#tsormick

            “What are you doing here?” Z demands, like he actually has any right to demand that information from Kurt. He wonders if he should press the call button for a nurse, just so they have an audience and have to behave.

            “Seeing a friend.”

            “Dave? He a friend of yours now?”

            “A better friend than you apparently.”

            He has to bite back a grin, because, fuck, he wishes he had Kurt’s level of courage.

            “You don’t know anything about my friendship with Dave!”

            “I know you don’t love and accept him for who he is. For how he was born. Do you think he cares that you’re black?”

            He bites his lip and wishes he could see them, because while he can’t hear anyone dropping to the ground he knows they have to at least be trying to stare each other down. As much as he’d appreciated Kurt’s offer of friendship, a part of him had mourned his friendship with Z.

            “Why are you here? He made your life hell.” Quieter voices now, and he has to strain to hear him, and he can’t really hear Kurt’s answer, just a few disjointed words but he guesses Kurt’s saying something about them being friends, or having an understanding.

            “Is he okay?”

            “Honestly? No,” Kurt replies, his voice a little louder and he knows Kurt is angry now. He recognizes that tone of voice easily enough. “He needs a friend right now, and while I’ve offered I don’t think I’m exactly what he really needs or wants right now. His mom is telling him how sick he is, how they can get him fixed. You… I don’t know what you said to him exactly, but he feels like he’s lost you as well. If you can do anything to fix that then I know it would help.”

            He closes his eyes against the welling tears and hopes against hope that it might make a difference, that Kurt is trying to give him back something. When he opens them Z is standing in the doorway watching him, and they just stare at each other before he jerks his head in greeting, exactly the same way he’s done a hundred times before and something unclenches in his stomach. This might work out after all.

…

            He tries and keeps them separate, because he knows they don’t exactly have a harmonious past (or future) and they still go to the same school so it’s more than a little messy. While he might have made his peace with Kurt, Z is a different story altogether. He doesn’t change the fact that he considers both of them friends though. He only sees Kurt once a fortnight, but they text almost daily, sometimes multiple times. He’s had to drop out of school, which he knows is fucking up his academic record terribly but no one is talking about it to him, like they don’t want him to worry about it. He knows he will have to repeat and strangely he’s okay with that. He puts it down to all the therapy he’s in.

            It’s Saturday night, his usual activity on a Saturday is to play Xbox with Z, which they’ve been doing again for a few weeks. They verbally abuse each other through the games, and the first time Z had punched him on the arm for accidentally killing him it had made him freeze until Dave had shrugged and punched him back. It had gone someway to relaxing things between them, and they’ve had short stilted conversations, one of them reassuring Z that he’s never been attracted to him. Z had muttered about Kurt -‘Hummel’- being more his type and he’d punched him again, telling him he should be glad for that because otherwise things would be even more awkward.

            When there’s a knock on the door he exchanges a quick look with Z before they pause the game and he gets up to answer it. He didn’t know who he was expecting but Kurt wasn’t even in the realm of possibilities and he opens the door wider.

            “Uh. Kurt. Hey.”

            “Hi. Can I come in?”

            It’s not even asked, it’s snapped out and Kurt is pushing past him, stripping his jacket off angrily and almost throwing it into the small hall closet. He opens his mouth to say something snarky about ‘come right in’ but wisely decides to keep his mouth shut, following his through to the living room to where Z is sitting. Fuck.

            “Lady Hummel,” Z states and he cringes, wishing Z could keep his mouth shut for just a few minutes so he can figure out what might be upsetting Kurt.

            “Don’t fuck with me Azimio Adams. Not tonight. What are you playing?”

            “Uh, Halo?”

            “Does it involve killing people?”

            Z’s eyebrows go up but he nods, handing Kurt the controller and sliding further down the sofa to put more distance between them, although this time he’s pretty sure it’s because Kurt actually looks murderous. He watches with increasing awe and surprise as Kurt starts from the beginning, deftly picking up gear, moving and shooting his way easily to waypoints and he never expected this. He can tell Z didn’t either.

            “Never realized you had such homicidal tendencies Hummel…”

            “Hmm? Yeah…”

            “Where did you even learn this?”

            “Finn. I learnt how to play so I could beat him, and then he stopped asking me to play with him.” He winces and catches Z’s eye, willing him, no, pleading him to keep his mouth shut. Z lets out a huff, which he decides to count as a win. “Don’t think I don’t know where your mind went with that. But that would be like me thinking you two had been making out before I arrived.”

            “Ew.”

            “Exactly. Now I suppose a drink would be too much to ask for?”

            “Okay, no. This isn’t Kurt Hummel. It’s like a pod person.”

            “Oh, I assure you. It’s me. I’ve just had a really bad day. Bad week.”

            “And what, you thought you’d come here and share your exquisite nature with us? What about the rest of your… friends?”

            His mind fills in the pause the Z left and he knows that at least Z is trying.

            “Considering my friends think that I shouldn’t be here, or have anything to do with David, they’re not exactly in my good books right now.”

            “What?”

            “Ugh. Just Blaine being an idiot. You know… it’s really nice having you to talk to.”

            He swallows, because this is actually the first time Kurt has even mentioned Blaine and a part of him still wants to respond with violence when he hears the name. He grabs his  controller from where it’s lying abandoned on the sofa and decides that shooting a few aliens might help after all.

…

            School finishes and now that Z and Kurt have nothing better to do, he sees more of them both. Still not as much of Kurt as he does of Z, but he gets the reasons why. Either way it’s nice to have more company during the days. He knows now that he’s going back to high school to repeat his senior year. His mom and dad have submitted the start of their paperwork filing for divorce and he’s down to therapy sessions only once a fortnight. The meds they have him on have finally settled down and he starts working out again, feeling more energetic than he has in a long time.

            He’s started looking at colleges again, thinking about his future, which isn’t as scary as it once was. Z admits to feeling uncertain about his choice, despite the fact he’s accepted a place at Ohio State to study English. He has no idea what Z would do with an English degree, and neither does Z. On one of their increasingly common hang-out sessions Kurt lists of what seem like hundreds of jobs that involve having an English degree, but none of it seems to spark any interest from Z.

            His nineteenth birthday falls at the end of June and Z insists on cooking. He knows it’s something Z loves, but does only when asked by his mother. That’s his cover story anyway. He knows Z cooks at least three nights a week. Z has been in the kitchen all day, shooing him out whenever he’d offered to help so he’s spent most of the day playing Skyrim. He’d set the table for four before lunch, his dad making it an even number of awkward dinner companions as Kurt’s also been invited.

            When Kurt turns up Dave notices the smile is forced but knows it’s probably not him. He accepts the hug with a little pang of disappointment spiked with pleasure that Kurt is comfortable enough to hug him. The disappointment is because he knows it’s as far as it will ever go. They all sit down and the smells from the kitchen are amazing and he trusts that he will enjoy every single piece of food that’s put in front of him. Kurt and his dad are making polite conversation about absolutely nothing important and he has to stop feeling like their awkwardness is somehow his fault.

            “Right, this is deep-fried camembert cheese with plum chutney with a small side-salad to start with.”

            Kurt and his dad make appropriate noises, complimenting Z but he just reaches out to fist bump him. Z accepts it and immediately looks a little more relaxed. They eat and he tries to ignore the little moaning sounds Kurt makes, because he’s pretty sure they aren’t affecting his dad and Z at all. Fuck his life. But not really, because he actually really likes having Kurt’s friendship. He’s found he can talk about anything with Kurt, which is actually kind of awesome, although he’s realized that rather than making his crush go away, he’s actually learnt more about Kurt. And he pretty much likes everything he learnt. Z and Kurt are discussing college with his dad when Z starts clearing the plates and his offer of help is once again turned down. Kurt steps in though, elbowing Z and telling him he must get the recipe for the plum chutney. Z pulls a face and rolls his eyes but he can tell underneath it all that he’s pleased.

