Chapter Text
It all started at the GSA Halloween party.
Well, it started before that, but in retrospect, if Dave were to put a finger on when “it” started, he’d say the GSA Halloween party, every time.
Kurt had gotten permission from his and Finn’s parents, and announced that there would be a party at the Casa de Hudson-Hummel on Halloween, and that anyone in the club was invited. They could bring guests as long as they promised to follow club rules. No drugs, Brett. No booze, Puck. Costumes a must.
Dave didn’t usually dress up for Halloween. He had a “bloodstained” jumpsuit and a plastic hockey mask that he’d pulled out for the last few years when going to one of the “popular” parties. The jumpsuit was comfortable, and nobody could see his face behind the mask; it was perfect. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to wear that to the GSA party. Which meant making or buying a costume. Dave thought; they didn’t really make costumes ready-made for his size, not that would last the night, anyway. Maybe he could make one that
looked
like he bought it.
Admitting the baking was one thing. Admitting that he knew his way around a sewing machine was another thing
entirely.
And--no. Just, no.
But it wasn’t the costume itself that started the trouble. It was that Dave hadn’t thought twice about going to the party. So, when Az stopped him in the locker room after practice and said:
“Hey man, don’t forget--Party at mine Saturday. It’s gonna be sick!”
Dave froze.
Shit,
he thought. “Dude,” he said. “I already--the GSA’s hosting a Halloween party. I already said I’d be there, I mean, I’m kinda in charge. I have to be there.”
“Wait,” Az said. “What? You choosing Hummel over me?”
“No,” Dave said, “It’s just--”
“Just nothing!” Az said. “Man what is with you? You been weird all semester. First all this PC crap; huggy feely gay shit. Then I find out you been lyin’ to me--”
“Would you want to admit you love baking?”
“And now this?” Az said. “I’m your
best friend,
asshole. Where the fuck are you?”
“Right here,” Dave said, quiet. “I’m right here.”
“Naw, man,” Az said. He shook his head. “Whatever. Go to your little fag party.”
“Az--”
“What?”
Az snapped, glaring. Dave swallowed; he felt like he was at a turning point, like if he didn’t say the right thing--he sighed.
“I’ll try and stop by.”
Az snorted. “Don’t do me any fucking favors,” he said, and walked away. Dave watched him go; once he was out of eyesight, Dave slumped onto the bench.
“Shit.”
***
Dave sat in his room, thinking. He could stop by Az’s party before heading over to Kurt’s, but-- Az’s parties didn’t start until late, and if he showed up early and didn’t drink, well, that’d be worse than not going at all. So he’d start at Kurt’s. If it was lame, he could leave early, but Az’s party would probably still be going when the GSA party ended, so he’d just go over then.
And if he ended up not going, well--
Dave sighed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go, except, that was exactly it. He didn’t want to go to Az’s party, where he’d have to hide, fuck,
everything
from
everybody.
At least at Kurt’s, a few people knew the truth. And the others wouldn’t press if Dave didn’t try to drunkenly hook up with a Cheerio. Dave knew he would enjoy himself more if he just went to Kurt’s.
He let his head thud against his computer desk.
Wonderful.
It wasn’t even the end of October, and already his carefully constructed world was starting to crack.
For a brief moment, Dave considered saying
fuck it,
ditching the GSA party and sucking it up and reclaiming some of his cool at Az’s parties. Dave had gotten as far as thinking that, as long as he kept his mouth shut, he could make out with a chick and pretend it was just a girly boy, before he shook himself.
No. Dave wasn’t going to do that anymore. Baby steps forward, yes, but no steps back. That was his only rule. So, he’d better man up and figure out what he was going to wear.
God, that sounded so gay,
Dave thought, then shook his head.
Who the fuck are you trying to kid, Dave. Yeah, it’s gay, but so the fuck are you, and you want it, so own it.
Dave opened his web browser and searched for costume patterns. Yeah, he’d be making his own, but damn if it wasn’t going to be manly and badass.
Finding the costume was relatively easy, even after losing nearly half an hour to
3wishes.com
’s *ahem* costume page. When Dave finally did stumble across the right image (very much *not* one of 3wishes), he smiled.
Hmm,
he thought.
That doesn’t look too difficult.
Doing some quick calculations, Dave placed his order for the pattern, overnighting it from Amazon.com. He didn’t have a game on Saturday, and there was a JoAnne’s fabric near his Gram’s. He’d call and see if he could borrow Papa’s machine this weekend.
