Author's notes: Most of these chapters will be rated PG-13 though the work does contain some NC-17 material: foul language, brutally honest character assessment and depiction; material of a graphic sexual nature (which does not appear until Chapter 4), and analyses which readers might find insulting and offensive.

Dave stood in a far corner of Breadstix, watching as people entered the festively-decorated restaurant. Sebastian mingled with the arrivals as Dave made an effort to be as inconspicuous as possible: though he'd embraced the fact that he often felt awkward in mixed company, he felt particularly ill-fit to this crowd.

Dave stood a short distance from the cash register, and he overheard the limo driver ordering dinner for himself from the carry-out menu. He listened as the driver, having been told that his order would be several minutes, said that he'd be stepping outside and would be back for his order shortly. Dave watched the driver exit the doors of the restaurant and stand several feet away from the door, lighting a cigarette, puffing, and blowing smoke into the chilly night air which was filled with a slushy sort of precipitation. Dave slowly followed outside into the parking lot and approached the older man.

"Not staying for the night's festivities?" Dave asked quietly as the distance between the two of the closed.

The driver swiveled his head and addressed Dave. "No. Not in the job description.You need to be here, but I don't. I'll be spending the evening elsewhere."

Dave noticed that the driver's hair was not tied back as it had been for the entire week: it lay in an unruly tangle, hanging over his shoulders and back; Dave also noted that the driver had added a black fedora and a long, black overcoat to his attire. "Cool hat."

"Thanks," the driver chuckled. "Thought it was appropriate due to this weather."

"No ponytail tonight?"

"Nah," the driver answered. "It looked like a scraggly mess so I thought I just let it hang out and cover the rest with the hat." The driver cast his eyes over Dave's form for a moment, nodding. "You look nice tonight."

Dave smiled and looked downward toward the pavement. "Thank you." He was wearing a casual black sport coat with a dark blue sweater beneath and black casual dress pants. "I thought I'd get a little dressed-up for the Christmas party." Dave paused and his face sobered. "Even though I wish I could be just about anyplace else."

The driver turned, facing Dave more directly as Dave continued.

"This is the last day of Smythofsky week. It's just about over. Do you think I'd be able to, like, leave early? I don't do so well with this kinda crowd, and there's just this one last night."

The driver shook his head. "Dave, you need to be wherever Sebastian is until this thing is over, well, within a reasonable proximity, at least. That's part of the rules." The driver turned, looking in through the doors at the girl working the cash register who was carrying a medium-sized bag to the counter. "I think my dinner's ready."

Exhaling a final breath of smoke into the chilled breeze and depositing the remainder of the cigarette into a receptacle, the driver turned and stepped back through the doors and into the restaurant, and Dave followed.

"That'll be six dollars and sixty-eight cents, sir," the girl at the counter spoke to the driver as he handed her a ten-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.

"What's for dinner?" Dave asked the driver as he turned to face away from the checkout counter.

"Pasta diablo," the man answered with a crooked smile before closing the distance between himself and Dave and speaking more seriously, quietly. "I know this is going to be worse than the rest of the week for you because, instead of just one person that you don't particularly want to be around, it's going to be crowds of people you're not comfortable with. Just tough it out."

"When will it be over?" Dave asked, "When will I know that I'm free to go?"

The driver addressed Dave's eyes directly as he backed toward the exit doors. "When it's over, you'll know that it's over. Not before then. And you'll see me again at that point."

With that, the driver spun, stepped toward and through the exit doors, and pushed out into the night, his long black coat fluttering in the wind behind him.

"Dave? Dave Karofsky?"

Dave turned to the source of the voice which spoke his name to see Finn Hudson stepping toward him. His gait was markedly more clumsy than the seductive dream-image from two nights prior, a loss of the mind's aesthetic idealism.

"Hey, Hudson," Dave spoke, friendly but hesitant.

"So, what brings you to the New Directions private party at Breadstix?" Finn asked, receptive and friendly, if charismatically inept.

"Uh, yeah, I was hanging with Sebastian, and the mcguffin invited him and the Warblers, and I'm kinda here by default, I guess," Dave answered, no less clumsy than Finn's approach. "So, I hear that you're the head of the glee club?"

"Yeah," Finn smiled, both excited and proud. "How'd you know?"

You told me, Dave opened his mouth to reply and stopped realizing that Finn hadn't told him, not outside of a dream, at least. Dave's mouth hung open, wordless for a moment, before he said, "Um, I guess someone told me."

"Cool," Finn nodded. "Word travels fast, I guess."