            “So, now we’ve got pork belly on a green-apple and potato mash with pickled red cabbage, sweet cherry jus & crackling,” Kurt informs them, giving Z a quick glance as he places plates down in front of him and his dad. Z nods and Kurt grins. Dave knows they can’t have shared a moment in the kitchen or anything, because he could see and hear everything, but something has just eased a little more. It’s good.

            “Oh my god,” Kurt moans and he tries to ignore the way his eyelids flicker shut. “Azimio, seriously, this is amazing. I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this talent for so long.”

            “And he bakes,” Dave interjects with a grin, really just to piss Z off.

            “Are you as good at baking as you are cooking?”

            “You’ll be able to judge for yourself. I made orange-infused Madeira cake, with orange segments in hot butterscotch sauce for dessert.”

            “Wait, there’s dessert? You’re going to kill me with too much good food.”

            “Mmm, food comas. We’ll all suffer the same fate though.”

            “And be happy about it,” his dad interjects and he feels, just in that moment, that everything is good in his world.

            Desserts in hand, all three of them are shooed out of the kitchen, his dad insisting on cleaning up (much to Z’s horror) and they make themselves comfortable in the living room.

            “Oh wow. This is amazing, Azimio. Really. You have an amazing talent. Have you ever thought about becoming a chef? Culinary arts?”

            “Uh…  no?”

            “Why not? Or is it something you do as a hobby only?”

            “No, I uh… just never thought about it.”

            “Why not?”

            “Well, isn’t it a little…” Z waves his hand around in an airy-fairy gesture and he rolls his eyes. He’s come light years in the last four months, but then he goes and does something like this and Dave’s reminded of how much further Azimio still has to go. Both of them, because he still finds himself making disparaging comments, although he’s gotten better with help.

            “What? Gay? I think, as a gay man, that I can safely say there is no one mold for any profession. Or sexuality. If you want to do this full time then you should. You’re good at it. And you definitely seem more interested in it than you are in English.”

            Z makes a non-committal grunt which he knows means he’s thinking about it. Or will think about it and he gives Kurt a hesitant smile.

            “There’s a culinary arts program at Cincinnati. Just think about it.”

…

            Kurt is a force to be reckoned with and he’s pretty sure Z gives in to his badgering just to shut him up and applies for a late acceptance into the culinary arts program. It comes as a surprise when he gets in, but Kurt jumps around the room excitedly and tells Z he’s going to be telling people he knew Z before he made it big. Z seems more amused than anything and he knows it speaks volumes for the way their own friendship has developed that Z doesn’t make a single derogatory comment.

            It means they leave too soon for his liking though and after having them around so much during the summer the sudden loss of both of them when they leave makes him feel incredibly lonely. His first Skype call from Kurt comes as a surprise and he lights up, unable to get the grin off his face. He talks about what his new school (Carmel this time) is like and he listens as Kurt rhapsodies on about his internship at Vogue and living with Rachel Berry (his idea of a nightmare but then again she’s not his friend).

            Z talks to him almost daily through his Xbox and he forgets sometimes that he’s hours away rather than just across town. At least once a week the three of them talk together, which he knows is weird for them, because they both tell him separately. After a few months though they stop mentioning how weird it is and start asking about the other until he snaps that they should just talk to each other. Which they do, and he finds that weird, and he has no one to really complain about it to.

            It’s near Christmas and he’s trying to think about gifts for them, and he’s actually considering asking Kurt for advice for Z, and vice versa. He’s not really paying attention but after nearly ten minutes of feeling like someone’s watching him he turns to see a guy blatantly staring at him. He looks behind him and nope, there’s no one or nothing else that the guy might be staring at.

            “Can I help you?” He asks, and he tries to make his tone polite rather than gruff and the he must succeed because the guy takes a couple of steps toward him.

            “I just… I’m sorry if this is a little personal. But are you David Karofsky?”

            “Uh. Yeah?” He’s instantly on guard, not that he couldn’t defend himself against this guy, but he doesn’t want to need to.

            “Sorry. I just… wanted to give you a hug?”

            “Uh what? Who are you?”

            “Oh sorry! My name’s Chandler. I… heard about you.”

            He lets out a long sigh and shrugs, because Lima is a small town and he should be used to things like this by now. He doesn’t let the guy hug him, but when he asks him on a date he’s a little too shocked to say anything so he just nods, taking the little scrap of paper (a receipt from a music store) with Chandler’s details written on the back. Holy shit. He gets home and instantly calls both Kurt and Z on Skype, not caring who answers first, although he kind of hopes it’s Kurt because he’s not sure Z will give one shit about his first ever date. Fuck.

            Of course neither of them answer and he panics a little, wondering if he’s meant to call Chandler before realizing that of course he’s meant to call him, because he didn’t give him any number to call him. So kind of an out he guesses, but he doesn’t want or need an out. This is a chance to go on a date. With a guy. It’s not Kurt, but he’s not delusional enough to wait around for a guy who is in a happy relationship. Chandler seems nice enough and he’s not going to get to know him without dating him. He thumbs Chandler’s details into his phone and presses CALL.

…

            “Where were you last night? I had to deal with Azimio torturing me with food all by myself. Torture I tell you. I’m living of pizza slices and ramen here. I’m going to either fade away or die of scurvy.”

            “It would make for a quieter life, that’s for sure.”

            “Shut up you,” Kurt says to Z and he grins. “Wait. Oh my god! Is that a hickey?”

            His hand slaps to his neck and he knows there might be a tiny bit visible above the collar of his polo and he’s just grateful that it’s winter and wearing scarves is the done thing.

            “Dude! Did you get laid?” Z asks; of course he sounds impressed but Dave’s already shaking his head.

            “No, I just… had a date last night. With a guy called Chandler. It was… nice.”

            It had been nice, but the make out session afterward had been more enjoyable and he’s pretty sure he wants both parts to be equally enjoyable. Chandler had seemed a little too agreeable for his liking. He’s not sure if it was maybe first date nerves or something, and he’ll go on at least two more, it’s not like dating opportunities are all around.

            “Why didn’t you tell us?”

            “I tried calling you a couple of nights ago but neither of you answered so I just… went with the flow.”

            “Boy did you ever,” Z says with a grin and he knows he’s probably blushing. Kurt looks worried in his side of the screen and he knows he wants to say something.

            “Just spit it out before you pass out Hummel.”

            “Just be safe okay? And you can ask me anything remember? No judgment.”

            “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

            “Okay, I’m calling a close to this little bonding moment. I’m supportive man, but I don’t need to hear the details. Or see the evidence.”

            He nods and tugs his collar up. It’s a conversation they’ve had before, or rather one Kurt and Z had that he’d just sat and watched as they railed at each other. Kurt had said something mild about Blaine kissing him and Z had pulled a face. He’s pretty sure it’s because Z doesn’t like Blaine at all. Kurt had started calling him a hypocrite but Z had started describing eating out a girl’s pussy, asking if Kurt wanted to hear about that, which had promptly shut Kurt up.

            “Right, okay, so then. I’ll see you both next week?” Kurt asks and it effectively changes the subject.

