Pairing: Kurtofsky (Kurt/Karofsky)
Warnings: Gay kissing...that's about it.
Disclaimer: If I were Ryan Murphy, Kurt would have gotten laid by now. If I were FOX, Firefly would be still be going. Either way, I'm neither.
Summary: The story of an out-and-proud gay boy and the closeted jock that bullies him. Only, Kurt's the jock and Dave loves Prada. Jock!Kurt Fashionista!Dave switch.
Notes: The nickname 'Jockstrap' was totally not mine, I'm unoriginal, it belongs to grumpyhedgehog was used in her and Hamhunk's RP-turned-fic, . Go read it too, it's awesome. http:/ / hamhunk. tumblr .com/post/4705259616 (minus the spaces)
'What's up, Fatty?'
It had become Dave's little alarm that Kurt Hummel was near. Now, he was standing beside him, sorting through his locker. Damn whoever chose the locker arrangements at this school. And if they were randomly assigned…well, damn chance. Or fate. Whatever.
He didn't want to be near Hummel, because it never ended well. Usually, slushies were involved. He wasn't big enough to throw Dave into a dumpster or anything, but he had sharp shoulders and a mean shove when he wanted to. Even so, the violence was never the worst part. Fatty.
The funny thing was, Hummel didn't say fag or homo as much as the others did, only when you got him panicked. That was the first sign.
The second was the staring.
Dave wasn't sure if it was him he was looking at or his clothes. Sometimes he caught him to staring solidly at one of Dave's bow ties, or his hairstyle for that day. Sometimes he was so fixed on Dave's face or ass that he had to stop himself from calling him out.
It became harder to resist every time Kurt greeted him.
What's up, Fatty?
It was a stupid insult, really. Childish and petty and Dave always thought Kurt was smarter than that. But it stuck, because Kurt could see how much it hurt him, how sensitive he was about it.
And what was Dave supposed to do about it, anyway? It would be easy to reply with insults; it wasn't like the petite, slightly scrawny football player was perfect, and Dave had spent a long time trying to convince himself of that. It had taken him so long to finally face up to the fact that Hummel was no fucking angel. It did no good to be flattering (Dave refused to use the words attracted to,) your tormentor.
He was smaller and probably weaker than Dave, and when he got angry his voice went really high, you'd think it had never broken or something. Plus the guy looked like he'd never hit puberty, and yet Dave was the one who got picked on? Because he dressed differently from most guys and sang show tunes? How the hell was that fair?
'Morning, Jockstrap.' Dave replied sullenly. Kurt said nothing else. He never did: this was their fucked up ritual of sorts: every damn morning.
What's up, Fatty?
And then they'd go their separate ways, and Kurt would stare when he saw him, but no words would pass between them.
Dave always wondered what the fuck was going on in Kurt Hummel's head, but he would never ask, because, let's face it, Hummel would just get defensive and call him fag like he always did when he got scared.
But Dave didn't hate him. Couldn't hate him. Could never hate him.
So he would just continue their ritual, until the time came where Kurt Hummel snapped.
Kurt had snapped a long time ago.
He'd just been fucking lucky that he was an amazing actor, because having an emotional breakdown in the middle of a school corridor was just not cool. Especially since he'd been very close to having said breakdown in the midst of yelling at one Dave Karofsky, who Kurt knew hated his guts. Not that he blamed him. He hated Dave sometimes too.
Well, not really. He told himself he did. He told himself that Dave was some stupid fag who deserved to die because he was gay and everyone knew that was wrong. And with his faggy clothing, too, it was so fucking obvious that he was just out to convert all the straight guys to his team.
The worst thing was, it was fucking working. There Kurt was, yelling at Dave Karofsky and calling him fag and other words and it was hurting so, so badly when it really fucking struck him that it was working. He was becoming one of them.
Okay, fine, so he didn't really believe that either. He didn't really think it was possible to convert someone. He knew what he was, deep down. He knew he'd always been this way, even when he was just a kid and secretly all he wanted for his birthday was a pair of sensible heels.
He never dared ask. He wasn't that guy, the guy who wore man-bags and pushed the boundaries with fashion and had the whole school staring at him, half in wonder, half in disgust.
