Author's Note: Quick drabble (sort of, I guess more like an extended drabble) to break my growing case of nervousness in following my last story with something less epic. :-)

Thanks to Boys Should Kiss Boys More on Tumblr for asking for an awkward, sweet first time story. I don't know how that request turned into this, but. Here it is. It's awkward and first time and I guess sweet at the end, but I'm sure it's not what you intended.

Also my first time trying Dave's POV. He swears a lot. Be warned.

And it's such bullshit. Seriously. It's such bullshit, and it's not fair, and it's completely fucking pointless.

Dave slams the door to his bedroom, pushes his desk chair out so hard he scrapes the wooden floor. He jabs at the power button to wake his computer up, and slams himself down in the chair and glares at the screen as his usual Red Wings background comes into view.

Fucking bullshit.

"'It'll be good for you, David,'" he says to himself, and apparently in his head his fucking bullshit therapist sounds like Minnie Mouse or something. "'It'll be a learning experience. It will help you come to terms with this stupid fucking thing that you absolutely hate.'"

The actual steaming shit of a bull.

He glares at his browser, glowers at the crumpled pamphlet he's been fisting so hard. He resents the keyboard as he types in the URL, hates his browser as it acknowledges the instructions and takes him to the fucking website. He loathes the internet for not going through a sudden and complete fucking blowout. He despises the power company for keeping the computer lit up, condemns to hell the hours he worked at fucking Safeway to pay for a computer of his own.

Every little thing about this stupid moment he hates. He hates Kurt Hummel for driving him into therapy, and his truck for literally driving him to therapy. Resents God for not listening to him. Or maybe not actually existing to hear him, he's not sure yet, but either way...fuck Him right in the holy fucking Ear.

...all these weeks of counseling, of learning how to deal with anger and stop from lashing out at others and blah blah hippy bullshit, and all that Dave Karofsky has really learned is that if he can think furious enough thoughts, he can get through his temper flare-ups without hitting anything.

And considering that that is dead opposite of what his fucking know-it-all counselor suggests ("think good thoughts, David, and good deeds will follow"), he can't help but think that everything she's doing with him is a waste of time.

Including, especially, this website.

Christ, and the site is so fucking cheerful. Bright block letters, clip art of happy kids with their arms around each other, beaming their bliss at being included in a picture straight from Getty Fucking Images.

He clicks the link to Sign Up! and makes up an email address, gives his age, lies about his location, and tries to make his user name thisfuckingsucks before being informed by the prim little computer that his suggestion contains possibly offensive language. Wellexcusethehelloutofme is deemed too long. Finally he just mashes the keyboard, and the computer accepts asfjaertkjbzxvio as his brand new shiny user name.

Fucking male cow excrement, this whole thing.

He's taken to a blank page, and a little flashing message tells him that his peer counselor is being assigned, and to please wait.

Because the answer to his problems is obviously more god damned counseling.

He's tempted to turn on his iTunes, blast some of his devil's music so that his dad can hear nice and properly how much he hates everything in the world, but that's counterproductive. The happier his dad thinks he is, the better his life will be all around. Besides, the music just makes his dad call the fucking priest, and if there's one thing that would sink this wasted day even further into the dirt, it would be that fucking collar and disapproving stare showing up in his living room.

There's a flash on the screen, and Your Peer Counselor Has Entered the Room!, and Dave sometimes thinks that if the good people of the world really think that ambushing people with exclamation points is the way to win hearts and minds, it's no wonder the world's going to hell.

He narrows his eyes at the screen, waiting.

BrianD: Hello! My name's Brian. Have you been to the Rainbow Network before?

Dave scowls. Brian, and an exclamation point, and the guy doesn't have the decency to be ashamed of the name of this stupid fucking site.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: No.

There. Take that, Bri.

There's a pause.

BrianD: That's okay! :-) I'll tell you a little bit about how this works, and then we can talk about why you're here!

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: whatever

Way too fast to have typed it all out, a paragraph of text appears. Generic fucking macro, and Dave hardly skims it. Blah blah peer support blah blah anonymous and confidential blah blah talk to someone who understands you.

As fucking if.

At least there aren't any exclamation points.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: If this is so private and confidential then how the hell will my therapist know I've been here?

BrianD: We assign you a case number to give your doctor. They can look up the time and duration of your talks on here, but nothing else. Promise.

'Promise.' Fucking queer.

Dave sits back and rubs his hands over his face, hating this whole thing so damned much he can't even express it. When he drops his hands Brian is already harping on him through anonymous chat.

BrianD: So tell me about you. What brings you here? Besides your therapist, obviously.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: This is a website for troubled gay teens, what the hell do you think?

BrianD: LOL. Look, it's not so bad. Really. Just think of this as a place where you can talk about the things you can't share with anyone who actually knows you. That's not such a bad thing.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: What's the point?

BrianD: It gets some things out of your system. I don't know, different people have different benefits. But...look, really, you should try it. Just say one thing that you can't tell anyone face to face.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Like what?

BrianD: Well...I don't know. I don't know you. I doubt, for instance, that your name is actually Asfjaertkjbzxvio.

Dave manages a faint smile at that.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Is your name really Brian?