"Hey," Dave continued, "How's Kurt doing?"

"Kurt's in New York," Finn replied quickly, nodding, almost nervously again. "He just got accepted to a performing arts school up there. He and Rachel are roommates."

Dave smiled genuinely. "That's great. That's where he belongs, I guess. In his own element." Dave nodded and addressed Finn's face.

"You look good, Dave," Finn complimented as he stood back slightly, taking in Dave's form more fully.

"Thanks," Dave smirked.

"Well, I hope you have a good time here," Finn spoke. "We'll be getting the music going in just a bit."

"How long is this going to go on?"

"Um, well, the New Directions will be singing about a half-hour's worth of Christmas songs," Finn answered, eyes looking upward for a moment, a thoughtful expression as if tallying the night's events. "Then I think the Warblers might sing a few songs with the mcguffin. Kind-of a free-form jam-thing. We all hafta be out of here by ten o'clock."

Dave nodded, facing downward. "That's cool. No offense, but this really isn't my thing, and if it ends that early, I'm fine with that." Dave's eyes were still trained on the floor when he continued a moment later, "This really isn't my crowd."

"Oh, you'll do just fine," said a voice from Dave's opposite side.

Dave looked up to see that Finn had walked away and was at the opposite side of the room. Turning to the source of the voice, he saw Sebastian standing next to him.

"Hey," Dave spoke, sounding somewhat deflated.

"I was just out talking to all of the people here," Sebastian smiled his characteristic wicked smile which Dave had not seen for the majority of their five days together. "I think it's hysterical that the New Directions are throwing this Christmas party even though they blew their chances of getting to Nationals by totally getting destroyed by us at Sectionals. It's like a glorious wake for the defeated New Directions."

Dave nodded, appearing uncomfortable again.

"Good news," Sebastian continued. "I got you into the Dalton Christmas Gala which we'll be going to when this lame party is over. No one throws a Christmas bash like the Warblers."

"Well, I guess I'll get to compare the two parties later tonight, then," Dave spoke, sounding almost doomed.

"Yeah, we always bring the house down," Sebastian expanded. "You look nice tonight, Dave," Sebastian remarked, shifting his tone to sound more sincere than cocky.

"Thanks," Dave smiled slightly as he looked toward Sebastian and assessed his appearance. "And you look like you always do."

Sebastian's smile dropped. "Can't you compliment me just once?"

Dave's brow creased. He tried to smile, but it didn't happen. "I'm not gonna apologize for being honest. You're wearing the same suit you always wear. Your hair is exactly the same as it always is. What do you want me to say?"

"You know, we've been together for four days, and you haven't said one nice thing to me. Not even out of courtesy." Sebastian's veneer cracked to reveal a simmering anger beneath. "I've successfully fucked around with straight guys but failed in getting you interested in me at all. What the fuck is your problem?"

"Then have fun 'converting' straight guys if that's how you get your kicks. I told you before, I'm just not interested."

"You know, you disrespected me this entire week, both subtly and overtly," Sebastian's face succumbed to a quiet but unmistakable rage. "You haven't even so much as called me by my name."

"That's because you're a fucking joke," Dave's voice was calm and analytical despite the pointed expletive. "You're a cartoon-character stereotype. The writers even gave you a cartoon-character name. Sebastian Smythe. It sounds like an amalgam of Richie Rich, Snidely Whiplash, and Boris Badenov. They didn't even grace you with a porn-star name like the new characters all have."

Sebastian sneered defiantly. "I'll see you later when this lame pre-party has ended and the real party begins."

Dave's expression remained unmoved.

Sebastian huffed and stomped away from Dave to a large group of Warblers who were gathered around a large table, eating various appetizers, and laughing with each other. The New Directions took the stage area and began singing a string of typical, overplayed holiday novelty songs. Dave remained in the shadows by himself, not feeling especially drawn to either group of people.

Though the new faces of the New Directions were not unappealing, the presence of the mcguffin rendered the entire program trite in its excess and theatrically distasteful for that reason. As the formal program ended, the mcguffin remained on the stage platform, and the Warblers took their places around him. They began an impromptu arrangement of "Carol of the Bells" which sounded impressive as their meticulously-trained voices played off of each other flawlessly, but the freeform acrobatics of their movements pulled the idea of the traditional piece of music into the realm of absolute parody. Dave did find a degree of humor in the mcguffin's shameless ass-shaking during a jazzy arrangement of "O Come All Ye Faithful", an action which drew swoons from Warblers and girls alike.