…

            Christmas passes in a flurry of activity and he gets acceptance letters from NYU, OSU and MIT. His social life has been non-existent since school started, so he puts all his energy into studying and working out. Seeing Kurt and Z is awesome, and Kurt always leaves his house smiling, despite arriving looking harassed nearly every time. They go back to college and as he suspected the thing with Chandler doesn’t go anywhere. They still hang out occasionally. It happens less and less as the month progresses, he can tell Chandler would like more and he wonders if that’s how Kurt feels about him. Somewhat uncomfortable and a little sad.

            At the start of February his phone rings, which is unusual and when he sees it’s Kurt’s number, he guesses he must have something important to tell him. When he answers all he can hear is Kurt crying and he can’t tell what he’s trying to say. He hears Blaine’s name, and the word cheated and then cancer and he’s confused as fuck, turning in the street and wondering what he can do. If anything. He talks to Kurt calmly, telling him to breathe, asks him what he needs and starts heading to Kurt’s house when that’s all he asks. It takes a while, because he’s on foot but when he finally knocks on the door, surprise washes over him when Blaine answers and he frowns.

            “I thought you and Kurt broke up…”

            “Uh –”

            “Why would they have broken up?” Burt Hummel asks, looking between him and Blaine suspiciously and he swallows against the churning in his stomach. Kurt is still on his phone, able to hear every word and he wonders if he should put him on speaker phone.

            “Uh –” Blaine starts. “It’s a new development.”

            Dave can’t help the snort that escapes and asks Kurt if he wants to talk to his dad. Getting an affirmative answer he passes the phone to Burt Hummel and then steps aside, holding the door open in a clear invitation for Blaine to leave. He knows he’s not exactly welcome in this house, but after what Kurt will be telling his dad he expects Blaine will be even less welcome. It’ll make a nice change.

…

            He wants the year mark of his suicide attempt to pass by unmentioned. That is until he receives the large bouquet of sunflowers in class with the small note ‘I am glad I have you in my life. You make it brighter. K.’ He grins and feels incredibly touched by the gesture, that it acknowledges it, while not directly mentioning it and maybe he does want it to be mentioned, to show just how far he’s come. Z messages him later telling him Kurt is planning on sending him some frilly bouquet and he sends back a picture of the sunflowers wrapped in butchers paper, burlap and raffia. Z messages back and says they’re acceptable flowers to send to guys.

            He accepts the place at NYU and quietly freaks out about it. Kurt is excited about him moving to New York, has already started working on Z to transfer; although now that Z can just disconnect the call Kurt’s effectiveness is not as great. He threateningly informs Z that he has all summer to work on him, and if he doesn’t come this year there’s always the following one and he’s pretty sure Z is giving him the evil eye for ever being friends with him.

            School finishes and he walks across the stage feeling good, relieved that he can finally close that chapter of his life. Z has managed to come up and surprise him, carrying Kurt around on his tablet on a Skype call so he could watch it live and he’s pretty sure Kurt has been crying and he grins when he receives a text message from him saying he’s proud of him. A few weeks later they’re all back in Lima and it feels good. Kurt seems happy, his dad’s cancer scare all over with, Blaine isn’t mentioned at all which he likes a little too much.

            They gather at his house and at Kurt’s (now that he’s no longer persona non grata), play new Xbox games and Z practices new techniques, showing a fascinated Kurt who asks dozens of questions. Z seems more than happy to show off his knowledge in person and he’s never eaten so well in his life. His twentieth birthday comes and goes and he can’t believe he’s meant to be acting like an adult sometime soon.

            Kurt’s made some vague excuse about going shopping, so it’s a rare moment that it’s just him and Z. He never would have thought his best friend would be comfortable hanging out with a guy he knows is gay, let alone two of them. They settle down on the lawn and enjoy the sun, his dad suggesting that they might actually enjoy it as opposed to being inside all day with the curtains drawn. They’d simply agreed and decided not to mention that being outside was something they’d actually already decided on doing.

            “You know, you should make a move. I can see the way he looks at you even if you can’t.”

            “What? Who?”

            The look Z gives him clearly says ‘don’t be a dumbass’ but he can’t imagine that Z is talking about Kurt. That’s not possible in any reality, they’re all friends. Just friends.

            “Dave, he likes you. Just ask him out on a date.”

            “I – I can’t do that. Not with our history.”

            “What history? The bit where you bullied him and his friends for a couple of months in high school, or the last few years where you guys have pretty much been best friends?”

            “I… it’s not been years.”

            “Whatever. Just consider it. He’s a decent enough guy and I know you like him. I think everyone knows you like him.” He flushes because he hates the idea of everyone knowing that, feeling sorry for him because they know how impossible it is. “He likes you too. He’s harder to read, but I haven’t known him since our moms shared a birthing class together.” He shakes his head, unable to believe what he’s saying. “Look, lets go get some ice cream and talk about something else and you can process it. You look a little pole axed right now.”

            They walk, talking about the up and coming movies they want to go and see and he’s grateful for the distraction, the chatter which allows him to think and wish and wonder about possibilities. When they get back to his house Kurt is sitting on the porch steps, looking intently at his phone and his breath catches a little. He has no idea how but Kurt looks even better than the last time he remembers. He wonders if he stopped noticing because he was trying to force himself into not noticing so the fact that he would never have it wouldn’t be so hard to bear.

            He has no idea if Z is on to something, but he’s always been observant and he wouldn’t be pushing him if he didn’t think there was something there. He’s not cruel like that. He knows he’s going to need to do something, otherwise be doomed to forever asking himself ‘what if?’ and he won’t do that to himself. If he and Kurt can work through their difficult past then they should definitely be able to work through one (no doubt fumbled) attempt at asking Kurt out.

            “My turn to go shopping,” Z states, but not before nudging him with an elbow and then punching his arm. Kurt looks confused, and he feels a little relieved that he was as in the dark as he was to start out with. He goes and sits beside Kurt and watches Z drive off, and he knows he’s been set up. Kurt’s phone chimes, and it’s pretty and melodic, unlike his own zombie scream tone and he wonders if they could realistically work as a couple. He’d like to hope so.

            Kurt reads the message and he notes he blushes almost instantly. His fingers curl over his knees, wondering if he’s already missed his chance, that Kurt is texting a possible new love interest. After all he’s been single since February.

            “Gah. Azimio. Being an ass as per usual. I think he’s up to something.”

            He knows Azimio is up to something and he wonders what the message said but then his phone screams at him and he quickly pulls it out to silence it and sees the message ‘Ask him out already or I will lock you both in a cupboard!’

            “Yeah, he’s definitely up to something.”

            They look at each other and he wonders if he’s imagining the energy thrumming between them as Kurt suddenly looks away, staring down at his hands, neck turning pink in embarrassment. Oh. Z’s going to be unbearable.

            “Kurt…”

            “Don’t mind me. Sorry. I’m just… I know you’re not interested in me.”

            “What? I… what?” He can’t believe that that’s what Kurt thinks. “Kurt… you… you have to know I had the biggest crush on you. Massive.”

            “Mmm. Had.” He sounds forlorn and he shakes his head.

            “Yeah, because the crush is gone. In its place is…” he swallows. He’s said the word before and Kurt had dismissed him, dismissed his feelings and he knows there was some good reasons for that because comparing what he felt then to what he feels now it like comparing tin to platinum. “I love you. You’re one of my best friends. I know you so well now, what you look like when you’ve just woken up, how grumpy you are when you haven’t had any coffee, how you deal with stress, what you sound like when you’ve been crying. I… I love all of that.”

            “Oh.”

            “That’s on top of the fact that I’ve always found you… attractive. Still do. Always will probably.”

            “Oh.” There’s a small smile on Kurt’s lips and it relaxes him a bit, gives him the momentum to say what he needs and wants to now say.

