoccupation with Hummel via a series of deliberate two-handed shoves or an absent shoulder-check into the lockers. Really, it doesn't matter what maneuver he ends up using so long as he manages to steal those precious few seconds of forced bodily contact and Hummel's undivided attention.
Yet increasingly even that isn't enough. Dave finds himself wondering more and more – in class, at practice, while he chills in his room -- what it'd be like to have Hummel's full attention without having to work for it. What it'd be like to have those bright eyes stare at him with something other than derision. He wonders whether he'd feel that same initial shock of contact again if he managed to touch skin.
Dave's not stupid. He got tall and big early and that got him teased a lot when he was younger until he learned that people didn't mess with you if you showed you could push them around first. He's doing okay now, but he knows the second anyone catches wind of what's not going on between him and Hummel he'll be target numero dos for all their gay-related mockery. He knows that, and yet he still finds himself counting the ones in his former slushie moneybox, wondering if it's enough to buy a dinner at Breadstix, and working just that little bit harder in pre-calc, because he has to get his grades back up if he wants a chance at an academic scholarship.
He's actually doing pretty well when out of the blue Hummel decides to change the status quo on him. Admittedly, there'd been a moment of panic earlier in the semester when it had looked as though Hummel was going for the new kid, Evans, but that had fizzled out pretty quick once Evans had started dating Quinn. (Dave would like to know what it is about Quinn, other than being head cheerleader and captain of the Celibacy Club, that makes seemingly everyone want to date her.) Anyway, Dave had broken into his slushie money just make sure Evans was sent a clear, cold message about dating Hummel and then gone back to his new customary routine of knocking into Hummel in the hallways. He's brought his pre-calc grade up to a B-plus and his biology teacher actually complimented him on his work ethic after class the other day. Life is good.
Then Hummel blazes into the locker room one day following an absence about which Dave hasn't been able to uncover anything and does the one thing he’s never done before: get right up in Dave’s face.
"Hey! I am talking to you!" he snarls, closing the distance between them in three quick strides.
Dave's caught off-guard, so he tosses off some cheap insult about the girl's locker room being next door. So long as it's desultory and repetitive, Hummel usually considers whatever taunts he throws out as being beneath acknowledgment.
It seems that today, however, Hummel is not willing to be deterred. "What is your problem?" he demands.
Dave's problem is that Hummel is making it very difficult right now to ignore the fact that they are all alone in the locker room and Hummel is standing within twelve inches of Dave's space. All of his attention is focused on Dave and that is a feeling so heady, Dave is surprised he isn't reeling as he rattles off some random homophobic nonsense. Hummel is less than impressed.
"Oh yeah, it's every straight guy's nightmare, that all us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you,” he retorts, his voice practically dripping with derision. “Well guess what, ham hock, you're not my type."
And that is a freaking lie, because Dave saw the way he looked at Hudson, saw the longing glances and the offers of skin care tips, and Dave is so close to all that it's practically a joke. He opens his mouth to say all that out loud and more, but Hummel's on a roll now and can't be stopped.
"Yeah," he sneers, getting even further in Dave’s face. "I don't dig on chubby boys who sweat too much and are going to be bald by the time they're thirty."
Just like that, Dave's abruptly ready to check out of this conversation. He doesn't want to have to listen to any more of Hummel's self-deluded crap and he raises his fist to create a buffer between himself and the ugly twist of Hummel's lips.
Hummel's eyes only flicker for a second. "You going to hit me?” He lifts his chin defiantly. “Do it. Hit me because it's not going to change who I am. You can't punch the gay out of me any more than I can punch the ignoramus out of you!"
Dave doesn’t know what to do. The whole situation is spiraling rapidly out of his control and he slams a locker in a completely desperate attempt to regain equilibrium, because Hummel's face is now six inches away from his own and he won't stop pushing. He won't stop pushing and if he doesn't stop pushing, Dave doesn't know what he's going to do but it's going to be something desperate and it's either going to involve his fist or his lips, he can't tell which.
"You are nothing but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are!" Hummel spits.
