Title: I Was Singing In The Shower.
Pairing: Kurtofsky (eventually.)
Rating: M for Mature. Less mature than my PWPs (did I mention there's a smidgen of PLOT here? D:)
Warnings: Because I'm a perv, this will include slash. Probably fairly graphic slash. That's two GAY men having SEX. If either of these things bother you, leave now.
Disclaimer: If I owned Fox, it would have THREE X's.
Summary: That day, it was Karofsky in the shower, not Finn, and hell if Dave's a better singer than Hudson anyway.
Notes: This is an AU, but it will contain spoilers for the whole of Glee eventually, even if I change things drastically. The AU starts as Glee does, in the Pilot. (Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, the random bell rings and 'doo doo doo's are supposed to be the sounds of the Glee scene transitions...)
I hope you enjoy this! Feel free to let me know, I'm kind of on the fence about this one!
I Was Singing In The Shower.
The first time I ever consider I might be on the bendy side of the sexuality spectrum is after football practice, freshman year.
At this point, there is absolutely no way in hell I'll admit that the reason my eyes are glued to number 5's boxer-clad nether regions is because I'd quite like to reach over and grope them, but even I can hardly argue with an involuntary erection.
I wonder briefly how there is still enough blood to rush to my face as I heat up. There's a swirling feeling in my stomach that isn't the mortification but something else, and I can't look away. It's the kind of feeling you get when you drive past an accident: a perverse attraction. You don't want to see it, but you can't shift your gaze.
Drawing my eyes away sharply, I grab my bag and cover my lap as subtly as I can, (which isn't very, but I try,) and prepare to wait until either my hard-on goes down or everyone clears the locker room. Number 5 lingers, which is a pain, because he's looking at me as if to say 'Dude, what are you doing?'
I try to think of an excuse for why I'm sat alone in the locker room, but am interrupted by Mr. Schuester waltzing in to see if anyone's gone near his stupid sign-up sheet.
They have, I know because I've been sat here for about twenty minutes now, pretending to text and fiddling with my bag, and have watched as thick-headed jocks like me have written oh-so-clever names like 'Butt Lunch' on it.
'Hola!' He greets us, and I reply with a weak hola in return. My head is still spinning and though my little problem has probably gone away by now, I'm not sure I want to get up and risk it.
Number 5 (who does have a name: Hudson. We used to be friends when we were kids but then he made fun of me for getting pubic hair, and I'd gotten all flustered because I didn't know why him looking at my dick made me feel all weird) leaves without showering. I guess the reason he was lingering was because he was waiting for me to leave. Probably self-conscious or something. A couple of the guys avoid the showers because they don't like people seeing them.
I avoid the showers because I don't like seeing other people. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm starting to get an idea why.
Not that I'm gay or anything.
I mean, I can't be gay. I hate the color pink and I play hockey and football. I have broad shoulders and wear unfashionable clothing. I buy all my clothes at Target and was convinced until fairly recently that Alexander McQueen sang Bohemian Rhapsody. I'm nothing like you, with your tight clothing and girly strut.
Oh, crap, Schuester's talking to me. In Spanish, no less. I try and figure out what he's saying, which I'm guessing gives me a sort of blank expression, because he shoots me a look of sympathy, before I answer him in flawless Spanish that 'Sorry, Mr. Schue, I was in my own little world.'
He stares in shock. Lots of people do that as soon as I exhibit an ounce of intelligence, but I've given up caring a long time ago. It's one of the downsides to the 'dumb as a brick' image. Even though the teachers mark my work, they probably think I make some geek do it.
Which is true, I guess. I do it myself, but the 'me' they know doesn't. David Karofsky, superboy, model son, does it. I know that doesn't make sense, but you know what I mean. Well, no, you probably don't.
What I mean to say is that sometimes I feel like I'm two different people. Wait, scratch that, three people. First, I'm David, the perfect kid who gets perfect grades and plays for both teams, (bitch, don't even think it. I mean hockey and football and you know it.) But then I'm also Karofsky, the monumental douchebag who throws kids into dumpsters and nails your lawn furniture to the roof.