            “Go out with me. On a date. Please. I figure that if we can get over what I did to you before then even if the dates are a complete flop then… we’ll know? I’ll know I mean. I just don’t want to miss this chance.”

            “Yes.”

            He pauses, not quite sure what Kurt has said yes to exactly, whether he’s agreeing with him, or saying yes to a date…

            “Yes?”

            “Yes. I think we should date. I… I want an excuse to do this.”

            He’s not ready for Kurt’s lips and hands but they’re suddenly there, touching him and he’s in shock for the briefest of moments before he’s kissing back, turning and putting a hand on Kurt’s knee, his other hand going to gently cup Kurt’s cheek. It’s an awkward position, both sitting and twisted toward one another, but he’s grateful for it because it reminds him that they’re sitting on the top step of the porch in full view of anyone who might walk past. Or look out their window. He pulls back reluctantly, enjoys the way Kurt leans toward him, as if he doesn’t want to break contact and he stands, reaching a hand down to pull Kurt up.

            “Come on, we have perfectly good steps at the backdoor too.”

            Kurt laughs softly and takes his hand, standing and brushing down his legs. He lets them into the house, fully intending to head for the back door but Kurt kisses him again, presses his body against his and he knows he can spend hours with Kurt and not touch him, but now that there’s the option to touch he doesn’t want to stop. Their phones both sound at the same time, sounding odd in the extreme and they pull away from one another (although he’s tempted to chuck his phone out the window). It’s Z asking a simple question: ‘You kissed him yet?’ He lets out a huff of laughter and sends him a quick ‘fuck off’ followed by ‘yes’.

            “Z. He kind of… told me you might like me.”

            “I figured as much. I just sent him a thank you.”

  This is so fucking stupid.  He’s so fucking stupid.

Dave repeats that in his head, fucking stupid fucking stupid until the words blend together into a string of fuck fuck fuck, each word emphasized by a pounding fist on his steering wheel.

 He’s got to get out of here.

  There’s a crack in the corner of his windshield, a small nick from a rock on the freeway, driving too fast on Lima’s deserted roads, blaring music that he hates while strung out on his popularity.

  That nick spread slowly at first, unnoticeably, but soon it’s going to start an upward spiral, racing its way through his field of vision.

  Tonight was the start of another crack.

  He didn’t dance.  He didn’t fucking dance to that gay shit back in the gym.  But he walked up to his flaming queen, parted the sea of his classmates, breath shallow like he was drowning in that room, his ears ringing with the silence of everyone’s anticipation.

  Then ABBA started and his heart was beating in time with the 80’s pop hit, hard and fast and deafening.

  The beat was inescapable. 

  Kurt’s eyes smashed into his, a crystal blue iceberg.  Buried beneath the surface, under that cold blue, a murmur that traveled the expanse between them: larger than anything that had happened so far, what would truly sink him: come out.

  He’s not sure if God is up there, or if he would listen to the pleading of a closeted bully, but Dave prayed that he could vanish on that very spot.  

  Instead, he fucking bolted out of that room like the piece of shit that he is.  His eyes wet, his palms wet, the door slamming unapologetically on his way out.

  His car is stale with his ragged breaths.  This is the turning point.  This is the moment when the whispers start and he knows what happens with whispers.  That shit gets out.  Gets loud.

  He desperately wants to be gone when that happens. 

  He squeezes in on himself, compresses and contracts and wishes.

  Vanish.

  Disappear.

  Evaporate.

  Fucking stupid fuck fuck fuck.

  He finally opens his eyes but he’s still wishing so hard that when he blinks, the tip of his index finger gets lost in a haze of desperation.

  He slams his car into reverse and before he can blink a second time, he’s out of there.  Away from this parking lot.  Away from his life.

      Adrenaline races through Kurt’s veins.  He’s too far gone for tears.  Every second that passes by is a forgotten memory, whisked away from the fury pounding in his ears and the anxious, shattering thump of his heart.

  His words reverberate through him and he trembles with the echoes of Come out.  Make a difference.  The words slip through him the same way they slipped out of him.  Ignorantly.  Thoughtlessly.  Obtrusively working their way into Dave Karofsky’s tear ducts. 

  If Dave Karofsky were a balloon, he would not be a perky, bright helium balloon.  He would be a drab blue or an unimpressive yellow.  Partially deflated, weathered and inconspicuous.  As the energy seeps out, there’s less pop.  ‘Come out’ didn’t cause a pop; it was more of a fizzling out, an abject surrender to the anticipated apex of their coronation.

  That fizzling out was what really got to Kurt.  It shouldn’t have been a note-worthy change, but it caused something to seep out of Kurt, too.  Some small amount of defiance that was blindly aimed at the whole world as Kurt knew it to exist within the confines of Lima, Ohio.     

  “You’re amazing,” Blaine breathes into Kurt’s ear, a spark from the queen’s crown matching up with the gold in Blaine’s eyes. 

  Kurt nods dismissively as Mercedes and Santana’s voices finish ringing through the dilapidated McKinley sound system. 

  After the song, Santana approaches him.  Arms crossed: a velvety, golden brown taut against a provocative red. 

  “Where is he?” Santana demands, poised like a warrior.  Not like a queen. 

  “Who?” Kurt asks.

  Santana raises her eyebrows and cocks her head.  Her arms tighten against her chest, the curve of her sleek frame made hostile with the incredulity of one single word: “Karofsky?”

   Kurt shakes his head.  Above him, some crepe paper falls and blows helplessly in a welcome breeze.

  “I didn’t see where he went,” Kurt says.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t see where he went?” Santana asks, irritation rising.

  Kurt shakes his head again.  He’s still wearing his crown.

  Brittany approaches, a sweet smile on her pink, glittery face.

  Santana eyes Kurt’s crown with disdain, and when she speaks, it’s directed at that, not his face. “My coat is in his car,” she snarls through curled lips. As though it’s his fault that he got the votes and she didn’t.  As though he planned this.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Kurt repeats, defiantly staring into eyes that won’t meet his. 

  “No one has,” Santana says.  Then Brittany whisks her away, but not before Santana can eye that cumbersome ring of plastic one last time.

    Dave takes his truck to ludicrous speed, so desperate to escape any chance of being seen.  He drives in the direction of home.  Then he remembers that his parents live there, and will ask questions, and it’s way too early for him to be back if he was having fun like he was supposed to be.  He drives in the direction of a dirt road that leads to a wasteland of former farm property, but then he remembers that that’s also a make-out spot and, being prom, is most likely full of horny classmates.

  Then he just drives.

  He drives east on I-75 for a good twenty miles or so before pulling into a McDonald’s parking lot.  There are a couple other cars there, but no one who will recognize him.  He’s safe.

  He still wants so badly to not exist.

  He’s delaying the inevitable.  He’s delaying his classmates judging him and watching him and questioning him.  And it will all be done without a sound.  It will be in the hesitant way that his friends greet him.  It will be in the scowling way the cheerleaders rake their eyes over him, thinking it’s no wonder he never dated us.

  But all he’s really delaying is bearing witness.

  The talking and the questioning and the speculating and the ill-formed conclusions.  It’s all happening right now.

  The tightness is back.  Well, it never really left.  But he’s hyper-cognizant of it as he sits in his parked car, no longer distracted, however menially, by his drive.

  His chest is constricted like he’s encased in something heavy, like gravity is pressing in on him with increased force.

  A tingling starts from his fingertips.  The pressure is lulling his body parts to sleep.

  He’s exhausted.  Anger and sadness and adrenaline can have that effect on you.  Drain you.

  He curls his fingers into a fist, pumping a few times to get the blood back.  Then he shakes out his hands when the feeling persists.