BrianD: No, actually. Most of the counselors here were once clients, and we're given the same anonymity as anyone else. That's why they use this format, and why they ask your location to keep from assigning someone who might live nearby.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Guess I shouldn't have lied about where I live then.

BrianD: Hah. No, probably not, but you wouldn't be the first. Anyway, look, when I first came here I was looking for help myself. And the first time I talked to a counselor I told him some things I never told anyone, and I can tell you it feels way better than you think it will.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: What did you tell him?

BrianD: Should've known that was coming. I told him how much I absolutely hate being associated with girls just because I'm gay and, okay, maybe a little effeminate. I mean, all the little nicknames and comments, even my friends wanting to drag me out for shopping and makeovers and manicures. People thinking I want to wear dresses or lipstick.

BrianD: Seriously, I'm a gay male. I want less to do with vaginas than straight guys, so why are people always trying to associate me with them?

Dave laughs, then blinks at himself in surprise.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Yeah, I don't generally have that problem.

BrianD: Still feels good to say it, even now. I'm out where I live but I still haven't managed to say those words to the people who are actually the cause of it.

BrianD: So? Your turn. What problem do you generally have, if not that?

Dave frowns and thinks about it. This whole thing is still bullshit, he'll never change his mind about that, but it is kind of a tempting idea. Complete anonymity, venting about the things he can't tell anyone.

There's a hell of a lot that he could say, really. Even signing up to a site for troubled gay teens is telling people more than anyone but Kurt Hummel and Dave's counselor and dad and priest know. Oh, and Kurt's fucking Pollyanna ex-boyfriend, Blaine Bushbrows.

Oh, and Santana.

Jesus.

Of the few people who do know that first big secret, he can't talk to a single fucking one of them about it.

Not even Kurt, and that kind of fucking sucks. If there's one person who has kind of been like a friend to him lately, it's Kurt. But he's so obsessed with his own issues, and he can't get past Dave's closet door, and...

Forget it. Dave goes to PFLAG meetings and sits beside Kurt and plays the part of the pissy jock forced into this by his dad, and that's hell enough. He doesn't talk, and Kurt doesn't make him talk. Just looks at him with those big disappointed eyes at the end of every meeting.

Fuck Kurt and his ex-boyfriend, and their sparkles and their happy little rainbow. Fuck Santana, who can't stop blackmailing him over the one thing she does know. The counselor is a manipulative bitch being paid by his dad, and his dad and the priest are trying too hard to save him from hell to want to hear the details about the handbasket Dave's sitting in.

There's a lot he can say to this anonymous fucking peer counselor that he's never said before. Maybe it really would help.

BrianD: Am I pushing too soon? I could tell you more embarrassing things about my life if it helps, but we're not here to talk about me.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Okay...here's something I can't tell anybody.

He hesitates. He types, and it feels a little uncomfortable.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I wish that what I actually WANTED mattered to a single fucking person in my life.

BrianD: ...that's a good one. What do you mean?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I mean I don't want to be fucking gay.

BrianD: Honestly? Not a lot of people do.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Yeah, but shouldn't that matter? My dad thinks I'm going to hell even though I told him that I would change myself in a heartbeat if I could. I've never had a boyfriend and I doubt I ever will. I never kissed a guy. Not for real, anyway, but that doesn't matter. There's this fucking gay demon in my head and so I'm going to hell unless he can fix me.

BrianD: That sounds pretty awful.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: You know, he's not the one that pisses me off the most. There's this guy at school who's gay and out and proud and all that shit, and he keeps fucking harping on me to be happy with who I am. He keeps throwing this gay pride thing in my face. He doesn't care that I fucking hate it, that it's not society or fear or what the hell ever, I just don't want this. Shouldn't it matter to somebody what I actually want?

And...shit. It does feel good, writing that out. Getting it out of his head and putting it out into the world instead, even if it's to some anonymous queer guy in California or wherever.

He takes a breath and keeps typing, though Brian hasn't responded yet.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Sometimes I think about those camps where they try to, like, un-gay all the kids. I wish that shit actually worked, because I would sign up in a heartbeat. I want a cute girlfriend and a wife someday, and kids I wouldn't beat with a fucking Bible, and grandkids who visit me in my fucking old-folks home and hate every minute of it. I want the life people are supposed to have, but this one thing fucks all of that up, and there's NOTHING I can do about it. It pisses me off so fucking bad sometimes.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I got robbed. I can't watch TV without seeing some fucking credit card commercial about the perfect whitebread family, mom and dad and kids, and this fucking assumption that that's America, and what we all aspire to, and what the lucky people get. Sitcoms and movies and Oreo commercials, they're all about the same things. That's what I want, it's what we're supposed to want, so why should I be happy that I've got this wire crossed in my brain that steals that whole future away from me?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Why are the only things people tell me either 'be proud!' or 'you're going to hell'? I don't want to be proud of this thing, and I don't want to go to fucking hell for something I didn't choose, and why doesn't it fucking matter what I WANT?

There's a long pause, which Dave first figures is Brian or whatever his real name is reading through that massive and pointless rant. But after a minute or two he starts feeling sheepish and reads over his words just in case he's being completely retarded.

But no. It's true, all of it. If it's not what this happy little peer counselor wants to read, fuck it. Nobody ever wants to hear Dave or his actual feelings, so this anonymous fucker is stuck with him.