And hey, if he made it well enough, he’d have two default costumes to choose from. So, you know, bonus.
Dave paused, and searched through his history for the 3wishes costume page. For, you know, later reference.
“Fantasy Island” is right, hot damn!
***
Papa Karofsky had worked as a tailor for over forty years, until his failing eyesight, and an intermittent tremor in his left hand, meant that he could no longer thread a needle. He’d retired, selling his shop to his apprentice, but kept his machine in his workshop at home. Because of this, growing up, Dave always had a supply of expertly tailored clothing, and until he got the jumpsuit to further his persona of “average straight teenager,” Papa’d made his Halloween costume every year. As Dave pulled into their driveway, several overstuffed bags of fabric, zipper, buttons, batting, and the like on the seat next to him.
Dave was glad the fabric store was so far away from Lima; he could and had explained away the baking, but it didn’t matter how badass his costume would be, dudes weren’t supposed to know about this shit. Which, because of Papa, never made sense to Dave. Like, the way cooking was “women’s work,” but all the Iron Chefs were men. Whatever.
Gram opened the door as he walked up and waved Dave inside. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said. “Your Papa’s driving me crazy. He’s been upstairs with his machine all day, doing God knows what. Give him something to do before he sews his fingers together.”
Dave laughed, and kissed her cheek as he passed. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But I might end up the one stitched together.”
Gram tisked, and waved him on. “You’re better than that, and you know it.”
Dave grinned, and climbed up the stairs to his grandfather’s sewing room. Their house was the one main source of conflict between Paul and Helen (Dave’s aunt) and Gram and Papa; too many stairs, too isolated, not designed for aging bodies. Gram and Papa said it was none of their damn business, and to stop trying to fix things that weren’t broke.
Whenever Dave went up the stairs, he agreed with his father; they creaked under his weight, and the banister wobbled just enough to make him worry. But, like every time before, the staircase held, and Dave went left at the top of the stairs and into the sewing room.
There was a dressmaker’s dummy in one corner, and two clothing racks from target against the far wall. The sewing machine was set up near the south window, to get as much sun as possible, and there was a large flat table in the middle of the room. An ironing board was hung on the back of the door, and the iron rested on a shelf next to the door. Papa was seated at the sewing machine, looking over his glasses and through a giant lighted magnifying glass on a stand, like the kind you find in fingerhut catalogues, and trying to thread the machine.
“Hey, Papa,” Dave called. Papa looked up, head angled to look through the glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He had a cushion of pins strapped to his wrist, and an ancient measuring tape around his neck.
“Davey! Come in, come in. Get out your pattern; what are we making?” Papa stood, and Dave put the bags on the table. He pulled the pattern out from where he had stashed it, and handed it to Papa.
“Good, good,” Papa muttered, and pulled the measuring tape from his neck. “Take off your jacket,” he said. Dave slipped his letterman off, and Papa shook his head. “When are you going to start wearing clothes that fit?” Dave rolled his eyes; he’d been hearing that for years.
“They do fit,” he said.
“No, they don’t,” Papa said. “They’re too big.”
“Yes, Papa,” Dave said, and Papa glared, but there was no heat.
“Come closer,” Papa said, and began to wrap the tape around Dave, already distracted as he jotted down the measurements on a little notepad.
A little over an hour later, when Gram poked her head into the room, bringing with her a plate of warm cookies, they had completed the pants, Papa was stitching the shirt, and Dave was at the table, cutting the material for his jacket. Dave wondered around a mouthful of cookie if his grandparents weren’t competing in some way; since Dave was the only grandchild they had to pass their talents on to, if there weren’t both trying to impress on him that their skills were the better to adapt. Dave wasn’t going to lie, he was definitely on the side of cookies. But having a custom made pirate costume, complete with a flashy captains jacket, was pretty sweet.
***
Az was barely speaking to him. He still saved him a seat in History, so he still considered them friends, but he wouldn’t seek Dave out for conversation, and the one time they had to partner up, Dave had ended up with Susan Hollis, not Az.
Tuesday’s GSA meeting was dedicated to finalizing the plans for the party. It would be held at the Hudson-Hummel house. Mr. and Mrs. Hummel would be home for the party, though they would probably remain upstairs. It would start at 7, and end at midnight. Anybody who stayed that late, would help clean up. Those who wished could spend the night. Everyone would bring something, according to the party sign up sheet that was passed around. As hosts, Kurt and Finn (and by extension their parents) were springing for pizzas. Dave signed up for cupcakes, and was warmed by the way Kurt’s eyes lit up when he looked over the sheet.