But he could be, you know. He could be fabulous and fashionable like Dave was and he was pretty damn sure he'd look fine in skinny jeans. He could dress in Marc Jacobs and Alexander McQueen and spend hours on his hair and people would give him shit for it but he would be sassy and gorgeous and no one could touch him.
He'd tried it once, you know. He'd gone to ebay and after three hours of shopping he'd located and bought an exact replica of one of Dave's outfits. It had taken him fucking ages and cost him almost all of his leftover car money but it was worth it.
He waited for weeks for all the different parts of the outfit to arrive. And each time a parcel came to the door, he felt that rush of panic, rushing the different articles upstairs and throwing them into his closet after tearing them open and just staring, with not even trying them on.
And finally, the whole outfit was there.
With all the guilt pooling in his stomach, you'd think he'd bought a fucking sex toy or something. He locked his bedroom door even though he knew dad wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, and even then checked his phone and glanced outside the window before drawing the curtains. He would not be interrupted.
He dressed slowly, savoring every last moment. The way the shirt felt on his skin was like a caress, so soft and smooth unlike the polyester blends or whatever the hell they put into the t-shirts he wore. And the fucking jeans, man. Sure, they were tight and he was pretty sure all of his junk was showing because of it, but the way they hugged his muscles made him feel so…so…
So fucking gay.
He spent the next twenty minutes pushing his hair back and spraying it with so much product he thought it might burst into flames at any minute. He knew that it looked best like his because it made his face look longer, which made him look less childish. But to spend time on it, even if it would make him look a little less like an 11-year old milk maid, would be like drawing a giant target on his chest. Or pinning a sign to his back saying 'beat the shit out of me.' Because that's how things worked. You couldn't go around dressed all pretty and shit like Karofsky without paying for it. Dave was living proof.
That didn't stop him from staying in the outfit the whole afternoon. It didn't stop him from applying that foundation to cover up the blemishes he usually ignored, or the very light layer of lip-gloss that made his lips look kissable. It didn't stop him from staring at the mirror, gently touching his cheeks and thinking about how good he looked and wondering if maybe, just maybe one day he could dress like this in front of people. He'd certainly get attention, that's for sure.
But that was the fucking problem, now, wasn't it?
He changed out of the clothing an hour before his dad got come, just in case.
But the next time, he changed only half an hour before. And the next, fifteen minutes. And then he was doing it every few days and he was ordering new outfits, different outfits, some that he even customized himself and when the fuck did this become a ritual to him?
Maybe one day he'd just…not change back. Maybe he'd keep up this fucked up habit forever, and one day he'd forget that it wasn't right and his dad would walk in and…
No. That wasn't going to happen. He would stop, eventually. This was just a phase. He wasn't like Karofsky, he was straight, goddamnit, and this was just a phase.
Kurt wondered how much those white Doc Martens cost.
The breaking point had finally arrived, and Dave wasn't sure he was handling it right.
Okay, so Hummel breaking his phone was extreme. But whether that warranted Dave storming after him into the locker room, practically howling at him, and then literally throwing him into a locker…
Yeah, he may have overreacted.
Kurt was lighter than he'd expected. He had him nearly pinned to a locker, and the guy looked fucking terrified but that didn't stop him from taunting Dave all the same.
'Girl's locker room is across the hall, Fatty.' His voice wasn't stable, he was shaking and his face was pale as a ghost, but somehow it still stung. Dave let him go and took a step back.
'What the hell is your problem, Hummel?' It came out as more of a whine than Dave expected. He ran his hand through his hair, not looking at Kurt now. 'What are you so afraid of?'
'Besides you sneaking in here to peek at my junk?'
Dave winced. Seriously, low blow.
'I wouldn't waste my time!' He hissed, feeling a rush of anger. 'Little bitch like you probably doesn't have anything to peek at.'
Kurt's eyes narrowed dangerously. 'Don't push me, Karofsky.'
'What are you going to do, Hummel? Hit me? Come on, you're not fooling anyone! Just because you're on the football team doesn't make you a big man! You may act all tough but underneath that letterman jacket you're just a scared little boy! Hell,' he let out a small, bitter laugh, 'I nearly broke your face just now.'