BrianD: I'm going to say something here, and I don't want you to think I'm making light of anything you just said, okay?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Whatever.

BrianD: I want to be six feet tall.

BrianD: I'm serious. Everyone knows the hottest guys have some height on them, and I think if I was a little larger than the average girl I wouldn't have problems with people trying to put me in skirts. I really want to have a growth spurt and be able to see over people in the halls at school.

BrianD: But what I want to be, while it matters, can't change what I actually am. You know?

Dave rolls his eyes.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Yeah, I realize I can't change what I am. Trust me, I've tried a million different ways. But dude, what if people kept coming up to you with like short-people pride stickers, telling you that if you're not proud to be short you're wrong, and repressed, and they pity you. Or your dad tells you that heaven is one of those fairground rides with the poster telling you you can't get in if you're not This Tall? Fine, you're not six foot, but just because you can't change it doesn't mean you have to be thrilled with it, right? Or that you should be condemned for it.

BrianD: I never thought of it that way. But since this is something you can't change, is it really all that bad for someone to suggest that maybe you could learn to accept it and be happy with yourself even with this one thing you don't like?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I don't know. Maybe if it made any sense to me at all. Maybe if they gave me reasons – something more than 'this is what you are'.

BrianD: Reasons for what? To be happy about it?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Yeah. If my dad's going to weep for my soul and my priest is going to tell me that I can't sit beside any males in the services until I 'straighten myself out', and the guys at school would fucking tear me apart, and people everywhere are going to hate me, and I'm never going to get the life that the American Dream is supposedly built up around, then why the fuck should I ever be happy about it?

BrianD: You said that you've never had a boyfriend, right?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Nope, and I doubt I will.

BrianD: So you're going to accept the condemnation and the hatred and the self-loathing without accepting the one part of being gay that makes that other stuff worth it? It's no wonder you're angry.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: There's more to life than having a fucking boyfriend.

BrianD: True. There's more to life than being gay, though it may not feel that way to you right now. But we're talking about the gay part of your life right now, so.

Dave rolls his eyes and scowls at the screen.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: You're kind of a prick.

BrianD: I've been called worse. Why would you say that you won't ever have a boyfriend?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Because. I don't know.

BrianD: That's no answer, Asfjaertkjbzxvio.

He manages another smile and sighs.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Look, I know exactly two gay dudes right now. They used to be together, you know. They split up a couple months back, but whatever. They're the two guys I know. One of them is a douche, but the other one...I don't know. We're friends mostly. I mean, I can talk to him about stuff I don't talk to a lot of people about, even if I don't talk about a hell of a lot. And we get along, and he's...

BrianD: Oh, don't stop there.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: He's something. I mean, if I can't feel something for HIM than I can't figure any other guy is ever going to stand a chance with me. Maybe there's something fucking wrong with me, I don't know. Maybe I'm not even queer, maybe I'm just...fucking asexual.

BrianD: You said IF you can't feel something for this guy.

Dave hesitates at that, feels his face heating up despite himself.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Sometimes he just pisses me off, you know? But I don't know. Sometimes it's different.

BrianD: Uh huh...?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: What, you want me to talk about this now?

BrianD: We're on your time, Asfa...you know what? I'm gonna call you Jaer for short. :-)

Another roll of the eyes, but Dave grants the guy on the screen a smile he probably wouldn't have managed if the guy was actually in front of him.

BrianD: So, Jaer, we're on your time now, but my Spidey senses are tingling. I think you should talk about him a little.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: First, answer a question for me: was that Spidey sense thing just now a comic book reference, or a Tobey MacGuire movie reference?

BrianD: LOL. Don't tell me you think that most gay boys can't do something normal and adolescent-boy like read comic books?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Maybe. So what? Answer the question.

BrianD: Nothing, nothing. I just know a guy like you, so it's kind of funny. And fine, it was the movie. I never read the comics and you can just shut up.

Dave laughs and sits back, eying the screen almost warily when he realizes that this guy might be alright. For a peer counselor on a therapist-mandated website that he hates, anyway.

BrianD: Now, stop avoiding the subject. Sometimes this guy annoys you, and sometimes...

Dave cocks an eyebrow, but shrugs and leans forward to type. The guy wants details, he wants honesty?

Fucking fine.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Sometimes I think really really dirty thoughts about him, okay?

BrianD: ...I can't decide if I should ask for details or not.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Too late, you're getting them. You ever watch porn?

BrianD: Um. This isn't about me.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Which means yes. Well, you know when the one dude lays out and the other dude sticks his tongue up the guy's ass?

There's no answer.

Dave grins to himself, and maybe this guy's not so bad, but really. Don't ask people to share their secrets if you ain't ready to listen.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: So yeah, that. Sometimes I get so pissed at him I think I can't possibly be gay. And other times all I want is to see this guy sprawled out on my bed fisting my sheets, and me ready to go to town on the guy's ass. And I can't deny...you know, that's really fucking GAY.

BrianD: It certainly sounds...seems that way. I guess.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Did I fluster you, dude?

BrianD: Were you trying to? Because I...well. I don't watch porn all that often. And I haven't had...um. Well.

BrianD: I guess the point is...for some reason that kind of sounds really hot.

Dave's eyebrows fly up, and he grins despite himself.

