Dave Karofsky tended to just sit alone at home and play mind-numbing solitaire on his computer, thinking how perfect it was that solitaire sounded like solitary. Like being trapped in a room with no other human contact. In fact, for most of his life, he felt like he'd been in that room. The only thing that kept him from jumping off the deep end into eight feet of cold, hard depression was Lady Face. But he only called him names like that at school, with the real person in front of him, his friends watching like animals. When he was in Solitary, his imagination formed and exact image of Lady Face, and he called him Kurt, because that's what he liked to be called. In Solitary, where the rough-skinned puckheads couldn't interfere or project themselves, he didn't mind calling him Kurt, because he actually liked how it sounded on his lips, in his thoughts.

In Solitary, he heard the rumbles of voices, none clear enough or important enough, and he just moved around, ball and chain, waiting, waiting.

Now the difference between Karofsky's Solitary and solitary confinement was that he was able to mull around like he was going on with his life, unscathed; the stale recording of in, pretending to learn and out again was only punctuated by the white light appearance of Lady… of Kurt. In Solitary, Kurt's mirage always smiled. And like a hologram on repeat:

"Hi David. How are you? Look how strong you are. I want you more than anything."

The Kurt that he fabricated to haunt his Solitary always called him David, because that's what he wanted to be called. And every time he heard Kurt speaking in his lonely world of walls and little else, sunlight broke through some old, blacked out window, and for a few seconds he felt happiness.

And more than anything, Karofsky wanted to touch Kurt, but this holographic representation wasn't tangible. It was impossible. He knew the only way it would work was if he could touch the real thing. It was unacceptable.

So he started picking on Kurt, teasing him more than usual, hoping he'd get the hint. He also started to shove the smaller boy around, into lockers, walls, it didn't matter, just so he could have a brief moment of contact. Karofsky knew what it meant at this school to be gay; he'd watched Kurt get beat up mercilessly by others, pretty up close and personal. He also knew he was a clumsy fool and had a body too big to be careful, so even though he tried to push Kurt gently, to try to show him his inner workings, his shoves were too hard and perceived as violent. With his stupid friends laughing and high-fiving him, he had dug himself a hole and now he had to stand in it.

Stupid, stupid. It frustrated him that Kurt wasn't trapped in Solitary. If they could both get out, maybe they could fight the onslaught together, if Kurt would even give him the time of day. But that would mean he would have to leave Solitary and actually face the world as his true self.

So Karofsky tried to bring others into his Solitary instead, to fill the void. He brought in girls that meant nothing to him, churned nothing in him. These girls, they moaned in ecstasy while he got hard thinking of Kurt in sailor suits, pink cheeks and lips and clear eyes and hair left slightly messed from a push into a wall; while he got shivers thinking of Kurt being just who he wanted to be, fighting back the world that crushed against him; while he reached orgasm, Kurt's name just behind his lips but never letting go, thinking of Kurt just brushing his hand across his skin. And while he shuddered and rested his sweating body back down on the mattress, he felt guilty, and he wished, imagined that it was Kurt saying how amazing he was, how hot he was, how it was the best moment of his life.

There were nights when his father was too drunk and asleep to beat on him and his mother was at her sister's house that Karofsky let himself slip into Solitary to cry a while, and when the tears had all dried up, he'd touch himself while thinking of Kurt cooing in his ear. He imagined that it was Kurt touching him, bringing him to the surface of the water just so he could take a breath. And there, in Solitary, he'd reach the most shattering orgasm of his life just thinking of that smile that was never for him, and wondering how long he'd been in love with Kurt Hummel as he wiped tears from his eyelashes.

And one day, when Azimio wasn't with him, he kept pushing Kurt and pushing him until he snapped, and a part of him wanted to, because maybe if Kurt hated him enough, he could fall out of love with him. Maybe if Kurt got angry enough, he'd break him and he'd be able to get on with his life, kept perfectly pressed between the walls of Solitary. The only problem was that it didn't work out as planned, because once Karofsky saw Kurt so angry, so close to his face, he took a chance and he cupped Kurt's face like a butterfly he didn't want to crush or let go, and he kissed him.

All of his frustration, lust, need, love—oh, damn it all, love—was bottlenecked into one kiss, the first kiss that Karofsky had ever had that meant something. And it should have been perfect.

But Kurt stood there, looking wounded, and pushed him away when he tried again, and it was nothing like he'd imagined. In fact, it was the opposite, horrifying, and watching Kurt look so terrified, he felt something break inside of him as rejection rolled over in waves. Instead of opening the door to Solitary, the whole complex had been fortified. He lashed out, replacing his whimpers of need with cries of frustration, and he rushed out on Kurt, leaving him alone with what had happened.