“What kind?” Kurt asked, sitting next to him. Dave shrugged.
“Don’t know. I’m thinking a batch of chocolate, a batch of vanilla, and maybe a batch of other? I make a pretty good spice cake.”
Kurt made a sound suspiciously like a whimper, and Dave chuckled. “Spice cake cupcakes it is.”
“I’m going to weigh 500 pounds, and I’m not even going to care.” Dave laughed, and Kurt nudged his shoulder. “Have you picked a costume, yet?” he asked. Dave nodded.
“Yeah. Got it last weekend.” Kurt looked at Dave. “What?”
“What is it?”
Dave shook his head. “Nuh uh, not telling.”
Kurt nudge him again. “Come on.”
“Nope.”
Mock pouting, Kurt humphed. “Spoilsport.”
“Well,” Dave said. “Tell me what you’re going to be, and I’ll tell you.”
Kurt gave Dave an arch look. “It’s a surprise.”
“Well,” Dave said. “There you have it.”
“Fine,” Kurt said. “But if we have the same costume, it’ll be your fault.”
“I’ll take that risk,” Dave said, and nudge Kurt back. “I wouldn’t worry, Fancy. Even if we have the same costume, i’m sure you will pull off the look better than I will, anyway.”
Kurt preened. “Of course. I make everything fabulous."
***
Halloween fell on a Monday, which meant the town decided that Halloween was actually on the 29th, that Saturday. Dave woke up earlier than his usual after his game on Friday, and went to the store before heading over to Gram’s. His costume was still there, mostly because Papa wanted to do the finishing touches today, while the cupcakes were cooling. The plan was to bake, dress, ice, then help them hand out candy until it was time to leave.
Kurt had told Dave to come over a little early, to help set up. Dave had agreed, even though he was a little leary of being in that house without the buffer of the party. The last time he had seen Mr. Hummel was in the principal’s office, and he wasn’t very keen to repeat the experience. Kurt had noticed his hesitation, and told Dave that Burt wasn’t angry anymore; that Kurt had been telling him of the work he and Dave had been doing together with the GSA. He said that, while Burt had his initial misgivings, he was willing to accept that Dave really had turned over a new leaf.
Dave knew there had to be more to the story, but Kurt wouldn’t say anything more about it.
It didn’t do anything to ease his nerves when he pulled up in front of Kurt’s house. The cupcakes were on the seat next to him, his costume folded over them, to keep them from sliding around. The front door opened as Dave was trying to balance three dozen cupcakes in his arms (he figured he’d come back for the costume), and he heard Kurt call out:
“That can’t be your costume.”
Dave turned, kicking the door shut. Kurt was dressed like he usually was, well, he was more casual than usual in skinny jeans and a tee shirt, but he wasn’t wearing a costume yet. “Nah,” he said. “It’s still in the truck.” He lowered his voice as he got closer. “I figured I’d change after set up.”
“Good plan,” Kurt said, and reached out for the cupcakes. “I’ll take these.”
Dave smirked. “You just want me for my baked goods.”
“Not true,” Kurt said. “I also want you for your tall and strength.” He led Dave inside and into the kitchen. “Come on in and say hello.”
Mrs. H was in the kitchen, looking a lot like she had the last time Dave had seen her, which was, wow, middle school. He was shorter than he remembered, and a bit more stylish; Kurt’s influence, he supposed. She looked up from what she was doing, unwrapping decorations, and smiled at him.
“David,” she said. “Look at you; you’ve gotten so big.” She put the decorations down and walked around the table to give him a hug. “I saw you at the game last week, but it’s different seeing you up close.”
“Uh, thanks, Mrs. H,” Dave said, gently patting her back. She held on a little longer than Dave was expecting, squeezing him tighter. It was as if she could tell how nervous he was to be in this house. It had to be some mom thing; the ability to tell when somebody needs a hug. He tightened his fingertips briefly against her back in thanks.
“Dave brought cupcakes,” Kurt cold Mrs. H, and put them on the table. “Make sure Finn doesn’t get into them? And--what kind of frosting, Dave?”
“Uh, vanilla and chocolate buttercream and cream cheese.”
“Dad can have
one
but no more, and he
knows
that.”
“I’m sure he does,” Mrs. H said. “Why don’t you show Dave what still needs to be done.”
“Right,” Kurt said. “This way.” He led Dave to the living room. It was a bigger room, looking like a warm version of one of those magazine display rooms. There were several bags of decorations on the coffee table, filled with what looked to be a little of everything in the store. “The party’s going to be on this floor, in this room and out on the back patio. Luckily, it’s looking to be a nice night.”