Well, well.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I tell you what's so fucking awesome about those scenes in particular. The guy on the bottom is always so fucking responsive. Like, you know how porn's so fucking fake sometimes it's just retarded, but almost every time some guys starts getting tongued he chokes, and it always seems real. Like even if it's not a surprise, it's still so fucking good he can't even believe it.

BrianD: i wouldnt know.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Fuck, man, it kills me thinking about this guy I know making those kinds of noises. Sometimes I can get off just imagining what he'd sound like, you know? But there's the other thing, the picturing it. Just picturing this guy laid out, just...the curve of his back, you know? How he'd arch and push his ass up higher trying to get closer, making those sounds...

Fuck. Okay, as a way to tease Mr. Peer Counselor this is kind of starting to backfire on Dave.

He's not talking this shit just to fuck with the guy. Well, he's typing it out to a total stranger to fuck with him, yeah, but that doesn't make it any less true. It's his favorite fantasy, his dirtiest secret. The first time he saw one of those rimming scenes online he couldn't get over how fucking gross the idea was. But it stuck with him – the sounds, the arching and fisting hands and the way it just looked like it was so fucking good. And the guy on top just went to fucking town, like that part was good too.

It stuck with him hard, especially after the first time his traitor brain put Kurt Hummel in the role of the guy on the bed. That high voice choking and groaning, and that slender little pale body curved and straining and pushing towards him. Dave's fingers digging into his ass, holding him apart, jabbing his tongue in.

And okay, shit. Dave can feel himself getting hard, and that's just embarrassing. But screw it, he's barely eighteen and why the hell shouldn't he get something out of this?

It's only when he realizes that Brian hasn't said anything that he starts to get genuinely embarrassed.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Did I go too far?

BrianD: Sorry, um. I don't think this is exactly what the service is here for, but...wow.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Wow?

BrianD: Um. That's really really hot.

Dave's eyebrows rise again, and he has to reach down and shift himself, though palming his own dick isn't exactly helping his problem.

BrianD: but I think I'd kind of like to be on the other side. Personally.

Shit. Bad enough that this happy little flamer boy kind of reminds him of Kurt, he's got to say something like that when Dave's already having issues?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: You got a boyfriend?

That sounded less creepy in his mind. But Brian doesn't seem to take it that way.

BrianD: No, not anymore. But there's someone I can think of who...wow, I'm going to get fired if I keep talking.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Aren't you guys all volunteers?

BrianD: I can still get fired. It just doesn't matter as much when you're a volunteer.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Then screw it, what were you saying?

BrianD: just that there's someone I know who could...you know. Play the other role in that kind of...

BrianD: ...oh crap.

Dave laughs and slips his hand down to his jeans and adjusts, groaning under his breath and leaving his hand where it is.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: you too, huh

BrianD: I can't even name all the ways this is inappropriate.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Why? We're strangers on the internet, this shit is practically mandatory.

BrianD: You sir are a troubled gay teen, and I am a peer counselor. Okay?

Dave grins and thinks he could maybe talk this into going somewhere if he really wanted to, but...hell. It is the internet, he could log into a million chat rooms and do this with someone, if that what he wanted.

It's not.

He gives his dick a little consolation pat – next time, buddy – and gives Brian a break.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Okay, okay. You asked, man.

BrianD: Asking you things is proving to be dangerous. But okay, now I know the sort of minefields I need to avoid here and we can move on.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Yeah, whatever.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Could I ask you something, though?

BrianD: Oh lord. I might regret this, but...yes.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Did you really get turned on by all that?

BrianD: Rainbow Network policy forces me to say no.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I'm serious. I mean...like I said, I never had a boyfriend or kissed anyone, for real anyway. I never turned a guy on before, I don't even know I'd feel about it if I did.

BrianD: The guilt. Fine, yes. My jeans are still attempting to force a permanent imprint of my zipper onto my dick. Happy?

Dave grins and sits back, shifting awkwardly.

He did it. And yeah, okay, it wasn't really him, just his words on a screen. But somewhere in the world there's a guy nursing a hard-on just because of him. It's...okay, it's pretty hot, really. He could've maybe gotten a guy off. Not in person, but it's a start. It's not weird. It's not creepy, or bad, or wrong.

He doesn't want to be gay. He's never going to be happy with this, he's never going to stop wishing he had another option. But maybe it's not something he can't live with.

BrianD: Hey...

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: What?

BrianD: I think you should talk to this guy, this friend of yours.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Nah, I gave up that idea as soon as I first started thinking I might be into him.

BrianD: Why?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Because it's not gonna happen. Because if he was into me at all I'd know. The guy isn't exactly subtle.

BrianD: You'd be surprised.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Yeah, whatever.

BrianD: Look...there's someone in my life that I like. I mean, we're friends already but I've started thinking more and more that we could be something more. But I'm really scared to talk to him, so I'm sure he has no idea. And no one has ever accused me of being subtle.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: You're not him, though, dude. I'm not his type, okay? I can't even seem to make him like me, much less want me in any kind of way.

BrianD: You said you were friends?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I don't know. I mean, he doesn't run from me and we say hey in the halls and talk to each other before we go to these meetings, and sometimes we study, since he's lousy at algebra and I'm acing Trig like a motherfucking boss.