And then we have number three. Let's call him Dave. Dave, the insecure, chubby kid who just wants to fit in. It's ridiculous, because wouldn't it just be easier to admit I kind of quite like Lady Gaga, even if she looks weird, and yeah, sure, I love Hockey, but every so often it would be nice to try belting out a show tune. But that's not the guy who goes to school at McKinley. That's the guy I leave at home, the guy that stays in his room and has The Fame snuck in on his iPod amongst The Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pendulum. The guy who actually doesn't mind doing his homework that much. The guy who has a box of Disney movies stashed under his bed, like fucking porn.
I can't be that guy here. That guy wouldn't last five minutes in this hell-hole.
So I have to be Karofsky. Asshole extraordinaire, homophobic prick, fucking, pathetic, conforming sheep.
But that's all beside the point. Mr. Schue is smiling at me now, and then says something about Glee club and I zone out again. Next thing I know, he's leaving, and I say goodbye, watching him walk off.
Finally, I can have a freaking shower. Usually, I'd just stick it out and have one when I got home, but we're going out for some fancy meal with my dad's work colleagues tonight and I know I won't have time.
I strip down to my underwear and glance around before wrapping a towel around myself and dropping my boxers. Slightly paranoid, I know, but I've always been uncomfortable being naked around other guys.
Shut up. I'm not gay.
I throw the towel aside when I get into the shower and turn it up on full, sighing as hot water hits me. I roll my shoulders, feeling the ache of two hours of being slammed into repeatedly ebb away.
Now, I have quite a few irritating habits. I bite my nails, crack my knuckles and have a bit of a problem with sleepwalking. However, (and ask my parents if you don't believe me) my most annoying habit has got to be my singing in the shower. And I'm not talking under-your-breath, singing along to a song that was stuck in your head all day. I'm talking outright belting, the kind of volume that only really works when you let the song grab you by the nuts and steal your soul.
Ahem. Anyway. Needless to say, my parents don't appreciate my shower serenades, so I take every opportunity I can while out of the house to sing in the gorgeous acoustics that porcelain tiles offer.
I love singing. Not because people tell me I'm good, I mean, I'm probably awful. I've never sung in front of people before. Hell, I've never wanted to sing in front of people; I hate being judged by others and I don't even know if my voice is any good. But singing itself? It's the most relieving thing ever. Hey, some guys work out, I belt out a tune. (I also hit things. But apparently that's not a suitable channel for my emotions, according to my Junior School Councilor. She recommended knitting.) So here, with the heat turned up on full and water crashing around my ears, I can really let go. I'm sure you do it too, not that you don't have creative outlets and all, but I can imagine you singing to yourself in the shower like this. Because, from what I know, you've got an amazing voice, not that I've heard it.
I pick a crooner – Buble. I've always been careful to hide my musical tastes from my friends, not that it's bad or particularly embarrassing, (I mean, hey, I haven't got RENT or Whitney Houston on here or anything,) but most guys just don't appreciate good music. I'm pretty sure Azimio's ipod is jam-packed full of rap and god knows what he'd do if faced with an actual tune.
I sway shamelessly to the sound of Haven't Met You Yet echoing in the locker room, unable to stop myself bop along as I sing. I suck at dancing, that I'm sure of, not for lack of skill, but just because I simply don't have the right build. I feel clunky and awkward as I dance, not that anyone will ever know since dancing is for fags and losers and I'm definitely neither of those things.
I vent my frustrations in that little cubicle, letting go of all of today's problems: the football catch I missed, the math homework I left at home, the skinny kid I barged past in the corridor and the feeling when it happened, like I'd been punched in the stomach.
It was you, of course. I've never spoken to you, but I know exactly who you are. I also know that the twist in my stomach when I looked up at your face isn't normal. Isn't right.