  The tingling reaches up to his third knuckle, right at the base of his fingers.

  He examines his hands closer, lifting them to within a foot of his face, squinting to make out any abnormalities.  It’s hard to see clearly with the solitary, dim street light outside the parking lot.

  As he watches his hands, the light becomes more and more visible, not through the distance between his fingers, but through his fingers.

  There’s light shining through his fingers.

  Shit.

  Like that will stop people from talking.

    Monday after prom and posters for prom court are purposefully torn down.  Not from a demeaning peer but ripped off the wall by a loser.  No one wants to lobby for something that they already lost.

  Dave thinks about taking his down like everyone else, then thinks that maybe he should keep them up because he did win, then thinks again about taking them down because he doesn’t want to act like he’s proud of winning prom king alongside Lady Hummel.  Dave is more a man of inaction than action, so he leaves the posters up.  For now.

  He’s decked out in synthetic red and stripes of white, a ridiculous candy-cane colored mascot who thought he was preventing the bullying that’s still happening.

  He walks alone.  He stares straight ahead.  Don’t look anyone in the eye and you don’t see them staring.

  His walkie-talkie crackles to life in his pocket.

  “Karofsky—hey, Karofsky.”  It’s Santana.  “Do you copy, over?”

  “What d’you want?” he growls back, voice low.

  “You’re on duty after third period.  Say ‘over’ when you’re done talking.”

  He lifts the warm, black plastic to his mouth and catches the eye of a quiet cheerleader, who he knows by face but not name.  She averts her eyes as soon as soon as he notices her looking.

  The tingling is back, inching its way up his arms and his legs, crawling up his body, nearly meeting at his compressed chest.

  He says, “No I’m not,” into the mouth of the outdated technology.

  “Like fuck you’re not, Hulk,” Santana replies quickly, scathingly.  “And my coat is in that piece of shit that you call a car.  I want it back.  Over.”

  Dave hears Kurt say, “Santana, if he doesn’t want to—“ before the walkie-talkie clicks and cuts out completely. 

  A bell signals five minutes until class starts and Dave is vanishing in the middle of a crowded hallway.

      “Hey Raggedy Ann, you owe me five dollars for yesterday’s lunch money,” Azimio Adams calls conversationally to Brett-the-stoner as he passes him in the hallway.

  “Hey Adams,” Santana calls, voice and eyes hard.  “I think you want to apologize.”

  Azimio stops in his tracks and turns around— not slowly like facing prey, but quickly, like a champion.

  He says “I don’t think I do,” almost flippantly, but his words don’t belie him.  Azimio Adams is equal parts insolent, aggressive and (to Kurt’s utter disdain,) charismatic.  That’s what makes him so dangerous.  “You see, Karofsky’s abandoned his post.  And J-Lo, you ain’t no threat to me.”

  “I’m about to be your own personal threat—“ Santana starts, ready for a long tirade.

  Azimio laughs.  He laughs and walks away.

  “He is not allowed to abandon his post,” Santana says ferociously to Kurt because everyone else has gone to class and there’s no one else to rant to.

  “Santana,” Kurt sighs.  “What’s the point anymore?  You lost prom queen.  Give it up.  You’re not  winning anything by continuing this charade.”

  Santana snaps, “This is about pride.”

  “For who?” Kurt asks.

  “Like I care about your pride.  The Bullywhips are sticking around prom court or no, because Santana Lopez is not a quitter.  And if Karofsky is too much of a pussy to stick it out with me then he can suck it.  I’ll do it alone.  Now get in that door.”  She points into Kurt’s psychology classroom.

  Kurt goes into class willingly after that.  He’s going to take advantage of every Santana-less moment that he can find. 

      Kurt hates psychology.

  Well, actually, he loves psychology.  He loathes the class.

  His teacher Mr. Wells is unpredictable.  He oscillates between spending too much time on basic concepts to glazing over complex concepts.  Occasionally he’ll get balance right, but usually no one notices because the class exists primarily in a state of boredom or confusion.  Those don’t exactly breed good learning habits.

  Still, Kurt tries his best to listen.  He prides himself on being an A student, after all.

  Mr. Wells describes something called “normopathy.”

  “Normopaths will pursue social acceptance and conformity at the expensive of all individuality.  Normopathy is governed by a fear of separation, loss or otherness, and if the strain becomes too much for the normopath, he or she will often have adverse reactions.”

  And that’s how Mr. Wells transitions into discussing anxiety disorders.  A fleeting moment of something interesting, something that’s relevant to high school life, and then it’s lost amongst last week’s mundane curriculum.

    Kurt shakes off Santana after psychology by entering the only place he’s –relatively—sure she won’t follow him.  The boys’ bathroom.

  He didn’t expect to actually miss Dave walking him to class, but the silent passing periods were becoming tolerable and more importantly, it meant a break from Santana.

  There’s one other guy in the bathroom and he curls his lip at Kurt while he zips up his fly and stalks out the door.  Without washing his hands.  Gross.

  Kurt goes into the stall even though he’s alone.  It’s become a habit for him.  He can’t stand the way his peers look at him when he uses a urinal—like they think he’s trying to shove his gay down their throats by whipping out his dick.

  The bathroom door opens and slams shut.  He hears some labored breathing, slowing down to a forced calm, and the creak of the faucet turning on.  A splash of water against skin.  Under the door, some worn jeans and dirty sneakers.

  Kurt flushes and the guy slams the faucet off.  

  The clanking of the lock on the stall door is only sound that snakes its way through the stained bathroom save for the guy’s breathing, which is quieter but still fast, still uneasy.

  With a jerk down to pick up his backpack the guy is ready to burst out of there, and that’s when Kurt gets his first look at him.

  “David?” Kurt says, pushing past the stall door.

  Dave Karofsky freezes in his tracks, mid-sprint on his way out of the bathroom.  He wants to ask why Kurt is getting his attention.  He wants to ask if Kurt cares that he’s not a bullywhip anymore.  He wants to ask if Kurt danced with his boyfriend at prom.  Instead, what Dave says is “What,” not a question, but a challenge.

  “You ran off, at prom.”

  Dave blinks at him and stuffs his hands in his pockets, pulling the edges of his letterman tight against himself.  He’s not used to wearing his letterman—he’d grown to like his bullywhip’s jacket, with its lightweight, breathable fabric.  It’s a coat that belongs to someone he was proud of.  The wool and faux-leather of his letterman feel alien to him now, and hot in the late spring air.  It’s the jacket of a someone who conformed.  It’s the jacket of someone he hated.  It weighs on him, suppressing him, expediting the fuzziness in his limbs.  The more he holds onto that feeling of who he used to be in the jacket, the more he feels himself slipping away completely.

  Play it cool.  Relax.

  “Yeah?”  Dave says.  “I didn’t want to dance with you.”

  It looked like you did, Kurt doesn’t say.  “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

  “Said what?” Dave asks to see if Kurt will admit to it, to telling Dave to come out in front of everyone.

  “I was feeling reckless after claiming the crown and I knew you weren’t ready.”

  OK, so that’s how’s Kurt’s going to play.  He’s just going to allude to what happened, not actually say it.

  “Whatever,” Dave says.  His skin is hot and cold, and itches like he’s covered in ants.  He makes his way to the door a second time.

  Kurt blocks the exit.  “No, not ‘whatever’.”  I’m apologizing.”

  “And I’m saying ‘whatever’, apology accepted.  It doesn’t matter.”  Nothing matters in the grand scheme of things except for the ‘Nothing’ that Dave is becoming.