BrianD: Hah, that sounds eerily familiar.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: But for all we hang out these days...he's never asked me a single fucking question that wasn't about being gay. It's the only thing he wants to talk about. I think it's the only thing he sees in me. He's just like my fucking dad – ever since he found out I was gay, he doesn't see anything else. My dad doesn't ask me about school anymore, or football, or college. Just this. I've gone fucking invisible, except the big flashing sign over my head that says QUEER. It really sucks, but...

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Anyway, this guy is the same way. How do you graph logarithmic equations, and when are you coming out of the closet. That's all he cares about.

BrianD: I...wow, this is weird. But...speaking as someone who's kind of in the other guy's shoes...is being gay the only thing you and him have in common? Maybe he doesn't know what else to talk about.

Dave thinks about that, about his life compared to Kurt's sparkling Fancy world.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Probably. I don't know, we never talk about anything real. Maybe we do have other things in common. I mean...probably not, I guess. He sings in the fucking glee club and I play football, so.

Brian doesn't say anything.

Dave sits back and blinks, and he's surprised to notice that his face itches, that there's a drying line from his eye to his chin, like something about going off on a typed rant made him fucking shed a tear.

Which is dumb. But maybe it's not. Maybe despite her complete douchebaggery his therapist actually had a good idea, and he did need to tell someone about some of this shit.

It's not gonna fix anything, which sucks, but. Maybe his head will be a little clearer tomorrow.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: You still there? Don't tell me you're disgusted by football players or something. I know sweaty and chubby isn't everybody's thing.

BrianD: You said you lied on the sign-in page about where you live?

Dave blinks. Is the guy trying to track him down now? Choke him with a rainbow flag?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Yeah. What difference does that make?

BrianD: And I'm guessing that thisisfuckingbullshit at biteme dot com isn't actually your email address.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: What the hell, dude? Fucking glad I made something up now. What are you going through my fucking info for?

BrianD: Sorry. Um...what you're saying just sounds really familiar.

Dave frowns at the screen. Familiar?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: I'm sure I'm not the only closeted jock in the world. You're supposed to be helping me here, right? Not creeping me the fuck out.

BrianD: Sorry, you're right, I'm being silly. Look, I understand what you're saying. Or I guess I don't understand it, since I'm not that way at all, but it's

There's another pause.

BrianD: I can't do this. I have to ask. Where do you live?

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Fuck you, man, that's not cool. This is supposed to be anonymous.

BrianD: If I tell you my real name is Kurt, does that mean anything to you?

Dave stares at the screen, and the blinking cursor waiting for him to type in text. His vision seems to focus on the word, the name. Kurt, blinking in courier font on this obnoxious website.

This...

Fuck.

He debates saying no, playing this off, but by the time he thinks of trying it, the pause has gone on too long to be believable. But for the love of shit, what the hell...?

Why can he never get any fucking break? For Christ's actual sake.

BrianD: God, I'm sorry. It's not supposed to happen like this. The computer should make sure that nobody who knows each other gets...and even if you lied about where you live, the odds of this...of you and me...

asfjaertkjbzxvio: Don't worry about it.

He types those words and sits back, looking away from the screen.

God. Shit. This is so fucking stupid, and Dave is just suddenly so tired of this constant war in his head, and with his dad, and with Kurt. He can't even get help from the goddamned Rainbow Network.

Jesus fuck, if he thinks about what he's written here there's a really good chance he'll panic and do something really, really stupid.

Oddly, he feels calm. Nervous, a little anxious, like he's standing on the cusp of freaking out but isn't quite there yet. Or maybe this is just too big, and it's going to take a while to realize how bad he actually needs to freak.

Mother of Christ, fuck Dave and his fucking stupid fucking teasing. He told Brian...Jesus, he told Kurt about porn, and...

He turns back to the computer to shut the browser and leave this humiliating experience behind him – if Kurt will even let him – and he sees that 'Brian' has written a whole wall of things in the last minute.

BrianD: Dave? Dave, look, I'm sorry. I only signed up for this site after PFLAG started, because of all the kids at the meetings who never had anyone to talk to. And Blaine thought it was a good idea, and like I said I used to come here to talk to the counselors sometimes so I know it's a good site, and I never even thought you would...

BrianD: I'm sorry, okay? Really. Just you kept saying more and more and I thought it was just so odd that someone else in some other school seemed to be having the same kind of issues we're having, and...and you're right, I never talk to you about anything but being gay, and I keep telling you how happy you should be, and I'm sorry.

BrianD: I really think you would be happier if you just let yourself be, but it's not my call. And we are friends, really, it's how I think of us even if we don't really talk or anything. I think what you're doing is really great, you know? I mean, you keep coming to the meetings and you don't say anything but you still show up every time, and I figured you would have tried to get out of it by now but you haven't.

BrianD: We are friends, I swear.

Dave draws in a breath and tries to ignore the heat prickling at his eyes.

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: Look, Kurt...if we're really friends just forget about this. Don't fucking say anything, don't think about it, don't...

Asfjaertkjbzxvio: You're the only friend I have right now, okay? I should have fucking known I would ruin it. Just don't

Shit. He can't say anymore, his calm is already dissolving.

He reaches out and clicks the website closed before he can screw anything else up, and then he turns off his monitor and goes to his bed, dropping flat on his face and waiting for the world to finish crumbling in around him.