And just like that, Dave snaps.
He snaps and of course it's a kiss, because he could never punch Hummel, not really. Not when his flushed face is right there with his eyes shining more beautiful than anything Dave has ever seen. Kissing Hummel is like flying, like the feeling of every goal Dave's ever made compressed into a single moment. His hands hold Hummel's head in place, allow him to steal taste after taste of those sinfully full lips and Dave thinks somewhat giddily that he's discovered another secret addiction, another craving he'll have to hide.
Except maybe this time he won't. Because Hummel isn't resisting, isn't pushing him away. Dave pulls back suddenly just so he can see his reaction, if he's maybe feeling the same thing.
Hummel's face is a study in utter surprise, all former traces of heated disdain obliterated from his features. It's a complete contrast to the expression he normally wears around Dave and something that feels a whole lot like hope starts to swell in Dave's chest. He leans back in for a second kiss, another lingering taste of Hummel's lips.
The sudden, violent push of Hummel's hands on his chest is a rude shock back to reality.
On second inspection, Hummel's surprise looks a lot less like surprise and somewhat more like shock, with slow edges of revulsion starting to creep in. One of his hands has flown up and is practically glued to his mouth and he stares at Dave like he's expecting at any moment to wake up from a nightmare, like he's praying desperately that's all this has been.
Dave's heart sinks like a stone. He struggles to keep this incriminating evidence from showing on his face as his hands, which fell limply to his side at the first push of contact, curl themselves slowly into fists. He can still save this. He can still walk out of here with his dignity intact and pretend that Hummel's rejection means nothing at all to him. He can.
Dave knows he's failed when a strangled sound that from anyone else he would call a whimper escapes his throat and he slams the row of lockers to his left just to be able to hear some other, less embarrassing noise. He slams the locker room door too on his way out for good measure and stalks down the halls of McKinley without a single backward glance.
He absolutely refuses to consider whether he might still be able to taste Hummel on his lips if he licked them.
That should be the end of it. The thing any normal, sane person would do following this situation is ignore what happened completely. Dave doesn't think Hummel even knows what normal might conceivably look like, so he's not actually sure why he's surprised when the next day Hummel ignores all reasonable avenues of action and ambushes him just before lunch with another pretty boy in tow.
The things that Dave takes away from the ensuing conversation are as follows:
- Hummel may or may not have acquired possibly the only guy who could compete with him in the running for "Most Obviously, Flamingly Gay" as his boyfriend, and
- Hummel is completely and firmly not interested in him.
It's the last one that hits him hard. He's not sure why, because he wasn't planning on dating Hummel even if he were interested. Lima's just not the kind of town where you can get away with openly dating another guy, and he has the feeling Hummel would be the type of guy who would insist on that. The dreams of using his slushie money to take Hummel to Breadstix were just that -- dreams. They have no place in a reality where Dave knows he can't count on his parent's support if he admits to having a crush on a kid everyone has known was gay since he showed up to the first day of kindergarten wearing a tiara.
Knowing that doesn't stop the lead feeling in his stomach when he notices the new decorations Hummel has put up in his locker, some sort of shrine to his new lady boyfriend with the word COURAGE spelled out in cut-out letters from girly magazines underneath. It's a blunt reminder that despite history to the contrary, Hummel's type has changed to something Dave can never be. He buries the quiet hopelessness that threatens to well up in him at the thought, and slams Hummel into his locker with just a hint more force than is strictly usual.
Dave takes a perverse satisfaction in the fact that he can still force Hummel to look at him, even if only for a few seconds.
After all, he's just a chubby boy who's going to be bald by the time he's thirty. He's not going to college, doesn't have the grades to get in or the athletics to swing a scholarship. He's not getting out of Lima, and he's not ever going to be someone's dream boyfriend. Maybe his life sucks, but he's not going to make it seem that much worse by entertaining freaking fantasies that will never come true anymore. He’s learned his lesson.
Feeding an addiction like that only makes it all the worse when you finally have to acknowledge reality and come back down.
It's just easier to stick to the status quo.
On to 'Crash'