A/N: Re-read this and its reviews, and I decided that I wanted a sequel with Kurt's thoughts from before and then afterward. So here you go, something weird to add to the weirdness from the first part! XD
I can't stand the levels you bring me down to.
When I'm around you, I turn into just as much of a bully as you, albeit my methods are more emotional than physical, and I absolutely despise the fact that, even though I thought – knew – used to – still do? – I liked Blaine, you somehow keep showing up at every turn, making me doubt myself.
And at first, I didn't want to kiss you. Didn't want to touch you. You disgusted me, Karofsky, because you were the embodiment of my pain, the pain that made me leave McKinley to begin with.
While you bared your heart and soul to me, and held me and kissed me and touched me so passionately, so gently, so warmly –
I couldn't refuse you.
There was something about the way you captivated me and let me take control that made jarring waves of thrill and electricity run through me, zipping down my spine and into my fingertips. My heart began to race for you, and I know you could feel it, because your hand went to my chest and you felt what you were doing to me.
I lost myself for those few short minutes. I lost my resolve, my hatred, my reasoning, my mind. I lost it all on account of you.
I want to say that I still hate you, David. I want to say that you're still "Karofsky" to me, a bully and a jerk, but I can't. I can't say it, can't even think it, because now you're on my mind constantly. All I think about is you. And how I could help you come to terms with things, and how I could alleviate your pain, and how I could touch you again.
But you made a promise to me, and what sort of person would I be if I broke that promise and came to you first? If I sat there and said, 'Oh, sorry about being so cold before, I was just confused and startled and a little bitter and angry, but now I want to try something with you'?
That's not right. And I know it.
I also know that you are in no way prepared for a relationship, Dave. You wouldn't be right in one, and especially not with me. We would tear each other apart. We would hurt one another. We would be too strong together, your insecurity and my willpower clashing violently. I would be cruel and kind, and so would you. It would be a mess.
And worst yet, it would be a secret, because I know how much you intend on staying in the closet, if not for high school then perhaps through college as well. I know, because I was there at one point. Even I, the ever-flamboyant Kurt Hummel, was terrified of leaving the closet at one point. And I can only imagine how much more intense it would be for you.
Still, though. Still. You won't leave me. I want you to, because I don't want to feel this way about someone I can hardly forgive let alone forget, and yet… It's there. The chemistry, the feelings, the memory of touch. I can't get you out of my head, cannot will away how my heart races in anticipation every single time I see you.
So I stare. I stare and stare and stare at you, my eyes never leaving every curve, every line, every inch of fabric and skin on your body. Your face, your hands, and your torso especially. I stare and stare, and my friends think that I am glaring with hate, and perhaps you do, too.
You're all a tad correct.
I hate how you make me feel, Karofsky. I don't think it's right that you made me do what we did (make out in the choir room after everyone had gone just so you could get out some shred of your sick infatuation with me, begging and pleading to have it even if it meant never coming near me again, which I thought I had wanted, despite the compensation you required). But it happened, because I had agreed, because I didn't see much harm in a few kisses and touches if it meant I would be rid of my tormentor.
But you never intended on bullying me again, did you? You only said it because you knew it's what I assumed.
And now I couldn't be more wrong. About everything.
Now, I see your love and pain, I see how you just want me happy and only wanted to be selfish only once, and I see how much I could get used to you, even like you, if I gave you a chance.
But like I said, you couldn't handle a relationship right now.
And I don't think I could deal with a secret one even if you could.
So instead, I make a proposition for you. I approach you after school one day, catching you in the empty hallway before you head out to your truck.
"Karofsky," I address, and you still completely, head bowing, shoulders tensing.
"Kurt," you murmur, and with a stab of guilt I think about how much I feel for you when you mean my name like that, so much emotion buried inside your tone. "What is it?" And you aren't looking at me, not at all.
I huff, my jaw squaring, as I hug my math and French books in my arms to my chest. "I want a new deal. I don't like our old one of you ignoring me. Turn around and face me right now, and let's formulate something else."
"Why?" you croak, ever unsure, and turn to face me with a stoic expression on your face. You are trying so hard not to let your guard down again, because I hurt you so badly before. And I hate that I know how I hurt you, because now I regret it. And why should I, when you hurt me countless times before in other ways?
But emotional scars never heal like bruises do, and I know that. And that's why I feel bad about it.
"Because," I say firmly, inhaling slowly as I prepare myself to say what I have to say next. I drop my gaze, looking elsewhere, anywhere but your telling hazel eyes that belie everything, especially your careful expression. "I didn't mean it, what I said. About being rid of you. At least, not any longer. I… I see how much of an impact I have on you, Dave. And I don't like it. I want to fix it. So, instead of never doing anything to me… I ask instead that you try befriending me. Can you do that? Because if you do, I might be able to forgive you, or at least begin to."
You blink, and you look like you're nearly about to cry. I roll my eyes and set down my books and bag right there in the hallway, and move closer. You continue to question me with your eyes, your lips parting, as if about to voice your thoughts. But I cut you off my laying my hand on your chest, directly on the patch of exposed polo between your open letterman's buttons.