  “It matters to me, David.  Because I know that things are hard for you.  I know that you’re struggling.  And I know that what I said—it wasn’t the time or the place, and it’s none of my business.  And now that you’re not a bullywhip anymore, I’m concerned about you.”  Kurt licks his lips and raises his eyes up to meet Dave’s.  “As a—“ he hesitates, wills the word forward—“friend.”

  Dave almost laughs.  It’s funny, really.  How Kurt struggles to call themselves friends and how Dave yearns for it to be true.  They’re acquaintances at best, and Dave’s body is recoiling from this conversation, from this room.

  Kurt steps closer to Dave, eyeing the still quick rise and fall of Dave’s chest, before his gaze falls to the floor.  “I just don’t think you should be so hard on yourself after what happened.  The coronation, and then what I said to you.  Most guys would have reacted the same way you did.”

  What a neat little box Dave fits in: the “most guys” category.  “You didn’t,” Dave reminds him, and fuck if he’s going to cry in the boys’ bathroom.

  Kurt presents him with a small, sad smile, before saying, “As society loves to remind me, I’m not like ‘most guys’.”

  “You’re not,” Dave agrees with him.  And as he agrees, he slides farther away from himself.

  “We should get to class,” Kurt says, by means of breaking off from the strained conversation.  “We’re probably really late—“ And just like that, words stop flowing to Kurt’s brain because Dave’s arm is gone.  Kurt stares hard at Dave’s coat, trying to find the missing appendage and failing.  Dave, for what it’s worth, tries to subtly wrangle himself into a position that would create some kind of optical illusion of his arm being gone.

  “Gotta go to class,” Dave mumbles, ready to evacuate the bathroom to get away from Kurt’s look of immense confusion, but not ready to enter the hallway lest more people see him.  He makes a move for the door anyway.

  Kurt grabs his shoulder from behind, feeling his way down Dave’s arm while Dave attempts to shake him off.  “What?—Where?” is all that Kurt can manage as it becomes clearer that Dave’s arm, while still physically attached, is in fact invisible.  “How—how are you doing that?” Kurt stammers, seemingly unaware that although Dave’s arm is invisible, he’s still holding onto it.

  Dave shakes his head slowly.  Kurt’s hand is firm on his forearm despite the bulk from his jacket.  “I don’t know,” Dave whispers.  Kurt’s eyes are wide with confusion and the longer that Dave stares at them, the more he feels tethered to that spot, bound by the intense blue of Kurt’s irises and the solid grip on his arm.  Some of the blurriness fades from his nerves.

  Then Kurt lets go.

  Because he’s good at running away when things get too hairy or too confusing, that’s what Dave does.

    Azimio will stand outside a classroom until ten seconds before the bell rings to avoid being in class any longer than he has to be and still barely make it there on time.

  When Dave rushes down the hall to chemistry, he finds Azimio staring at a cheerio’s ass while she bends down to get a textbook out of a lower locker.  Figures.

  Azimio gives him a once-over and punches his letterman appreciately before sauntering into the classroom.

  Dave takes his seat and the guy sitting next to Dave, a JV footballer, mutters “faggot” in his direction.

  Azimio’s eyes lock on the guy.  Azimio looks calm, collected and dangerous.  It means he has a plan.  His plans are usually illegal and always destructive.  In the past, his endeavors have included: throwing pee balloons at passersby, leaving flaming bags of shit on people’s doorsteps, breaking into their teammates’ cars and swapping out all of their CD’s with the Titanic soundtrack.  

  “David.  Are you going to answer the question?”

  Dave jerks his head up and stares gape-mouthed at his chemistry teacher.  “What?”  The fingers on his left hand feel tingly and unresponsive.  He’s tried pumping his fist and shaking out his hand as subtly as possible, but the feeling has persisted since he became fully visible in the bathroom with Kurt.

  His teacher, Ms. Chao, jabs at the white board with her marker, where a question from their previous chemistry test sits waiting. 

  “Um, yeah,” Dave answers.  Everyone else has their chemistry test in front of them.

  “Then would you mind?” she says impatiently, holding out the marker for him to take.

  He feels like he’s moving in slow motion, backing out of his desk to retrieve the marker.

  Ms. Chao eyes him skeptically.  “David is going to explain to all of you how to properly balance this equation, since he is the only one out of all of you who managed to get it right on the test.  I strongly suggest taking notes, something the majority of you fail to do on a daily basis.”

  She just called him smart.  Ms. Chao just called him smart in front of the entire class.

  Everyone’s eyes are on him and it causes a burning on his neck and a fog in his head. 

  He works through it.  He uncaps the pen and begins to write, squeaking his way down the white board.

  From the back row, Azimio snickers.  If McKinley had better curriculum and offered AP chemistry like a normal high school, then they wouldn’t share a class.  But McKinley only has one level of chemistry and the two friends landed themselves in the same period.

  “Explain what you’re doing, David.”  Ms. Chao’s voice halts his pen when he’s halfway through the equation.

  Dave licks his lips, sucks in a deep breath, and begins to explain, very quickly, because the whole class is watching him, because the teacher is watching him, because Azimio won’t stop snickering.

  Azimio catches up with him after class and stalls him while their peers file out of the Chemistry room.  “Dude, the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Dave scowls.  “Nothing.”  Dave glances at Ms. Chao while she stacks some papers on her desk.  She doesn’t acknowledge their conversation.

  “Like fuck.”  Azimio allots Dave two seconds to explain.  When Dave doesn’t offer anything else, Azimio adds, “It’s this prom thing.”

  Dave wants to retort “What prom thing?” but Azimio called him out once and he would do it again.

  “Man, shit’s going around.  And the way I see it, you gotta do something to get your cred back.”

  “’Shit’s going around’?” Dave repeats sarcastically, because duh.  He can practically see it spreading.

  Azimio backs toward the door as he continues.  This conversation is not intended to last long. “We all thought you were going to waltz with Her Royal Highness.  You gotta do something to prove that those glee losers don’t own you.  That Hummel hasn’t gotten his gay on you.  Break into the choir room.  Deface their shit.”

  “What?  No!  I’m not ruining their property.”

  They’re in the hallway now.

  “Hey, I thought you were through with being a bullywhip.”

  “I’m not ruining their property.”

  Azimio rounds the corner to stop at his locker on the way to his English class.  “I thought you’d say that,” he says, but he doesn’t sound defeated.

  That’s not a good sign.

  It’s no less than Dave was expecting.

    Occasionally in psychology Mr. Wells comes back to normopathy.  He talks about how normopaths spend so much energy dedicated to acting like what they think it means to be “normal” that consequently they have no discernible personality.

  They’re a vessel for everyone else’s opinions.

  How does a person survive inside of that?

  How does a person survive outside of that?  Once the desperation behind trying so hard to blend in wears off, he vanishes.  He is literally vanishing.

  Kurt doesn’t see Dave again for another three days.  When he finally glimpses Dave, it’s fleeting.  Nothing more than a wisp of Dave turning around a corner.  At least, he’s pretty sure it’s Dave. It’s hard to tell now that Dave has returned to wearing his letterman jacket.  It blends in more.  Kurt’s sure that’s intentional.

  In Glee, they gear up for nationals.  They talk about being different and how that makes them strong.  How that makes them winners. 

  Mr. Shue lines up their trophies to show how far they’ve come.  Sectionals trophies followed by regionals trophies with an empty spot at the end for where their nationals trophy will sit.

  These menial trophies represent everything they have to be proud of.  Everything that they’ve worked for.

  Most of them have never had trophies before.  Most of them never felt like they deserved a trophy.

  This room has changed all of that.