“Even if the temperature does drop,” Dave said, “Enough people in here, and it’ll be a relief.”
“True,” Kurt said. “Okay. So, Finn is with Dad at the shop, and they’ll be home in about an hour. I want to get as much done before they do. As nice as it is to have Finn’s height, he is surprisingly clumsy off the field.”
“I know, I’ve seen him dance,” Dave said.
Kurt snickered, then tried to look stern. “It really isn’t funny. He’s trying his best.”
“He gets props for doing it for an audience,” Dave said, and resisted the urge to poke around the shelf of DVDs. It was hard; now that he was here, he wanted to
know.
“But sometimes, he still looks like he’s having a seizure.”
Kurt whacked his arm with a plastic bone. “Be nice, and help me move the couch back.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Dave saluted and grinned when Kurt rolled his eyes, but dutifully lifted and moved whatever Kurt pointed to.
Once the furniture was where Kurt wanted it, he began directing the decorations; even enlisting Mrs. H to help set things up. When Mr. H and Hudson finally came home, Dave was wrapped in red velvet so dark it looked black, holding even more up to the wall, as Kurt stood back to look with a critical eye. Mrs. H stopped what she was doing, wrapping orange lights around the railings on their back deck, to come in and greet her husband.
Hudson stood behind Kurt, mimicking Kurt’s pose, and looking at Dave with an exaggerated thoughtful look on his face. Dave wouldn’t say he and Hudson were friends, really, but they had lost the low-level antagonism that had surrounded them since middle school. So when Hudson goofed around, like now, Dave found it harder and harder not to laugh.
“Just because you’re behind me, doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re doing,” Kurt said. “If you can stand around, you can help. We need the spiderwebs put up.” When Finn didn’t move fast enough, Kurt snapped. “Now, Finn!”
“Alright, okay,” Finn said, and grabbed a bag of webbing off the table. He started at the shelving unit next to where Dave was still holding the decorations. “Karofsky,” Hudson nodded at him with a grin, and Dave smiled back.
“Hudson,” Dave said.
He leaned in to say in a low voice that Dave thought was supposed to be a whisper, “You been at this a while?”
“‘bout an hour.” Dave said. He was glad he hadn’t come in costume; it would be a total mess by now.
Hudson nodded, then asked, hopeful “You bring cupcakes?”
Dave snorted, nodding, and Kurt snapped. “Less chatter, more webs!” Hudson’s eyes went wide, and he starting putting twice the webs up. Dave almost felt sorry for him; between Kurt and Berry, he had no chance. “Can I put my arms down?” Dave asked, “Or am I part of the decor, now?”
“Tempting,” Kurt said. “With the right drapery, you could pull off ‘Greek Statue Chic.’”
Dave rolled his eyes.
As if anyone’d want to see my hairy ass in a sheet.
“It would have save a lot of effort; I could have just come as a column.”
“So, not Greek, Roman, or column, then.” Kurt said. Dave laughed.
“Are you still trying to figure out my costume? You’ll see it in a little bit.”
Kurt pouted. Dave was pretty sure it was fake. Mostly fake. “It’s not the same. I want to guess.”
“It’s not that hard,” Dave said, and put his arm down, rotating his shoulder; it was starting to cramp.
“Looks good,” Mr. H said, coming over to stand by Kurt. Dave had to agree. Most of the light bulbs had been swapped for electric candelabras, the tabled had been draped with old lace tablecloths, the punchbowl was surrounded by plastic bones, and the mantelpiece looked like an altar. It looked, in all honesty, more like a movie set than a living room decorated in an hour.
“I need to borrow your assistant for a second, Kurt,” Mr. H said, looking at Dave. Dave nodded, swallowing his nerves, and Hudson took the fabric from him. Dave nodded his thanks, and followed Mr. H into the kitchen. Kurt mouthed “it’ll be okay,” at him as Dave passed, and Dave wished he shared Kurt’s optimism.
Mr. H pulled a beer from the ‘fridge and gestured for Dave to take a seat at the table. Dave did, wishing he wasn’t so big; he felt like--well--like a trained bear performing tricks on a tricycle. “So,” Mr. H began, “Last time I saw you wasn’t in the best of circumstances.”
“No, sir,” Dave said, forcing himself not to look down. He had a feeling Mr. H would be the kind of man to appreciate that sort of thing.
