Just wanted to quickly apologize for the fact that this chapter is a little slow. It's mostly setting the stage, and although I really despise it when novels, etc, do that, I felt it was necessary to better understand this fic. I'm not going to say there are any spoilers because if you're surfing the Glee Kurtofsky fandom you've probably already seen "Never Been Kissed." However, I do draw on an assumption that is based off of some "spoilers" I've heard (That Karofsky gets suspended and Azimo gets expelled for beating up Kurt). Just be warned that this is set sometime after the episode that's going to air on November 23rd.
I hope you guys enjoy the fic! I'm a HUGE shipper of Kurtofsky even though I am aware it probably won't happen.
This will probably get a lot heavier and more "T-to-M" rated as I keep writing it. Just so you guys know.
Thanks for reading!
Dave Karofsky was not staring intently at Kurt Hummel's ass, and if you told him otherwise you would be introduced to the Fury.
No; Dave was staring intently in the other direction, with one eye on Kurt as he pranced around the classroom. Kurt was, after all, the best student in French 3. He enjoyed walking around everyone's desks and pointing out their mistakes or exalting them in their accomplishments. "Bon travail!" he called out, patting classmates on the back while beaming at them. "Eh…le passé compose avec 'être' utilisez 'DR et MRS VANDERTRAMPP' verbes, monsieur Israel. Comprendez?" He smiled at Jacob, who glowered at him in retaliation.
Kurt skipped over Dave without even so much as a second glance. Which was fine by Dave. Mostly because Dave didn't give a rats ass about French, anyway. Who cared about the damn "laissons" and verb tenses and the awful concept that is "le subjonctif"? Honestly, Dave didn't want the fancy fairy poof to correct Dave's misuse of a noun or adjective. He certainly didn't want Kurt to read his sentence, "Il ne est pas possible que Kurt Hummel m'aime."
Dave frowned intently at the paper in front of him while absently listening to Kurt hum phrases in French to his classmates. Dave had only taken French because he knew Kurt Hummel was in it. The first week of Dave's sophomore year, he saw Kurt walk into the French 1 classroom. Kurt had walked with nothing short of a swagger, dressed fancier than any other student at McKinley High. It infuriated Dave as much as it fascinated him. Just that 10 second encounter with the boy was enough. It was like a compulsion; the next day he went to his counselor and witched out of Russian 2 for French 1. It was only an excuse to share a class with the fag. To make fun of him? Yeah, to make fun of him.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bell rang. Dave sprang from his seat, immediately closing his workbook and tucking it into his bag. Kurt flounced across the room to his bag, packing it up quickly. As soon as he started heading towards the door, Dave made a beeline towards him and slammed him into the doorframe. He sneered as he slid past the crumpled boy who only stared back at him blankly.
It had been two weeks since he had been suspended for beating up Kurt with Azimo. Azimo had been expelled, because Azimo was the driving force behind the punches, kicks, and fury. All Dave wanted to do was knock the fag around a bit. Maybe give him a nice sized shiner on that perfect and flawless face. Azimo, though, had had enough of Kurt's in-your-face homosexuality. To the point that when Dave had been successful in his attempts to give Kurt a shiner, Azimo kept wailing on him. Azimo beat him into the ground, tore apart his clothes, and ripped into any corner of soft flesh that was left on Kurt's body. It took all of Dave's strength to pull Azimo off of Kurt, who looked as if he might go unconscious at any moment. Azimo had screamed at Dave but the words were incomprehensible to Dave. Dave looked down at the pummeled Hummel, and felt a knife twist deep in his stomach. His mind shattered and he could feel his sanity slipping through his fingers like sand at a beach. He didn't even bother to try to pick up the handfuls that had escaped: he turned to Azimo, looked the burly jock in the eye, and gave Azimo a piece of his own medicine. Azimo had fallen to the linoleum of the high school, and at that moment, the blood of Kurt and Azimo was indistinguishable from each other as they pooled together to create a scene worthy of a horror movie. Kurt had looked Dave in the eye and mumbled: "thank you" before passing out. That left Dave in a sticky situation: two unconscious teenagers in front of him with gore splattering the floor. Dave did the only thing he could think to do. He took his phone out, called 911, and blubbered to the operator over what had happened.