    Azimio won’t fucking shut up about breaking into the choir room.  He texts Dave, over and over, “5 2nite,” expecting Dave to be waiting around at school until the time of their heist.

  Dave doesn’t commit.  Saying no would only lead to an increased effort on Azimio’s part because he’s a stubborn asshole.

  Ignoring Azimio until school lets out will be difficult, but it’s better than the alternative, which, aside from being theft, will threaten his reinstatement at McKinley and more importantly, revoke Kurt’s forgiveness.

  Then Dave sees the notes in his locker.

  “Hows life at the fudge packing plant?”

  “Karofsky bites the pillow for his majesty”

  “Butt-fucker”

  It’s coming again.  He can feel it.  He’s buzzing all over, worse than ever before.  Each breath causes the loss of a finger, a toe.

  He races to the bathroom, leaving his chemistry book in his locker, leaving his locker wide open.

  Of course Kurt is in the bathroom.  Of course he is.  Is this becoming some kind of fucking ritual?  They never met up in here before.  Unless Kurt is only now coming here.  Unless he’s coming here in case he sees Dave.

  Long-shot.

  There’s no Dave left to see.

  The red and white of Dave’s letterman is the last to fade.

  “David!” Kurt exclaims, voice hushed, while he sprints to Dave’s side.  Hands still wet, faucet running.  “Oh my god, David.”  Kurt reminds himself that he’s awake, that David Karofsky just completely vanished in front of him, that this crazy, supernatural thing is actually happening.

  “Kurt,” Dave pleads, as he flickers in and out of focus.  “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” 

  As if Kurt has any more answers than Dave does.

  “When?  How?”  Kurt asks through his bewilderment.  He reaches for a part of Dave, fumbling blindly.  Part of him wants to get out his cell phone, because talking to a person who you can’t see is much less disconcerting with a phone in your hand.

  Kurt finds Dave’s right bicep with his right hand, (at least, that’s his best guess based on Dave’s height) and his left hand falls against the bathroom wall.  He shifts, transferring his left hand to Dave’s bicep, letting his right hand fall uselessly by his side.

  “After prom,” Dave whispers.  “It was like a catalyst, I don’t know.  I just thought about how I would give anything to not be around when everything started happening--”  Dave comes back to Kurt, just a little bit, enough that Kurt can see where he’s touching Dave.  (Higher up on Dave’s arm than he was expecting.  Dave is slouching).

  “When everything started happening?”

  “Don’t play dumb.” 

  “Dave, what are you talking about?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

  Kurt drops his hand.  Steps back.  “Fine.  Be insolent.  I have to go to class,” he says.  “I’m going to be late.”

  “Good,” Dave says as his anger colors him.  “Leave.”

  Kurt stares at Dave as he comes alive.  Dave’s anger impassions him. 

  “Kurt, I didn’t mean—things are really hard, people keep expecting to be someone I’m not, and—“

  “The thing with being someone you’re not,” Kurt replies slowly, so the words sink into Dave’s brain, “is that first you have to decide what kind of ‘someone’ you are.  And that means deciding who you want to impress.”

  Kurt leaves Dave alone in the bathroom, where Dave’s anger flickers and fades, the solitary candle that kept him lit.

    The one place that Kurt cannot escape Santana is Glee.  She tosses a balled-up piece of notebook paper in his face, which he unfurls to read a welcoming: Butt-fucker. “Thanks,” Kurt says drily, plunging the offensive paper into the trash.

  “Not for you,” she says, like he should have figured that out.  She lowers her voice.  “I found it outside of Dave’s locker.  Along with vandalism worthy of a terrorist attack.”

  I thought about how I would give anything to not be around when everything started happening.

  “Santana, has Dave said anything to you about this?”

  “No,” she says, as outwardly apathetic as Santana always is.  “And that Jockstrap still has my coat.”  She takes her seat next to Brittany, ponytail swishing behind her.

  Kurt wonders if there are other notes, and if they are worse, and what a worse note might say about someone like Dave.

      Dave doesn’t come back for the rest of the day.  He hides in the bathroom and counts the bells until school is out.  It’s easier to hide in there than to risk going out into the hallway and bumping into people.  Plus, he left his locker open, and he really doesn’t want to see what that turned into.

  Staying invisible means that avoiding Azimio will be a shit ton easier.  He’ll just wait it out.

  So he waits.

  Once the final bell rings, he gives it another ten minutes to be sure that everyone is gone, and he emerges from his cave.

  The contents of his locker are miraculously cleaned up.  There’s a smear of ketchup on the floor in front of his locker, but he tries to attribute that to coincidence, and he doesn’t open his locker again for fear of what he might find inside.

  He’s still gone, so he walks home.  Leaving his car at school is suspicious, but no more so than seeing a car driving with no driver inside.

  Plus, he doesn’t live that far away.

  Azimio calls him eleven times after school lets out, up through six o’clock.  Dave doesn’t answer any of the calls.

  Dave’s dad is  working late like he usually does, and his mom is out doing whatever it is that she does when she doesn’t want to be around her family (re: son) so he’s home alone.

  Until Azimio, the obnoxious shithead that he is, rings Dave’s doorbell at 6:23.

  Dave is himself once again, fully opaque in the sanctuary of his room.  He ignores Azimio ringing his doorbell.  He doesn’t want to hear about it.

  Azimio practically breaks the door down knocking, then there’s the click and creak of the doorknob turning, and Azimio is in his house.

  The fucker is in his house.

  Dave double-checks his browser for porn (no open windows and nothing on his web history, thank god he wipes it so frequently) and that’s as long as it takes for Azimio to reach his bedroom door.

  Azimio doesn’t knock before bursting into his room, with a “the fuck, man?”  Az is holding a Glee trophy in one hand and he’s got a backpack full of several more.

  “How the hell did you get in my house?” Dave yells.

  “Dude, I’m helping you.”

  “How the hell did you get in my house?” Dave yells again.

  Azimio gapes at him.  “I turned the doorknob.”

  “The door was locked.”

  “Whatever, man.”  Azimio tosses the trophy at him and throws down his backpack on Dave’s bed.  “I got these without your help, because you’re a shitface who needs all the help he can get right now.  Also, who the fuck leaves his car at school?  And where have you been?  Skipping classes?  The hell has gotten into you.  Never mind.  Here’s what you’re going to do.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  Azimio blinks at him.  “Excuse me?” he asks, almost politely, like maybe he heard Dave wrong.  When Dave doesn’t repeat himself (or offer up a different answer) Azimio barks, “Do you know what kind of friend I’ve been to your sorry ass?”

  “Yeah?  Did you clean up my locker for me?”  Dave says, trying to sound belligerent, trying to act like it’s a throw-away question.  But the truth is he really does want to know.

  “Your locker?”

  Azimio has no idea what Dave is talking about.  So it wasn’t him then.

  “Listen, man.  I’m going to pretend like the last five minutes didn’t happen, because otherwise I’m going to get really pissed off.  You want my plan or not?”

  No, Dave doesn’t want his plan.  “What’s the plan?”

  “You tie some rope to these ‘trophies’—“ he makes air-quotes for emphasis—“and drive them through the school parking lots.  At lunchtime.”

  “Sure, whatever.  I’ll do it.”  Whatever it takes to get Azimio to go away.

  “Good,” Azimio drawls, eyeing Dave skeptically.  “You’ll do it.”

  “Did I fucking stutter?”

  “You’ll do it,” Azimio says cynically.

  “I’ll fucking do it.  Now get the fuck out.  I got shit to do.”

  Azimio backs away.  “You’ll do it.  Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Dave promises.

  “At lunch.”

  “Yeah, lunch.  Whatever.”