(…Perhaps this would be a good time to be paying attention rather than singing, since Mr. Schuester just returned to put up a new, non-graffitied list. If I had been listening earlier, I would have heart him say exactly this, but I was being stupid, of course.)
I don't know what it is about you. When I first saw you, you were wearing skinny jeans that hugged your hips and a tight t-shirt. You walked with a self-assured strut, but your eyes darted around like you were looking out for danger. Right then, at that very moment, I felt like someone had removed all the air in the room and I just stopped and stared. This, naturally, was an idiotic move because I stopped just in front of Hudson, who had smacked right into me and gone flying sideways onto you.
(Schuester's watching me, not that I realize, and he's slack-jawed. Honestly, you'd think he's never seen a naked teenager bearing his soul in the form of song before.)
You'd stared at him in horror, and I'd dragged him off you, red-faced and apologetic before I practically ran away. Hudson had given me a confused look before shrugging and sauntering off with Puckerman. You'd stared after me, a curious expression painting your face.
(And now he's walking away, absolutely determined to find a way of getting me into that club.)
See, that's the problem. I've seen you in the halls, I've heard all about you, I've joined in with some of the pranks the boys play on you, and I'll admit I've thought about talking to you a thousand times, but how could I just do that? Just walk up to you and start talking? You'd think I was crazy. Not to mention, you probably remember the pee-balloon incident.
I smile bitterly as I finish the song. Oh, Buble, you know me too well. Because I know who you are, Kurt Hummel, I just haven't met you yet.
Half an hour later, I sit in Mr. Schuester's office and wonder how in the name of God drugs got into my locker.
~ Briiiing ~
Okay, so Rachel Berry is officially the scariest girl I've ever met.
The sound of Grease is coming at me from all angles and I clutch the sheet music even though everyone knows this song. Perhaps I can use it to bat away the crazy girl now clinging to my shirt.
I didn't think I was that good a singer.
'Oh, hell to the no!'
Scrap that, I take it back. Scariest girl alive: Mercedes Jones.
Seriously. These girls are all insane. The Goth chick hasn't said much, but she has a killer stutter, Berry is a law-suit waiting to happen, and Mercedes, well, the girl has a serious attitude problem, if you ask me. Or maybe that's part of her image. I don't know.
I never did understand girls.
But anyway. The reason I'm here is because Schuester called me into his office and very calmly asked me how long it was I'd had a drug problem.
Now, I don't know much about drugs. Don't get me wrong, I've been offered weird colored pills at parties before but I've always said no. Not because I'm a good kid or whatever, but because drugs make you more confident and you go all crazy and shit and I do not want to think about what I might do under the influence. Thankfully, I'm a heavyweight when it comes to alcohol, so I can drink most guys under the table without losing my mind too much.
Uh, off track again. So there's Mr. Schue, telling me that I could go to prison and shit, which I'm pretty sure they can't do because they have no real proof, right? But…that doesn't mean he can't tell my old man.
Prison scares me a hell of a lot less than my father finding out about this. So I just say 'Please don't tell my dad.' Kind of pathetic, I know. My dad isn't the devil or anything, he's just a dad. I can tell you exactly what would happen if he found out:
First, the look. The glance in my direction that really says it all.
Then, David, I'm not angry. I'm just disappointed. As if he doesn't know that's a thousand times worse. As if he doesn't know that everything I do, every lie I say, every front I put up every damn day is to try and make sure he isn't disappointed with me.
Then the reasoning. David, it's not that I don't believe you, but if you didn't put them there, how did the drugs get in your locker? Or worse, you just haven't been yourself lately. Your grades have dropped, you speak back to me more…I'm beginning to wonder if you should be spending so much time with that hockey team…maybe you just need a creative outlet…or, the absolute worst, the killer line: I just expected more of you.