Mr. H pushed the brim of his hat up, and sat back in the chair. “I was a bit leery when Kurt first mentioned that you’d be working together.” Dave closed his eyes for a long beat, turning his head away. But he looked back to open them. “But I have to admit, I’ve seen and heard nothing since then to show Kurt was wrong to trust you. I’m glad you’re here.”
What?
That wasn’t quite what he had expected to hear. Mr. H sighed.
“Look, kid. David,” Mr. H leaned in. “Teenagers can be pretty stupid, sometimes, I get that. They can get pretty twisted up about simple things, let alone the big issues. I was one, a stupid one. And I’m raising another who is still getting over a case of the stupid,” He must have been talking about Hudson, Dave could never imagine Kurt having “a case of the stupid” for anything. He’d always assumed being in Glee was what turned Hudson’s attitude around, but know he was sure he was missing part of the story. “Part of being young is being able to overcome stupid, and I’m glad you were able to.”
“So am I,” Dave said, quietly.
Mr. H drank his beer, and pointed the neck at Dave. “As much as I trust my son, he’s all I had for a long time; I would tear apart heaven and earth to keep him safe. But you got lucky things stopped when they did, and that my son’s as forgiving as he is.”
“I know that, sir.”
“Do you.” Mr. H pressed.
Dave took a deep breath and held Mr. H’s eyes. “Yes, I do. You’re right; I was pretty messed up last year. If not for Kurt, I’d probably still be. Your son’s an amazing person.”
“I know,” Mr. H said. “The world would be a better place if more people realized that.”
Dave risked a small smile. “We’re working on it.”
“Good,” Mr. H said, and stood, walking to stand next to Dave. He clapped a hand on Dave’s shoulder, leaning down to say in his ear with a mild voice: “If I hear even a whisper of a threat from you towards my kid again, I’ll be coming after you with my shotgun, we clear?”
Dave nodded once, sharp. “Crystal, sir.”
“Good.” Mr. H squeezed once and let go, standing. “Call me Burt.”
“Thank you, sir. Uh, Burt.”
Burt smiled, patted Dave’s shoulder, and went upstairs. Kurt poked his head into the kitchen.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Dave said. “I just know where you get your scary from now.”
Kurt snorted. “My Dad isn’t scary.”
“Yeah,” Dave said. “Tell that to my knees.”
Hudson leaned around the doorframe, his head lines up above Kurt’s like they used to in old cartoons. “Did you just get a Burt-Talk?” At Dave’s nod, Hudson said. “It’s scary, right?”
“Oh, for--” Kurt protested. “He’s not scary!”
“Not to you!” Hudson said. “You’re scarier.”
“I am--Dave, am I scary?” Kurt asked.
Dave nodded, solemnly. “Terrifying.”
Kurt threw up his hands. “I’m going to get into my costume. You both better do the same. People will be getting here, soon.” Hudson shifted from foot to foot. “What is it, Finn?”
“Uh, Rachel’s bringing my costume.”
Dave carefully bit his tongue to avoid saying anything. Kurt looked at Finn. “You let Rachel choose your costume?”
“No,” Finn said. “You don’t let Rachel do anything. She just does it.”
Dave covered his mouth, hoping he could hide the smile. Kurt covered his eyes. “Do you at least know what your costume is going to be?”
Hudson shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Finn,” Kurt said. He turned to Dave. “The bathroom is down the hall on the left, for when you change.”
“Thanks,” Dave said, and stood. Kurt looked at Hudson, opened his mouth to say something, stopped, shook his head, and stormed upstairs.
Hudson followed Dave out to his truck. “Something on your mind?” Dave asked. He opened his truck and pulled out his clothes, tucking them under his arm. He slammed the door shut, and turned to Hudson, who was frowning like he was trying to think of the best way to say something. Dave felt something unpleasant roil in his gut; what the hell was Hudson up to?
“I was talking to Kurt the other day,” Hudson began, “and I realized something. Well, two things. One, I need exfoliate more, whatever that means, I think it has something to do with plants. And two, I never apologized to you.”
Dave frowned. “For what?”
“For being a dick,” Hudson said. “I haven’t always been the nicest to you, and I’m sorry.”
“For--” Dave shook his head. “Wait, for, like, what? Middle school?”
Hudson shrugged, and nodded, looking a little bit like a kicked puppy. Something old and warm that was definitely
not
the dying remnants of a pre-adolescent crush, flared briefly in Dave’s chest. He shrugged it off, “Don’t worry about it,” Dave said. “Water under the bridge. Kids are stupid, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Hudson said, sighing like it was a great weight off his chest, and who knew with Hudson, maybe it was. “That’s what I said. But Kurt said that didn’t mean an apology wouldn’t be nice to hear.”