'Shut up, Karofsky! You're just some stupid fag who dresses like a freak and expects people to be okay with it!' His voice is getting steadily higher and higher and not for the first time, Dave wondered if the natural pitch of his voice was rather less manly than the one he usually spoke in. But Kurt continued: 'What the hell would you know?'
'More than you think, Jockstrap. You think I don't see you wincing every time someone says faggot or gay? You think I don't notice the way you stare at me when you think no one's looking?'
And now Kurt's eyes widened. Panic flooded through him, sheer and utter panic. His eyes darted left and right, until he finally spoke.
'I do not stare at you, you…' He trailed off, his voice breaking like he was about to cry 'God, Karofsky, why can't you just act normal?'
'Act? Like you do?' Dave's own voice was low and mean.
'Like everybody does! You think anyone around here isn't pretending? Everyone does it, everyone apart from you and that fucking Glee Club!'
'Because maybe some of us don't want to be fakes like you!'
'Shut up! Shut up! Fuck, fuck, Karofsky, I hate you so fucking much!' And Dave could just see Kurt breaking down, breaking apart. But that didn't make it feel better, didn't comfort the anger rushing through him, and didn't want to make him hurt Kurt any less.
It wasn't fair that Kurt could hate him. Dave wanted to hate Kurt but he couldn't. And yet Kurt was standing there declaring his hate like it was so easy. And it hurt so bad because he wanted Kurt, he wanted him to like him.
'You know what, Jockstrap? I'm not all that keen on you either! You're a liar and a coward and…fuck!' He broke off with a wail. He couldn't even say it; he was so pathetic, and there Kurt was, hating him. 'Why can't I hate you?' He groaned, and it was so aggravating, so unfair, and now he'd said it out loud, and Kurt was just staring at him in…was that disgust mixed in with the shock? No, no, it was realization. Of what, though?
'You don't hate me?' It was like all the noise in the world had ceased to exist, and Kurt's whisper was the only thing that he could hear.
And what was he supposed to say to that? Was he supposed to tell Kurt that no, he didn't hate him, he'd been in love with him forever, and that's why it hurt so fucking much every time Kurt teased him or called him fat, or pushed him?
'No. I don't.' Is what he said instead, and Kurt wouldn't stop staring at him. Dave didn't even know what to do now.
'Oh, shit. Oh, shit, Karofsky.' Kurt choked out, his eyes still fixed there.
Dave didn't know what was happening. He didn't know why Kurt's eyes were so wide, or why his expression was unreadable. Or why he was staring at Dave like that.
All he knew was that about a second later, Kurt's mouth was on him and there were teeth and tongues and saliva mixing and, good god, was it supposed to feel this good?
What what what was happening? Was Kurt really kissing him. Kissing him? Was Kurt really pressing his lips against him and probing at him with his tongue? Was Kurt really nipping and biting Dave's lips, gasping, groaning, murmuring?
Somewhere between hands on his chest and hands circling his back, Kurt's letterman was on the floor and fuck, he looked so fucking vulnerable without it.
For some reason, neither of them was stopping. Kurt's lips just kept pushing against his, his hands tangling in Dave's hair and pushing himself against his body. Dave couldn't help it, his hands clawed at Kurt's t-shirt from the back and he thrust his hips forward without thinking. Shit, fuck, and it felt so good and there was no way this was hate, no fucking way at all.
And then they were pulling apart, and Kurt was staring at him, so very scared but red-faced, panting, and somehow relieved.
'Feel better, Jockstrap?' Dave barely even registered the tease that escaped his lips before Kurt was on them again.
Only, now he was pushing Dave against the locker and his knee was between his thighs and, shit, Dave had never done this before but Kurt wasn't stopping.
There and then, it didn't matter that Kurt's hands were messing up his perfectly styled hair. It didn't matter they were in the locker room and, shit, anyone could walk in on them.
What mattered was that Kurt Hummel was rutting against him and moaning into his mouth. Kurt, whose leg was curling around Dave's hip. Kurt, who was definitely gay. Kurt, who was very quickly realizing he had feelings for Dave too.
And this, Dave thinks, would make a great new morning ritual.