Your heart is pounding. It's going wild, like my steadily increasing nerves are. My fingers tingle at the heat of your body through your clothes. I lick my lips, my eyes focused on your collarbones just barely showing above the collar of your shirt. My eyes flicker upward, and yours have fallen to half-mast. I can see lust and love there, mingled together confusingly, as teenage hormones tend to make things.
"But we don't have to be normal friends who hang out on weekends or sit together at lunch. We can just… talk. I'll give you my cell phone number. I have unlimited texting and calls free past seven o' clock each night. And sometimes… we can meet up, and you can… let me help you again. I know you need some sort of help, David. And I'm here for whatever kind you need."
You make a whimpering sound, your lip quivering slightly. And then you duck your head and close the gap between our lips.
I'm not surprised. It's just like you to be this way. So I close my eyes and slowly slide my hand up from your chest to get tied up in your hair. You hold me, steadfast, your big hands wrapping around my waist and clinging. You're taller, built bigger, and yet you are no where nearly as strong as I am, in a matter of speaking. You come apart in my arms, desperate and needy, and you kiss me with all you've got.
I'm the one, this time, who laces my tongue with yours. And I'm the one who breaks the kiss first to look at you. My eyes search your eyes, your face, and you do the same right back to me, although your eyes flicker to my lips more often than not. You love kissing me, don't you, David? For someone who is so opposed to being gay, you seem to thoroughly enjoy acting on your feelings for me.
And I have to say, in this moment, all I feel is flattery about that.
"Does this help you at all?" I ask, my voice careful.
You nod numbly. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."
I don't know how. I don't know if being this close to you helps you accept your homosexuality or if it eases the ache in your breast or if it simply makes you feel better because I'm being willing despite what you've done to me, it doesn't entirely matter. I just feel better knowing that I'm helping you somehow, because if it gets you one step closer to healing, to coming out, or to being ready for a relationship… then… well, great.
"Please, tell me this isn't a one-time thing like I thought last time was," you mumble after I lean in and kiss you again. "Please tell me this means you feel something for me, Kurt."
"I'm not sure what it is I feel," I remark, my tone odd even to me, and I make a face that's halfway between being conflicted and being annoyed, all at myself, but maybe a little bit at you, too. "I only know that I can't pretend that that time by the piano didn't happen. I can't pretend that you didn't say 'I love you' to me, even if I think your definition of love is backwards, like you said. And if I can't pretend, then I have to continue and move on. And this is one way of doing it."
You seem completely – possibly more than – satisfied with this. You nod solemnly, and then lean forward to drop your chin to my shoulder. The side of your nose grazes my throat, and I can feel your fingers tracing a random patter down my spine as your hands come to rest on the small of my back. My heart skips a beat when you say in a hushed whisper so close to my ear, "Thank you."
I shiver a little, my eyes fluttering shut as I scrunch my hands in the back of your letterman, nails digging into the fabric to just barely feel the cloth beneath. I exhale shakily, feeling nothing but warmth as your lips press to junction of neck and shoulder over my designer shirt, moving swiftly over to my ear, kissing gently. My hands fist tighter, my body arcing into yours.
I enjoy the feel of you too much, Dave. I don't know why, but I love it. I love feeling warm, I love being held, I love the sensation of your lips and tongue, I love feeling loved. Even if it's backwards, even if it began horribly, even if it's going to go on like this for a while (in which we both don't know what to do with each other because there is too much between us, too much of too many wrong and right things that are at war with each other).
It's bizarre, and unlike anything I have every heard of, what we have here. The bully and the bullied acting as momentary lovers, off and on, being cruel and kind? It's painful in all sorts of ways, and in this particular case, entirely detrimental.
But I don't want it to stop. Because if it stopped like it nearly had after the first incident, then you would only be on my mind that much more.
I pull away, mindful of your weight on me. "David," I say carefully, "We're still in a hallway. Someone coming out of a club or something could see us." And I'm both ashamed to be seen with you as I also care about how you would feel to be Outed in such a way. Again, the conflict is odd, but there.
You nod again, stepping away from me, your hands lingering on me for a few seconds before falling to your sides. Your gaze is cast aside, and I can see how you're trying to calm your heart and breathing. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry. But, um. So. I can have your number, right? And we can…" and you drift off, leaving it up to me, leaving it unsaid because it has no label. I was wrong to even attempt in calling it 'befriending.'
I nod once in affirmation. "Yes. Here," and I bring out my phone, and hold out a hand for yours. You give it to me, and I do the process of adding my number to yours while I give you mine to add your own number. I laugh, though, when you're lost on how to use an iPhone, your own phone being a basic sliding, texting phone that someone pays per month as they go.
When the numbers are added, I let you go. I let you leave for your car, and meanwhile, I walk with adrenaline coursing through my veins, my head buzzing, as the ghosts of your body heat and touches linger on my body.
I don't love you. I know that much; I mean, how could I, considering? –But there is something about you that stays with me, remains no matter how much I try to will you away, and it might be the beginnings of interest or a crush or something similar.
Just as I get into my car, I glance over in no particular direction, but when I do, I see you, David. You're there, in your truck, about to leave, but your eyes are on my figure in my car, and I can see you smiling.