Surprisingly, Kurt didn't lie. He told the police (when he was conscious) that Dave had done nothing more than his usual to Kurt and that it was Azimo who was the true criminal. Kurt promised the police that if Dave hadn't of pushed Azimo off and knocked him unconscious, Azimo probably would have continued until his dirty work was finished. While it was never explicitly said, Kurt implied that Dave had saved his life. The fact was that no matter how wonderful Dave had been after Azimo went crazy, Dave was still responsible for the purple welt on Kurt's flawless face.
Azimo was in jail. Dave was suspended for three days and had to do 300 hours of community service over the next year. Which was fine by Dave—turned out that he and Puckerman had a lot more in common than they would have thought. That kid in the wheelchair tutored both of them in geometry while Puckerman and Dave stood awkwardly on the side of the road in neon orange vests cleaning up trash.
That left Dave in an awkward position at school. His best friend was in jail because of three testimonies against him (Dave and Kurt's, plus the school's surveillance cameras). To some people, this made Dave look like a pussy. Some of his former "friends" had slushied him in the boys locker room after football practice. Their words slipped through gritted teeth as they proclaimed they'd beat the shit out of Dave if he ever told on one of the football boys again. They promised that the beating would be worse than the beating Kurt had received. On the other hand, though, some students were looking at him with respect and empathy—practically as if they wanted to be friends with him. Which, in a way, was almost worse than his teammates giving him the slushie treatment during after school hours. What happened to his fear cred? Down the drain, just like Puckerman's. And Dave wasn't even in the faggy Glee club, either.
Kurt still wouldn't look at Dave, which tore him apart just as much as it amused him. There was a detached part of Dave that was able to deal with any problem life threw at him, including the fact that Kurt clearly thought of Dave as a slimy maggot. But there was still the fact that—
Dave didn't want to think about it.
Dave walked home that Friday, thinking about French class. Thinking about how happy Kurt had looked when students were able to pronounce words correctly. He thought about how the teacher had just let Kurt run the class, because it was one of the only things that brought a smile to Kurt's face. Somehow, the smiles he gave in French class made the swelled bruise look less intimidating and painful. Thinking about how happy Kurt had been in class brought a smile to Dave's face, until he realized what he was smiling about. He quickly turned it into a scowl.
His house looked surreal as he walked up to it. Everything was so perfect in his life. His yard was perfectly groomed, with perfect flower beds placed strategically all across the lawn. He walked up to the mahogany door and pushed it open, feeling like an intruder in his own home. The feelings of being an outcast had only gotten worse over the past month. It started out small, with Dave thinking that he couldn't wait to get out of Lima. It escalated into him thinking his parents hated him and that he was going to be disowned at any moment.
"Hi, Ma," he called out, swinging his backpack off of one shoulder and holding it in his hands. He dragged it across the floor and threw it on the staircase as he made his way to the kitchen. His mother sat at the kitchen table, stuffing her face with sweets—as usual. The kitchen was immaculate for the most part; the table was covered with chocolate residue and the remains of potato chips and crumbs of cake.
"Hi, sweetie," she mumbled through mouthfuls of food. "How was your day?"
You don't care. "It was fine."
"What did you learn today?"
That you disgust me. "Uh, I learned some new stuff about writing in French in the past tense."
His mom gave him a blank stare—he had reached territory beyond her ability to cope. Dave wondered if she even knew what the term "past tense" meant. "That's wonderful, sweetie," she finally said (after she swallowed a particularly large chunk of sweets).
Dave mumbled that he was going to go to his room to work on homework. "Okay, sweetie," she said, waving him off with big, meaty hands. Dave slinked back to the staircase, picking up his bag and dragging it across each step as he thudded his way upstairs.
When Dave got into his room, he shut the door behind him and turned the lock. He sat down on his bed and let his face slowly sink into his hands.
He didn't know what to do anymore.