As the hour of ten o'clock drew near, the festivities began to disperse. The members of the New Directions went their separate ways, excepting the mcguffin. He was, as was Dave, going with the Warblers to the Christmas party at Dalton Academy.

As the Warblers moved mob-like toward the exit doors, Dave felt himself being moved, more forcibly-pushed than gently whisked, by the group. Dave was shoulder-to-shoulder with the mcguffin; Sebastian was behind them both, an aloof, malevolent smile on his face, arms ensnaring them as they squeezed through the double-doors into the parking lot. A blue-with-red-trim bus emblazoned with a stylized signet letter D was waiting.

"Let's hear it for the Dalton party bus!" a nameless Warbler shouted; he was answered by cheers and approving yells from the remainder of the mob, excepting Dave.

Things were happening fast. Dave didn't exactly remember boarding the bus; but he found himself inside, and the bus was moving, rolling, almost too quickly, too roughly, tossing the occupants from time-to-time causing laughter to ensue freely among the riders. The atmosphere was one of chaotic revelry. One of the Warblers was standing at the front of the bus, facing the other occupants, conducting them in sloppy renditions of holiday songs whose lyrics had been altered to convey a sexual context. The Warblers freely passed bottles of wine, blazing joints, and waterbongs among themselves.

Dave needed to remain sober, he felt. He wanted to recognize the story's end, as the driver had told him; he felt he needed to have the full capacity of his rational mind.

The bus slowed to a halt inside the gates of Dalton Academy. As before, the mob of Warblers seemed to be pushing Dave, first out of the bus then into the building. Before Dave could comprehend his bearing, he found himself standing in an enormous, opulent space. There was a huge, gently-winding staircase and a exquisitely-appointed Christmas tree placed centrally within the curve of the staircase's structure; the tree was so tall as to nearly touch the ceiling of the palatial room. The opposite side of the hall housed an enormous fireplace in which a fire of an almost unearthly combination of colors blazed, throwing a heat that seemed too much, even for the huge space.

Trent, the chubby, cherubic Warbler stood in front of the tree, obviously marked by the effects of the alcohol and cannabis consumption, and proceeded to sing a version of "O Tannenbaum", his voice an almost alarmingly high-pitched falsetto with a ridiculous amount of vibrato: the sound and image combined to a create a singularly grotesque visage to Dave's sober sensibility. The other Warblers and guests frolicked freely around the room; they danced inappropriate to the present song as if dancing to a music in their own minds. Neckties and jackets were abandoned as the temperature increased. Dave stood near the doorway, hoping to be cooled by the draft of air from the outside.

Some of the other Warblers took turns, singing solos beneath the huge Christmas tree; occasionally additional Warblers joined as backup singers. The other attendees were dancing, sometimes closely, displaying overtly physical signs of affection to each other. Others were grouped, lying together on the expansive marble floor, touching and caressing, loosening and discarding garments. Trent had passed out, and a group of Warblers had removed his shirt and were busying themselves decorating his naked chest and belly with felt-tip markers: obscene words, phrases, and doodles.

"Hey!" Sebastian appeared, springing from a sprint across the room, coming to a stop in front of Dave. "Why not come in and join the party?"

"That's okay. The heat is kinda oppressive, and it's cooler here by the door."

"Suit yourself," Sebastian spoke with a cocky grin. "You know that thing you said on Monday? That thing about me not looking at you twice if there were five other guys in the room?"

"Yeah?"

"You were so right," Sebastian's smile grew grotesquely huge as he turned and ran back to the motion and energy at the center of the room.

Dave smirked to himself, shaking his head and looking toward the floor.

"Gentlemen and guys, Warblers and Dalton academics of all stripes," Sebastian's voice boomed loud from the center of the room causing Dave to cast his gaze upward, "I give to you the return of Blaine Anderson."

The mcguffin appeared from a central point halfway down the extravagant staircase. He was shirtless, his chest covered only in the thin bands of his suspenders, his pants were tight and decorated with alternating red and green vertical stripes. He descended the staircase to the marble floor as a handful of standing Warblers began singing a jazzy, rhythmic backup. When he reached the center of the floor, he began to sing an obscenely-altered version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree", and all of the reposing attendees who were not already passed-out rose and began to clap and swoon. Sebastian took his place directly behind the mcguffin, inviting the mcguffin to rub his ass into the taller boy's crotch: the mcguffin smiled, playful and flirtatious; Sebastian displayed an arrogant, confident grin.

Then something happened, and everybody was shaken silent. The entire building seemed to shift on its foundation. All eyes faced upward as the huge mirrors which lined the walls of the descending staircase fell and shattered upon impact with the marble. Parts of the ceiling fell followed by the powdery dust of shattering plaster and dislodged ornamentation.

