Title: Dancing About Architecture
Summary: "There will always be a guy, Kurt, because you'll always choose wrong. Start looking in front of your nose." The only constant in Kurt Hummel's love life is Dave Karofsky, and Kurt's pretty sure he will die surrounded by cats and old issues of Vogue. Kurtofsky.
Author's Note: This started out as a one-shot and then I changed my mind. It happens, it happens. There'll be five chapters more or less depending on my flaky whims. Feedback is loved and appreciated. If you clicked and read at least a sentence, I thank you.
│B L A I N E│
The worst part is he could be doing anything – like sitting in front of the TV with Finn, pretending to be in a Hollywood makeover montage at the Macy's dressing rooms with Mercedes, or listening to his dad complain about the Steelers – it didn't matter. Kurt's eyes utilized every second they were open in order to cloud over with memories. His heartache was merciless; quiet and stillness wasn't a requirement for Kurt to think about Blaine, he only needed to be conscious.
It was as though he were a little bit in love with his own sadness. He'd think about that day the two of them spent together over summer vacation, when Burt and Carol had jetted down to Biloxi to play nickel slots and Finn had been off with Rachel discovering the joys of consistent teen sex. It was overcast. The air was heavy and thick with an impending thunderstorm, and he and Blaine snuggled up on the living room couch. It was the perfect day to watch Pride and Prejudice, but they couldn't decide on a Darcy so both Firth and MacFadyen got their due; Blaine let Kurt rewind Firth's lake diving scene ten times, and it poured outside the Hummels' windows when MacFadyen declared he'd been bewitched body and soul. They made out until they were breathless during the closing credits.
Kurt could be in the middle of translating French III conversations, and he would think about Blaine and this day, and he'd want to fucking cry or scream, or throw up all of which would be totally acceptable actions if he hadn't been dumped five months ago.
"There's this guy in my AP Bio and I…look, Kurt I really care about you, and I hope we can still be friends. The worst thing I can think of would be to lose your friendship."
He'd already done the post-breakup rituals with Rachel and Mercedes; they'd gathered him up off of the floor and told him how fabulous he is, they'd lied through their teeth ("I never liked Blaine/Me neither. He smiles way too much, you can't trust that"), they'd attempted to repair the damage to his heart by singing Beyonce songs into their hairbrushes (everything he owns in a box to the left), and hid all of Blaine's updates from Kurt's Facebook newsfeed. They'd listened patiently as Kurt steered every conversation towards the subject of his now ex, and turned down the wattage on their own happiness when their boyfriends were around. But being the seasoned shoulder to cry on that he is Kurt knew moping over a relationship had a shelf life and he was rapidly approaching irritatingly emo.
So he shut up about it. He thought about that day and Blaine punctuating every kiss with an "I love you", and he bled internally during language lab.
The question had to be repeated four times before Kurt realized he was being spoken to. Decidedly un-French metal poured out of the headphone speakers around his neck, and Dave Karofsky stared at him eyebrow perfectly arched in puzzlement.
"What?" Kurt removed his own headphones.
Senior year was almost over and this was the first time Dave had bothered to speak to him. Sure, he'd shown up to GSA meetings as per their agreement, but sat quietly with his arms crossed for their duration. And even though the Bully Whips dissolved under Santana's lack of an ulterior motive, Kurt would still catch Dave shadowing him sometimes with eagle eyes trained on their schoolmates, but nothing more than a cursory head nod passed between them.
Now Karofsky was speaking, and nervously raking his fingers through his dark hair.
"God, please tell me no one died, because I'm starting to feel like the world's biggest dick."
"No one's dead," Kurt said.
Dave sighed in relief. "That's good. You still look like hell, though."
"Is there a point to this, David, because I've got work to do over here."
"Dude, you're the only one," Dave snickered. "Even Madame Jenkins is playing Black Ops on her laptop. No one cares what you do."
Kurt gritted his teeth. "I care."
"You're paler than usual. You didn't eat the burritos today, did you? I thought everyone knew to stay far away from the cafeteria on Fiesta Fridays…"
Dave continued to talk, and Kurt continued to think about that day and being so tangled up with Blaine that he didn't know where either one of them began or ended. He ached so much – like some essential part of his body had been snatched away, replaced with a cog made up of knives and razor blades – and as much as Kurt was okay with carrying around this pain (because it was his little bit of red on a grey day), he was exhausted from the lugging.
"I didn't eat a goddamn burrito, Karofsky," he snapped. "I got dumped. I got dumped in between a commercial for Sonic and Gary Martin Hayes & Associates but not before telling Blaine I wanted to come back as NeNe from The Real Housewives in my next life. Blaine dumped me for someone who's probably hotter, and more talented, and more sexually liberated – I don't know for sure because perfect Brett Thomaston only lets friends view his profile. I am pale because I don't sleep, my daily caloric intake comes from a tub of Chunky Monkey, and my life has become entirely about replaying my and Blaine's happiest moments – only now with the bonus of mental editing to make myself cooler so he won't leave me. Breathing in is a fucking chore, and it's also quite possible that my heart is lodged somewhere underneath a size ten and a half Top-Sider." Kurt paused to swallow the lump in his throat. "Any other questions?"
When Kurt said he got dumped, he never expected a river of tears or even a gasp of shock from Karofsky. The customary "damn that sucks" would have totally sufficed. What he got was a mocking pout, and a great view of Dave's thumb and forefinger rubbing together.
"Tiny violin?" Kurt said, his voice rising. "Are you seriously giving me tiny violin right now?"
"Are you seriously crying over some butthole right now?" Dave shot back. "Graduation's in what? Less than month? I bet come August you're gonna be in New York or LA, or some other place where there's a sea of dudes in jaunty scarves. Hummel, you'll find someone. And you'll forget all about the small town dingleberry who couldn't handle how amazing you are." Dave's eyes took a sudden interest in his keyboard as he swung his seat back and forth. "Shit's just not worth moping over," he finished quietly.
The cog, though still churning, had lost a blade and slowed its speed. The smile that unfurled across his face may have paled in comparison to the thousand-wattage Kurt was capable of in happier times, but it was genuine. For the first time in five months some of the sting had been taken out of breathing.
"Never thought I'd hear you use the word 'jaunty'."
Dave looked up, grinned back, and slipped his headphones over his ears. "It got stuck in my head during SAT practice," he said. "That one and 'masticate' are my favorites."