And finally, the punishment. Not that it would be harsh or anything, a week's ban of the xbox, a month's grounding. The punishments themselves aren't the worst part, but the guilt of having done something wrong, oh, he never lets me forget that. Paul Karofsky is nothing if not a reasonable man, and the only person in the world capable of making me feel like a child again in an instant.
Well, yeah. That's exactly what would go down and fuck if I'm letting that happen when I didn't do squat.
I listen to the options, and while detention doesn't sound too bad, I'd have to tell my dad I'd done something wrong and he's want to know every fucking detail so…
So, glee club it is.
'I'm Beyonce, I 'aint no Kelly Roland!' Mercedes is arguing with Schuester now and I zone out for a minute, letting my eyes drift to where you're standing. Your hair is ruffled, since Rachel practically attacked you in that song, and your face is flushed with embarrassment. It's not cute or anything. I mean, some gay dude may think it is, but I certainly don't. No fucking way. Your rosy cheeks don't at all compliment your lips. The lips that are perfect, pouty, pink and…moving. Oh, shit, you're talking.
'And it's the first time we've been kind of good.'
You call me good. You, the boy with the voice of an angel, think I'm good.
I try to tell myself that the butterflies that have just exploded in my stomach are just because of your amazing talent. I don't think I'm fooling anyone.
'Let's run it again.' Mercedes drawls after her sassy intervention, and Mr. Schue's eyes light up as we launch into song.
I glance towards you, absorbed in the sheet music even though you haven't been given the main part you deserve. Your hips are moving slightly to the song and I can't help but let my eyes wander downwards.
Then I look at the other Glee kids, and try to tell myself that I'm just as interested in Rachel Berry's ass.
I'm barely even fooling myself.
~ Briiiing! ~
'Hey, um. Coach Tanaka?' I think my heart is about to stop beating from fear as I try and get the sweaty man's attention. I have to tell him I can't make Saturday afternoon's practice because of Glee.
He's going to kill me.
Or worse, he's going to know there's something wrong with me. I mean, what normal guy wants to get up and sing show tunes? What normal guy wants to hang out with a bunch of losers or heck, affiliate themselves with the Gay Kid of McKinley High? Because that's what will happen. If I even talk to you, they'll pick up on it, I just know it.
'I can't make practice Saturday. I…I have Glee Club.'
For a moment, I think this might be okay. Coach Tanaka doesn't look any more angry than usual. I mean, his face is kind of naturally contorted that way, so it's hard to tell.
'Glee Club? Since when did you sing, Karofsky?' He sounds almost suspicious and he's squinting at me. Or, again, that might just be his face.
'Well, uh. I…Mr. Schue heard me singing, and said I had a good voice, so-'
'Schuester put you up for this?' As soon as he says it, I know I've done something wrong.
'Uh…yeah.' I say, and his shoulders tense as he shakes his head.
'You can't miss practice.' He replies firmly, the anger in his voice barely disguised.
'I don't want to hear it! You make your decision – you're a football player or you're a singer!' The shouting shocks me a little, so I just nod dumbly, and walk away, clutching my helmet.
Noah Puckerman is watching me as I leave, and starts to walk beside me.
'Hey! What's going on?' He asks. We're not exactly friends, but not enemies either. He's pals with Hudson, I know that, and his reputation is probably the most famous in the school, but I rarely interact with him outside of McKinley, save for the occasional jock and cheerio party.
'Oh, he's just mad I have to miss practice this Saturday.' I sigh, and Puck shoots me a confused look. Oh, right. Excuse. 'I…um, I have to have surgery.'
Bad excuse. Why would I have to have surgery?
'What kind of surgery?'
Oh, shit. Shit. I try to think of something I'd have an operation for. Instead, I notice that 'Don't Stop Believing' has started playing somewhere, and for a moment I'm distracted. This is a pretty awesome song.
Puck is staring at me, and I realize I haven't answered. Damnit! Okay, what surgery did my Uncle Sammy have last month? Think, Karofsky, think!
'I'm…uh. I'm having my prostate…uh, out.'