Dave backed more closely to the door, sensing an imminent disaster as the other attendees' faces reacted with expressions of fear and panic.

A giant beam fell forward into the hall from the wall which housed the enormous fireplace, scattering burning logs and flame over the central part of the floor. Sebastian's face shifted from mirth to purposefulness. The mcguffin and a group of people jerked to make their way toward the entryway where Dave stood, but Sebastian ran to a point behind the Christmas tree and pushed the enormous fir sending it toppling forward to the floor, blocking the movement of anyone toward the doorway. The top of the tree landed into the scattered contents of the fireplace and immediately caught fire, becoming a wall of flame in which the partiers were trapped.

Dave couldn't help anyone without risking himself. He wanted to spring into action, but the situation seemed insurmountable. He turned and pushed his way through the doors and into the grounds outside the building. He could hear shouts and screams coming from inside. The facade of the building collapsed before his eyes, and he could see, beyond the wreckage, the people trapped within the hall: trapped on one side by a wall of flame, and trapped on the other side by part of the structure which still stood.

From his vantage point, Dave witnessed, as if it were a drama playing out for his eyes only, Sebastian, angry and purposeful, pulling the struggling mcguffin toward the flaming tree, flinging the both of them into the area of the blaze's greatest intensity.

As he witnessed the act of self-immolation, Dave thought he heard the name Brünnhilde whispered in his mind. He stood transfixed for a moment as the ruined building, fire, and all, seemed to collapse inward upon itself, leaving only a giant crater where Dalton Academy once stood. On the edge of the crater was a book, an inch-thick, trade paperback. Dave slowly, cautiously, approached the crater. He looked down into the darkness of the abyss and the book lying at its edge.

"That's all that's left of Dalton Academy," a voice from behind startled Dave; he turned.

"Kurt?" Dave spoke incredulous, surprised, though not exactly warmed by the appearance.

"It's me, and that's Dalton Academy," Kurt spoke as he stepped quietly toward Dave, reaching downward and lifting the book from the ground.

How to be Gay the Corporate American Way

"It was always a mcguffin. Dalton Academy: the architectural embodiment of a cheap, self-help book."

"What happened to it?" Dave asked Kurt.

"I willed it out of existence," Kurt explained. "It was created because of my problems with you. It gave me some pretty bad advice and basically became a primer for proper attire, grooming, and conduct. Pretty superficial stuff which kinda means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Now that my problems with you no longer exist, it didn't have a purpose. I did this so the story could happen the way it was supposed to happen. The classic love story. I did this for us. So we could finally be together."

From the surrounding darkness sounded a growing wail, and the presence of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of spectators became apparent. Dave and Kurt raised their eyes and looked around to find themselves surrounded by droves of young people: mostly teenaged and pre-teen, primarily trendily-attired girls with some hipster, flamboyantly-attired boys among them. They were obviously upset. Some were crying; some were yelling and shaking their fists hatefully. There were a few adults, business-minded-looking people holding clipboards, taking notes, and shaking their heads as they did, an appearance of disapproval. One visibly enraged girl broke away from the mass and stomped toward Kurt and Dave. Her expression was fiery as she stood before Kurt.

"Why did you do it?" she demanded. "We love the mcguffin. He's hot and you were lucky to have him because he's better. You were the perfect gay couple." She pointed angrily toward Dave while still addressing Kurt. "This guy's disturbed. He can't possibly be gay. The rules say he can't be gay. I mean, just look at him!"

"You're not me," Kurt spoke to the girl loudly. "You're not inside my head, and you don't know him either."

The girl slapped Kurt's face; Kurt recoiled from the impact. "You listen to me," The girl demanded. "I'm a straight sixteen-year-old girl, and I know more about what it is to be a gay male than either of you two ever will!"

The girl spun, turning away from Dave and Kurt, and returned to the group from which she came. The wailing and sobbing was quieting, and the spectators were dispersing, walking slowly into the darkness in all different directions, away from the center of the crater.

Out of the crater emerged, one-by-one, as if climbing single-file from a staircase which began deep in the earth, a line of young men. The first was short and athletically-built. He had a mop of curly black hair, a face covered in dark scruff, unshaven, and an acoustic guitar slung over his back; the second was taller and thinner, fairer of face and hair, smooth-looking and clean-shaven, bespectacled, and casually-dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Both of them addressed Kurt and Dave from a distance and nodded in friendly recognition; the taller boy added a thumbs-up gesture to his wave. The remainder of the young men followed, waving and nodding in a friendly manner as they created a procession into the darkness.