So that's Dave's Saturday.

Sunday his dad vanishes to go to church and his regular prayer circle afterward, and Dave begs off. Normally his dad wouldn't let him – his soul still needs saving, after all – but Dave must really look like shit, because the moment his dad opens his door and peeks in, he agrees that Dave can stay home.

When the doorbell rings a few minutes after his dad leaves, Dave wants to ignore it. Maybe it's one of his dad's church friends, maybe his dad called someone in tears because his sinner son is missing church and adding to his likely-to-burn tally.

But it seems a little soon for that, so Dave pushes out of bed and straggles down the hall and to the front door.

He sees a pair of round blue-green eyes and shuts the door again instantly.

But Kurt is too quick. His foot snakes out and catches in the doorframe, and Dave pushes against it but the guy is stubborn. As badly as Dave wants to ram it closed, over and over again, that's the unhealthy anger. He's trying for the healthy kind.

"These are three hundred dollar boots, can you please stop trying to squish this one? Or at least let me switch my feet out so they'll have matching divots."

Dave snorts and lets the door open.

Kurt stays where he is, looking inside warily. "I sat outside and waited for your dad to leave. All that stuff you said about hell...I figured he was a church guy."

Dave almost wants to feel flattered at the idea of Fancy playing creeper to him for a change, but. Memories of all that stuff he said effectively fucking kill that feeling.

"I said don't mention it." He turns and moves over to the small living room, though it's basically an invitation to let Kurt into his house, and he really wants to be done with this shit so much. "I meant it, okay? Not in the 'aww, shucks, don't mention it' way. In the 'if you ever talk about this in front of me, I'll...'"

He stops himself in time.

But Kurt's there to rain on his fucking self-control. "You'll kill me?" he suggests mildly.

Dave winces. He drops on the worn couch and throws his arm over his face – melodrama, Kurt should like that. "What are you doing here?"

"Dave..." There are quiet little mouse footsteps, and Kurt's voice gets louder. "Okay...first...I really am sorry about what happened. You thought you were safe, you should have been safe. It shouldn't have happened that way."

Dave shrugs, though he's been ranting about that particular fact in his head non-stop since last night. "I'm the one that lied about where I live. Wouldn't have happened if I was honest, right?"

"No, but...still." Kurt clears his throat. "I just want to get that out of the way, okay? I'm sorry it happened."

"Fine. Noted. Please shut the fuck up about it."

"I also wanted to say..."

Dave's arm comes from over his eyes really fucking fast when there's a brush of movement and a sudden heavy weight settling on his legs.

Like, settling settling.

He blinks up at Kurt.

Kurt smiles, faint and intent, as if straddling Dave Karofsky on a couch is something he does whenever he's bored.

Dave swallows and tries to sit up, but Kurt's hands plant on his chest and push him down on his back instantly.

He tries for anger, but what comes out sure as hell doesn't sound angry. "What are you doing?"

"You told me...sorry, you told Brian that you had a thing for a guy you knew. A guy who you helped with math, and went to meetings with. One of the only two gay guys you know."

Dave flushes and looks away from him. "I also told you not to fucking mention-"

"Brian told you that he's going through the same thing from the other side."

Dave swallows, shaking his head.

"He said he was starting to like a guy, starting to think they could be more than friends. But he was too scared to say anything."

"You're not scared of anything," Dave says, his voice hoarse enough to give every last god damned feeling away.

"Nothing but you." Kurt sounds like he's smiling. "For a different reason now than a year ago, but...you're still the only thing in the world that frightens me."

Dave sucks in a breath and risks looking up at him again.

Yeah, he's smiling. His eyes are glowing and he looks perfectly content to sit there straddling Dave's legs, looking down at him with those freaking eyes of his.

Dave swallows. He can't believe that an hour ago his life was over, but since he already knows what rock bottom feels like, he draws in a breath and risks hitting it again.

"I told him a few other things."

Kurt grins, and his pale skin flushes pink, and...Jesus. "I don't know if I'm ready to act out porn scenes," he says, eyes dipping for just a moment now that they're talking about him. "But I seem to remember Brian telling you that there's someone he could picture on the other side of a scene like that."

Dave's arm comes down. He reaches out, feeling breathless, and lets his hand curl around Kurt's waist. "I'm supposed to believe he was talking about me?"

"Believe whatever you want," Kurt answers cheerfully. He reaches for Dave's other hand and brings it up to slip around his other hip. He pinks and trembles a little, and Dave can't help but shiver as well.

Dave's hands are full of Kurt, the waist of his designer jeans, the softness of cashmere or whatever the hell his sweater's made of. Kurt, warm under the clothes, slender and smooth and fucking perfect.

Kurt's hands trail down Dave's chest, tracing random patterns as he watches his fingertips in interest. "I want to talk," he says with a soft smile that doesn't even seem fucking real, it's so pretty. "About other things, I mean. I want to see what we have in common. I want to know you, Dave. The guy behind the gay." He grins sheepishly.

Dave laughs, stunted.

Kurt's smile fades but his eyes don't lose their glitter. "I want you to know why being gay is worth it. Why the stuff from your dad, and church, and whatever you'd risk with the guys at school...I want you to see why it's worth all that in the end."