'Man, that's a tough break.'
'Uh, yeah.' I start to walk away, thinking that I'm safe, that me being in Glee Club is still a secret, that maybe I've got away with it.
'Especially since you'll be needing it now you've joined homo-explosion.'
'But at least Hummel still has one, you'll just always have to screw that faggot instead.'
'Don't call him that.' I turn around fast enough that my head spins, but that might be from anger too.
'Oh, would you listen to that? Looks like Karofsky is getting a piece of Hummel.' Azimio, who was standing a little way back, has stepped forward to join Puck. Journey seems to get louder and louder.
'Shut the hell up, Azimio! Kurt isn't-' I can barely hear myself think, it's so loud.
'Ooh, and first name basis too, you must be in love!'
Oh, god, why won't it stop? Why can't I ignore the music, like everyone else can? Why do I have this ache to sing along, like some musical freak? I'm a fucking football player, I don't sing! And I don't dance around in public like some…like some…
'I said, shut up! I'm not a fucking faggot!'
The world goes silent.
Everyone in range of me is staring, as I pretty much just yelled my lungs out. But it seems to cool Puck and Azimio off a bit, because hello, if I was gay, I wouldn't be able to say stuff like that, right? Since then I'd totally be insulting myself.
Which I suppose I do pretty often as well.
'Dude, chill. We're just messing with you. We know you're not a homo.' Azimio has his hands raised defensively, but there's that look in his eye that I recognize. The look he got when he realized that jokily calling his sister fat wasn't the best idea when her boyfriend had just dumped her. Or like when he realized that Hudson's dad died in war, and stopped talking about how dying in battle sounded like an awesome way to go. The guy likes to run his mouth, but he knows when a joke goes too far. Whether he chooses to be a dick and continue joking or not depends on his mood.
'Can we please just drop the Glee thing, okay?' I say, and he nods, almost knowingly, while Puck sneers and makes some snide comment.
Azimio's still watching as I leave, and I'm pretty sure he can see my face burning even from behind.
And now Journey is stuck in my head. Just fucking brilliant.
~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~
'You're very talented.' Rachel saunters up to me while I'm in the lunch queue and starts making eyes at me. Thankfully, I'm too startled by her comment to notice.
'Really?' I say, and I genuinely mean it. People don't generally describe me as talented. Talentless, sure, but that's because I act stupid and pretend not to get stuff in class. I do remember my English teacher once calling me talented at a parent-teacher conference, but she'd followed it with a slightly skeptical comment about plagiarism, probably thinking I'd used some essay website. Yeah, I'm that good at acting dumb.
'Yeah. I would know; I'm very talented too.' I try not to laugh: Rachel seems a nice girl and all…okay, scrap that, she seems like a self-absorbed brat, but she can't be that bad right? 'I think the rest of the team expects us to become an item.' Then she says something about being an ingénue, which only confirms that, yeah, she may just be a brat.
'Uh, I'm not really looking for a relationship right now.' I say, very carefully. I get the feeling that she might attack me if I don't let her down gently.
'Oh, that's alright!' I notice her voice has risen in pitch, but I try to ignore it. 'It's more dramatic when our feelings are bottled up, then build to a startling crescendo! If we started a relationship now, it would lack all the credentials for a real epic romance!' I'm not entirely sure what a crescendo is, but Rachel has definitely claimed back the Scariest Girl award.
This is not going to be easy, I can tell.
~ Briiiing! ~
'You and your friends threw pee balloons at me.'
That's the first thing you ever say to me personally. You glare up at me as I walk into the Glee rehearsal, and the first thing I notice is that your eyes are slightly red.
Okay, so it's not a great start. Clearly, the pee-balloon incident isn't behind you.
'Uh. Yeah.' I say, dumbly. 'I'm sorry.' And I really, really mean it.
But you're still glaring. 'I don't mean that time before, I mean yesterday afternoon!' you say, venomously. 'They cornered me after your stupid football practice and said that they were going to punish me for being…for turning you!'