Kurt turned and addressed Dave's face with a small, expectant smile. Dave's expression steeled itself, preparing to respond to Kurt's earlier statements.

"Kurt, um, you didn't really mean what you said before, did you? About us being together?"

"Dave, of course I meant it. I know this is what you want because you told me as much last Valentine's Day. I saw a really wonderful part of you that day. I've watched you become a really sweet person. It is the classic love story. Beauty and the Beast.

Dave exhaled loudly, shaking his head slightly. "No, Kurt. I don't think that's, um, where my head is right now. Back then, I thought it made sense for you and me to be together. You were the other available person in my world at the time. Since then, I've realized that you're not the only person available to me, not in this immediate world or in any of the places I'll be going after this. We have our whole lives ahead of us. Being with somebody just because someone's single is like fixing something that's not broken. It's not a reason unto itself."

Kurt's face moved from an expression of seriousness to disappointment as Dave continued to talk.

"Back when I was in the hospital, we said we'd be friends. Neither of us ever acted on that. I guess, in some ways, we'll always have a feeling of solidarity for each other, but, frankly, you're not likely to accompany me to an NHL game any more than I'm likely to find that going to a fashion show with you is anything other than slow torture. There's a reason why we never kept in contact."

Kurt's face was sober but otherwise expressionless.

"Make sense?" Dave asked.

Kurt sighed. "Yes. And I should have figured that out." Kurt paused for a moment, a slight smile returning to his face. "But I don't regret reducing the Warblers and Dalton Academy to their symbolic essence. They'd become completely useless."

Dave smiled and nodded, addressing Kurt's smile.

One small group of spectators remained. They were a diverse group of individuals: an extraordinarily tall man with a full-but-manicured beard dressed in brightly-colored overalls and a pink t-shirt underneath; a pretty blonde French girl; a tall, good-looking high-school aged boy with his stockier-built, handsomely-scruffy college-age boyfriend; a strong and beautiful dark-skinned woman with her hair in short braids; a bespectacled college girl with asymmetrically-styled, two-toned hair; a few heavy-set bearded men; several casually-dressed college-aged girls; a few people of varying ages and unspecific identities. They looked upon Kurt and Dave with serious, sympathetic expressions. Behind them flew a flag, a white skull-and-crossbones on a field of black. In close proximity was the limousine; the driver stood next to it, arms folded as if in expectation, a shorter, thicker-built, luminous blonde man standing beside him.

The tall man stepped out of the group and approached Dave and Kurt.

"We're your friends," he spoke to the two of them but directed his words to Dave specifically.

Dave nodded, a degree of uncertainty.

"We've been watching," the tall man said. "Just know that we're your friends. That's all."

Dave smiled nervously. "Thanks. I guess."

A loud noise came from the direction of the limousine. The driver was standing on the car and had taken the flag and punctured the roof of the car with the flagpole. The pole protruded at an angle, leaving the flag to fly in the wind over the car; his hair and long, black coat caught windswept in the breeze. He jumped from the roof to the ground and spoke.

"The limousine is a symbol of the height of expected norms and corporate establishment. This limousine is now a pirate vessel." He stepped away from the car and stood midway between the group of spectators and Dave, Kurt, and the tall man. He directed his words to Dave and Kurt. "I'm riding these people back to civilization. You can come along if you like."

Dave looked nervously from the tall man to Kurt to the group of spectators. "I don't know…"

There was a silence before the driver said, "You get to pick the music."

"Really?" A smile broke across Dave's face as the driver held the back door of the car open and ushered the group of spectators, one-by-one, into the rider compartment. "I guess I'm in then."

"I'll miss the Warblers," the French girl said to the driver as she stepped into the compartment.

"Then let them be a beautiful memory, one that can't be ruined by time's cruel agenda," the driver answered.

Dave walked with the tall man to the limousine, arriving as the last of the group of spectators had stepped inside. The tall man boarded. Kurt was left standing by himself.

"You can come too, you know," the driver directed at Kurt. "You're more than welcome."

Kurt's face formed a smile, and he nearly broke into a run as he advanced toward the car.

Dave motioned for Kurt to enter the car before climbing in himself, and the driver closed the door.

The blonde man spoke to the driver, "I'm riding shotgun."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

The driver walked to the front passenger-door of the car and held it open as the blonde man seated himself inside; the driver closed the door and walked to the other side of the car, stepped in and set the car in motion toward the horizon, into the light of the approaching dawn.