  Azimio gives him a long, calculating stare.

  Dave’s hands start to twitch.

  Finally, Azimio turns away.

  Dave slams the door against his retreating back.

  Fuck, he doesn’t want to do this. 

    Word gets out after first period that their trophies are gone.  Rachel is the one who informs everyone, unsurprisingly.  She must have gone to the choir room before school.  Again, not a surprise.

  This time, Kurt is taking Santana with him into the boys’ bathroom.

  He pokes his head in to make sure no one else is in there, and then he beckons her in. 

  “Like I’ve never been in the boys’ bathroom before,” she drawls.

  Kurt rolls his eyes.

  He checks under the stalls.  No feet.  “Dave?” he calls, ignoring Santana’s look of Have-you-gone-insane?

  To make Santana even more skeptical of his sanity, he throws out his arms and feels his way through the air.  “Dave, I know you’re here.”

  Dave is in the bathroom and Kurt does not sound friendly.  It’s made even worse by Santana’s presence.

  Kurt keeps getting closer.  Dave is left with nowhere to go but into a stall, lest Kurt and Santana find him.

  Dave’s shoe squeaks against a streak of mud on the floor and he slips on a bit of discarded toilet paper.

  “Kurt,” Santana protests while she studies her nails.  “This is a waste of—“

  “I heard him.”

  Shit.

  Kurt follows the sound into the stall, flailing until he grabs hold of some part of Dave, then he draws back and punches him.  Not hard enough to bruise, not really hard enough to even hurt, but enough to shock Dave into a startled “Hey!”  He gets the distinct impression that Kurt’s goal was not to maim him, but to get him to reveal himself.  It worked exactly as planned.

  Santana jerks her head up and her eyes go wide.  “No shit,” she says, which quickly leads into: “Where the fuck are our trophies?”

  Dave rises to his full height, not like it matters because they can’t see him.

  But they’re starting to be able to.

  “I didn’t take your fucking trophies.”  Disregard the fact that he has them stashed in his car.

  “Then explain to me why they’re gone,” Kurt interrogates him, “when the school locks up at 4:30 and none of the teachers saw anyone take the trophies, and your car was the last student car in the parking lot.”

  “I didn’t take them.  And I left my car here overnight, so back off.”

  Kurt and Santana exchange glances.  They don’t believe him.

  Dave’s in full view now as he continues.  “Why would I want your trophies anyway?  They aren’t even good ones.”

  Kurt replies, in a clipped tone, “I can think of one good reason why you would take them.”

  “Yeah?  What’s that?”

  “Your reputation,” Kurt answers.

  To which Santana adds, “A reputation that, by the way, you told me hated.  Nice letterman.”  She’s wearing her bullywhip’s jacket and it mocks him.

  “I didn’t take them.”

  Santana stares at him the same way Azimio stares at him: like they can tell that he’s lying and they know he’ll never admit to it.  Santana’s disappointment cuts into him more than Azimio’s does.

  But not nearly as much as Kurt’s.

  When they’re truly satisfied that he isn’t going to tell them anymore, they leave him alone.

    Lunchtime is Dave’s moment of truth.  Is the turning point for whether or not he’s going to pull off Azimio’s prank.

  He skips another class to think about what he’s going to do, and also because Santana and Kurt really took it out of him.  He’s starting to feel worthless again and disgusted with himself.

  He wallows until ten minutes before lunch starts when he realizes that he hasn’t done anything wrong.  This is completely unfair.  And that makes him mad.

  It’s ironic that his anger has been the thing that has brought him back to himself, because anger always made him rash and violent.

  Maybe he just wasn’t getting mad about the right things.

  He shows up at his car right at the start of lunch, and no surprise, Azimio is there waiting for him.  With half the football team. 

  “You gonna do it?” Azimio asks as the crowd grows larger. 

  Dave doesn’t answer.  He unlocks his car and pulls out the bag of trophies, clenching two of them in his hands.  “Who else is coming?”

  Azimio shrugs.  “I might have told a few people.”

  Then the Glee club starts appearing in groups, gearing for a fight.  Making his grand entrance as the last person on the scene, Mr. Shue races across the parking lot.

  “Dude, do it.  The fuck are you waiting for?” Azimio eggs him on.  The football team leers.

  Dave’s eyes find Kurt, who looks furious, and Santana, who has surpassed anger altogether and entered into something much calmer and much more deadly.

  Dave is trying not to crawl in on him and disappear, because he’s starting to feel itchy and tingly.  Not a  good sign.

  He breathes through it.

  “Yeah, Z.  I’m gonna do it.”

  Azimio barely has time to grin at him before Dave is turning, handing the trophies over to Mr. Shuester and telling him, “Azimio Adams stole your trophies last night and planted them on me.”

  Few things take Azimio into a state of rage.  Usually things bounce off of him pretty quickly.  This is not one of those things.  “What?” he roars.  “Don’t blame your shit on me!” 

  “Azimio!  Language!” Mr. Shuester yells at him, passing the trophies off to an eager Rachel Berry.

  “I had nothing to do with this,” Azimio protests.

  “I don’t care!  Principal’s office!  Now!”  Who’d have thought, Mr. Shue can actually be authoritative.  “Show’s over.  Everyone go eat your lunch.”

  Disappointed by the lack of trashed glee memorabilia, the crowd slowly disperses until the only the football team, Kurt, Santana and Mr. Shue remain.

  “So it’s true,” Azimio says, and he’s already distancing from Dave and regarding him with disgust.

  Azimio could be talking about Dave siding with Glee, or he could be taking about the new rumors about Dave’s sexuality, but neither one is going to have a positive influence on his social standing.

  Dave swallows past the huge lump in his throat.  Kurt watches him anxiously.  Santana is carefully indifferent.

  First you have to decide what kind of ‘someone’ you are.  And that means deciding who you want to impress.

  “Yeah,” Dave says finally.  “It’s true that I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

  Azimio’s eyes bug out.  Some of the footballers snicker.  It’s not the answer that Kurt was hoping for, but he still feels like cheering.

  “Show’s over, guys,” Mr. Shue cuts in, gesturing for Azimio to follow him to Figgins’s office.  Azimio is still speechless.

  With Azimio gone, the rest of the footballers lumber away.

  “You owe me big for cleaning up your locker,” Santana says.

  Dave raises his eyebrows.  “Do I?”  He opens his car door and retrieves Santana’s coat, tossing it at her while he says, “The next time you get drunk and decide to puke on yourself, you’re paying the dry cleaning bill.

  “Santana, you were drunk before prom?” Kurt asks.

  Santana pulls on her coat and tosses her hair.  “Dave’s been hoarding my coat for the last two weeks.”

  Maybe Santana and Dave were closer than Kurt had thought.  Maybe they’ll be good for each other. 

  “Thanks, douchebag,” Santana says to Dave.

  “You’re welcome, bitch,” he says back.

  OK, so Kurt doesn’t understand the way they respond to each other, but it seems to work.

  Dave is shaky but he’s standing.  He’s only the slightest bit translucent, but he feels solid inside, like puzzle pieces are sliding into place.

  There’s only one last thing that’s been bothering him.  He texts Azimio.  How did you get in all those guys cars to swap the CDs? 

  It wouldn’t surprise him that much if Azimio didn’t write back, but he does.  He says, I opened the doors with my fucking hands

  Sounds like Dave isn’t the only one with special abilities.  That would explain how Azimio broke into the locked school to get the trophies.

  Azimio adds one more message: That was a bitch ass move you pulled.  I didnt think you had the balls.

  Dave writes to him, Theres a lot you dont know about me.

  There’s a lot that Dave doesn’t know about himself.