'Turning me? What, I'm a vampire now?'
'You know what I'm talking about!' Your voice cracks and so does my heart a little bit. Your eyes are definitely red, so I guess you must have been crying. I bet they ruined one of your outfits again.
'Look, I'm sorry, Hummel. I didn't know. But…you can't really be mad at me, I didn't do anything.' I don't mean to sound like such a jerk, but that's how it comes out, and suddenly your hands are balled into fists and you're closer to me, eyes poisonous.
'Oh, really? You know, I was perfectly content to let you wriggle into Glee because you're talented, and, quite frankly, Rachel's dressing better because she's trying to impress you.' Rachel, standing next to you, goes pink but pouts and puts her hands to her hips.
You continue: 'But now I know you're just a homophobic Neanderthal incapable of redemption, I don't think I'm going to forgive your past crimes!'
'They told you what I said?' I realize you must know that I used the word faggot at practice the other day, and I can't help but feel guilt clawing at my stomach.
'What did he say?' Mercedes butts in, curious.
'He called me…the f-word.' Your eyes close as you shake your head, and I wonder, for the millionth time, what you're thinking.
Wait…what? I called you…what? Oh, no. No, no, no.
'Oh, no, you didn't.' Mercedes' voice is dangerously low, and I throw up my hands in defense, shaking my head viciously. My words come out in a high-pitched babble.
'No, no! I didn't call you anything, I swear! Really– I told them not to call you that, and then they called me gay and-'
'Wait, you…' The anger in your face abruptly abates. Your eyebrows relax and your eyes widen, suddenly gleaming. 'You defended me?' Then they narrow suspiciously. 'Why?'
'We don't need the deets, Kurt!' Mercedes interjects, and this time I don't mind. 'Even if he used the f-word himself, I think you should be thanking him for telling them to back off.' Mercedes seems to have forgiven me, (I get the feeling I might get a stern talking to later, although I think I can live with that,) but you and Rachel are still glaring.
'You nailed all my lawn furniture to my roof.' You whisper. Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten about that one.
'You slushied me this morning.' Rachel cuts in, and I raise my hands in defense.
'That was actually Puck.' I retort, and her glare subsides a little.
'Look, I know I've been awful to you guys in the past.' You make a noise of derision. 'And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said faggot when I yelled yesterday. I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about…I mean.' I swear under my breath, then inhale sharply and start again.
'Please believe me when I say I was trying to…I don't know, protect you guys or something.' I deliberately avoid specifying you. Then I sigh, my shoulder drooping. 'All I'm asking for is a second chance. I think we make a great team. I've made my decision…if Coach Tanaka wants me off the team, then fine. I want to be here, to be a part of something. To be good at something.'
'You are good.' I hear you admit, and then watch as you turn red. 'For a Neanderthal, anyway.' Of course it had to be a back-handed compliment. You couldn't possibly not be a bitch.
'Thanks. I guess.' I grumble. I don't look right at you. I never look at you when you're looking at me, I mean, what if our eyes met? You'd know, I know you would know that I'm…
Whatever I am.
'But, anyway, we have a bigger problem.' You say dramatically, and just like that, it's over.
Everyone starts babbling about Mr. Schue's leaving, but I drown it out. I'm intrigued at how you and everyone else seem content to forgive me so quickly. I'm mostly curious about you, to be honest. Do you really not care about the bullying? Do you really forgive me, or are you just trying to keep me in Glee?
'So, David.' Oh, damn, Rachel's talking to me. 'Do you have any ideas of what we should sing? I'll sing lead female vocals, of course, and you'll be singing male lead.'
I resist rolling my eyes at her. Clearly she's trying to flatter me by letting me pick a song; I'm sure she has plenty planned for the future. But for now…what was the song I had stuck in my head yesterday? Oh, yeah.
'Any of you guys know Journey?'
~ Ba-da ba-da ba-da ba-da...doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~