"If this is a counseling method, it's fucked up." But Dave's hands tighten around Kurt, feeling the shift and bunch in muscles with each of Kurt's breaths.

Kurt smiles. "I'll reassign you to someone else," he says. "Or you could always try signing up again without the made-up information."

Dave grins, flushing. "Yeah, I could do that."

"Good, then I am officially no longer your peer counselor." Kurt's fingers hook into Dave's shirt. "And to celebrate I want to kiss you so badly I don't even care that it looks like you haven't showered yet today."

"Oh, screw off," Dave laughs, but his hands slip under the bottom hem of that fluffy sweater, and his fingertips stroke up over warm skin.

Kurt shivers and grins and leans in. He stops maybe two inches from Dave's mouth. "You brushed your teeth at least, right?"

Saying a quiet thank-you to himself for listening to his dad's obsessive lessons about oral hygiene, Dave answers by leaning up off the couch and pressing his mouth to Kurt's.

Kurt's response is straight out of any of Dave's fantasies – the moment of surprise, then the instant melt into enthusiastic reaction. His hands tighten in Dave's shirt, he drives Dave back into the couch and kisses like he's starved and Dave is food, like he really has been thinking about him, wanting him, this whole time.

He even makes one of those sounds Dave dreams off, strangled and high and helpless, against Dave's mouth.

Dave slides his hands up under that sweater, tracing the smooth line of Kurt's spine, all slender lines and curves, and he's so thin compared to Dave. So fucking delicate, but he kisses hard and hungry.

His lips part before Dave can even recover from the idea of the kiss, and Dave's made out awkwardly with a few Cheerios before but he doesn't have the background for this. Still, he reacts before he can think, or worry, or get nervous. He slips his tongue out and traces at Kurt's lush bottom lip before dipping inside and tasting him.

Kurt seems to melt against him, letting Dave's shirt go to grip the arm of the couch behind his head, to sink in to him chest to chest.

If talking to some anonymous (ha ha) counselor about sex fantasies was enough to turn Dave on, this is even worse. This innocent kissing, the glide of Kurt's tongue slick against his and the puff of Kurt's breath against his face.

Dave growls into the kiss, and Kurt whimpers in answer. Dave grasps at his skin under his sweater, accidentally dragging his fingernails down Kurt's spine before he catches himself.

Kurt gasps and pulls back, eyes shut, face flushed. "Do that again."

Dave swallows and obeys instantly, like Kurt's mouth has been hard-wired to his brain. He drags his hands up the line of smooth muscles and drags them down again, fingernails scratching light but firm against his skin.

"Oh..." Shuddering, Kurt opens his eyes, his expression echoing the surprise in his voice. He licks his swollen lips and meets Dave's eyes for just an instant before diving in again, driving their mouths together desperately.

Dave is all for that. He trails his fingernails down Kurt's back a last time as their tongues wrestle and their lips clash. It's hot and graceless and it's better than he ever fucking imagined it would be.

He frees his hands from Kurt's sweater and, breathless, drags them down his jeans to grasp the lush curve of the perfect little ass that's been haunting his fantasies.

"Dave." Kurt murmurs against his mouth, arching in until his hips are driving against Dave's.

Dave's eyes fly open and his breath catches, and he didn't even realize, didn't care, that he was hard, not until the moment after he has any chance to be embarrassed by it. Kurt's dick is just as hard, driving against his.

Dave's hands tighten around his ass, holding him right where he is. "Fuck," he mutters, and Kurt's gasping so he contents his mouth with trailing over the line of his jaw, tracing that perfect pale skin.

"Dave, Dave, Dave..." It sounds like a mantra, like a chant Dave wants to pull from that soft, high voice as often as fucking possible. "Dave...your dad..."

"Hours," Dave says into his skin, unwilling to let him go.

"Sure?"

He reluctantly draws back and meets Kurt's dazed eyes, and his dick throbs in his jeans just looking at his flushed face and mussed hair. "Hours," he insists, and this time he lets himself taste Kurt's throat, the line of his neck. "And if he does come home," he growls between kisses and licks and bites of that perfect fucking skin, "maybe the coronary will kill him and I can stop saying rosaries every night."

Kurt draws back instantly, but before Dave can worry that he disapproves of the joke, he meets Dave's eyes and says with clipped intensity, "Fuck him."

He reaches for the hem of his sweater, and in front of Dave's amazed eyes he pulls it up and off. Suddenly Dave's universe is filled with pale skin and smooth, slender planes of muscle.

Dave's hands stretch out like they have minds of their own, but Kurt swats them down and grabs at Dave's t-shirt. "Off. Now."

Dave surges up to obey – Kurt owns his fucking brain, apparently – and it drives their hips together and he sees fucking stars as Kurt whimpers and tugs at his shirt and does this...this obscene roll with those fucking dancer hips, something that grinds their dicks together.

Kurt is fucking beautiful maybe because he's so different from Dave – hairless and pale and thin – but Dave can't bring himself to feel self-conscious when Kurt tears his shirt from his shoulders and throws it somewhere out of sight. Because Kurt drinks him in – the hair coating his chest, his thick arms and stomach and chest – like Dave's fucking beautiful for those exact same reasons.

Dave groans just from the look in Kurt's eyes, and he reaches for him eagerly.

Kurt's hand slips up his chest, fingers curling through the thickest patch of hair and he makes this choked sound and drives their mouths together desperately.

There's nothing like it. No porn, no fantasies, nothing has prepared Dave for the slide of Kurt's bare skin against his, the press of their chests, the touch of Kurt's fingers against him. The grind of their hips, the way his dick wants to fucking rip through the fly of his jeans.

He's never been this hard, and it's never felt so fucking good. Kurt grinds against him, alternating between kissing like he needs the air from Dave's lungs, and throwing his head back to moan as their bodies drive together.

Dave can't breathe, can't think. He drives his thigh up between Kurt's legs and the friction gets that much more intense. He finds himself gripping Kurt's hair to hold him still enough that he can suck at his throat and taste his pulse getting faster and faster.

Kurt's voice is everything he knew it would be, high but dipping low, smooth but dropping into rough growls. Helpless and thoughtless and this constant stream of eager sounds until Dave's never again going to get off at some actor moaning in a porno.

"Dave..."

That's the best sound, when the noises form a word, and Dave can hear his name dripping from Kurt's lips and it's nothing like he fantasied it would be. It's better, it's so much better.

Kurt's whimpers get sharper, higher. His grinding hips move less evenly. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in Dave's shoulder and neck.

Dave's been so caught up in Kurt that he hasn't paid himself any mind. He's startled to realize how close he is, how frantic his own pushing hips have become.

"...Kurt, Kurt, shit," he can hear himself growl as his head drops back, his eyes shut and it's almost pain that wracks his body, this unbearable wave of too fucking much that he can't give in to, he has to wait, keep going, keep moving.

"God. Dave. I'm..." Kurt makes his sudden high whining sound and his hips jerk frantically, and even the whine dissolves into chokes and grunts.

Fuck, Dave can't focus, can't watch, and it's got to be the most perfect fucking sight in the world. It's got to make the bullshit worth it, watching Kurt come. But his head is back, he can't get a grip on himself as he lets go of whatever control he's managed to grasp on to and drives up into Kurt's body once, twice, again, and that's it. He's gone.

Nothing away from the couch fucking matters, not in the flash of white like an explosion that bursts behind his eyelids. Not through the pulse of his dick, the way he comes in his jeans and it doesn't fucking end, pulse after pulse wracking through him as Kurt sags and grasps his arms and mouths his neck.

He shivers through it, shivers some more like fucking aftershocks after an earthquake.

When he can think again, when the tremors have stopped and his breathing is a little less wild and harsh, Dave becomes aware of Kurt laying against him, sprawled on his chest and still trying to catch his own breath.

Dave has to swallow down this lump that instantly forms in his throat. He forces his pleasure-heavy arms to move, to lift and wrap around Kurt, and he fits against Dave so fucking well he wants to cry. He wants to think thoughts and say words that it is way too soon to even contemplate.

When Kurt comes back to himself enough to move, his head tilts down and his lips trail across Dave's collarbone. Dave swallows and tightens his grip, stroking up the sweat-dampened hair at the back of Kurt's neck, managing a smile at the way Kurt's breath shivers out of him in response.

"Jesus, Kurt," he murmurs finally.

"Never met him," Kurt mumbles into his skin. "Though I think I just came closer than I ever have before."

Dave laughs, low and breathy, and Kurt laughs with him a moment later.

This has to be worth it. Fuck the therapist, fuck the Rainbow Network and the priest and his dad's narrow, worried eyes. Maybe Dave's a sinner, maybe he's a fucked up kid, a self-hating queer, but he could take on the entire world if it means having this shivering, warm body in his arms.

"I prob'ly should've warned you," Kurt says through heavy lips, curling in like Dave is his pillow and he's sacked out for the night, "when Hummels mate it's for keeps."

Dave shuts his eyes and presses his mouth down into Kurt's sweaty hair. "That your way of telling me that you're going back to Bushbrows?"

Kurt blinks up at him and slaps his chest lightly, though he doesn't fight a giggle. "God, is that what you're calling him this week? Sorry, I'll be more specific: Hummels mate for keeps until you steal all the solos in Glee and explain to them in all seriousness that they have a 'non-standard' voice and it's best used in harmonies."

Dave laughs. "Fucking idiot."

"Yes. He is." Kurt drops his cheek back against Dave's chest. "Luckily you're smarter than that."

"Bet your ass. I'm never joining glee, like ever, and your voice sounds like the closest thing to heaven I've experienced until like five minutes ago."

Kurt blinks. He looks up. He gapes at Dave.

Dave grins – Bushbrows might be charming, but Dave's isn't some caveman. He can hold his own.

Kurt smiles after a moment and leans up to kiss Dave. And yeah, there's no way being gay isn't worth it. Kurt isn't a wife and kids and the American Dream the way the toilet paper commercials tell it, but the one thing Dave's never taken into account in all his anger is that what he might find with another guy may be even better than all those things.

Apparently the Rainbow Network is a brilliant site behind the clip art and the exclamation points. Apparently Dave's therapist is an idiot-savant who is a complete douche ninety-nine percent of the time, but occasionally can have fits of fucking genius.

And apparently, being gay gets Dave Kurt fucking Hummel, so.

In the end maybe it all evens out.