Dave smiled. He could hear Kurt in Hudson’s words. “Thanks, Hudson.”
“Finn,” Hudson said. At Dave’s eyebrow, he said. “My team calls me Hudson. My friends call me Finn.” He held out a hand and Dave took it.
“Dave,” he said.
Finn grinned blinding bright, and it was a good thing Finn wasn’t his type, because that not-a-crush was hard enough to control as it was. “Awesome. I gotta go pick up Rachel,” he said. And there went the last of that crush; nothing could survive that sappy look when it was about Rachel Berry. “Tell Kurt for me?” Finn waved, got into his own truck, and drove off.
Dave let himself back into the house, and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Soon, jeans and polo shirt had been replaced by black breeches and a long-sleeved black shirt, open at the chest, and with as little ruffle at the sleeves as Dave could convince Papa was necessary. A black sash tied tight around his waist, black gloves, and at last, the mask, tucked into his belt for now. He hadn’t shaved in the last few days, so he had a good coating of pirate-stubble. He tucked his bandana into his sash, and realized his sword and boots were still out in his truck.
Dave looked at himself in the mirror. He looked pretty good. He could pick up the rest later, if he needed it. Nobody questioned the Dread Pirate Roberts.
He emerged from the bathroom in time to hear Kurt call down the stairs, “Finn, can you give me a hand?”
“He went to pick up Berry,” Dave called back.
“He--of course he did. Can you help me, then?”
“Uh, sure,” Dave said, and climbed the stairs to Kurt’s room. “Kurt?”
“In here,” Kurt called from the room on Dave’s left. Dave pushed open the door, and stopped. Kurt was dressed in bright red and blue, like some cartoon prince, complete with a cape that swirled when he spun, and that crown--that fucking
crown
--the
Prom Queen Crown
perched on top of his perfectly coiffed head.
“Who--?” Dave managed, before he had to swallow back whatever emotion was pushing its way forward.
“Well?” Kurt asked, twirling in place. “What do you think?”
“You kept it,” Dave said before he could think, and he could bite his tongue off for the look that comment put on Kurt’s face; the soft oh of surprise, and the way his hand flew to gently touch the crown.
“Of course I did,” Kurt said, softly. “I’m not going to let their narrow mindedness dictate my life. They crowed us royalty, Dave.” He grinned. “And I’m
owning
it.” Kurt hesitated just for a moment, and asked; “Will you be okay with that?”
Dave met Kurt’s eyes; they were steady, proud like that had been at Prom, and hauty like Dave thought royalty should be. But Dave knew Kurt better now, he could see the hurt, and the way he was turning that hurt upside down and throwing it back in their faces, even if most of them wouldn’t see it happen. He thought of his own crown, hidden in the back of his closet underneath God knows what, and very deliberately smiled.
“It suits you,” he said, not knowing how to say anything else, not knowing
what
to say. But Kurt smiled, ears pink, and Dave thought Kurt might had heard it anyway.
“Thank you, Dave.” Kurt smiled and Dave gestured at the costume.
“Prince Charming?” he guessed. Kurt snorted.
“Almost. Prince Philip. From
Sleeping Beauty,
the Disney version, anyway
.
Much more handsome than Charming. And he sang.”
Dave felt his eyes widen. “They have names?”
Kurt laughed, just a little bit embarrassed. “Yes, they do. And I am ashamed to say, I know them all.”
“I thought you didn’t do shame?” Dave said, and leaned against Kurt’s doorframe. “Besides, they’re all musicals, right? Makes sense that you’d know them.”
“Still,” Kurt said. “It’s dorky enough for a girl to know the Princes’ names, but for someone like, well, me?” He shook his head.
“So why the costume?” Dave asked.
Kurt flushed again, this time with anger. “Before Blaine, I kept saying that I was waiting for my ‘Prince Charming’ to come and find me. When I met Blaine, I said that I had found my prince. Then, when dumped me, and everyone kept saying ‘but he was your ‘Prince Charming,’ when it was clear that charm was
all
he had, I decided I wasn’t going to cast myself in the role of ‘princess’ any longer. I hate it when other people do it, it’s ridiculous for me to.” Kurt scowled at that, raising a fist, and letting it bounce against his thigh.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be swept off your feet,” Dave said. “You just need a different kind of prince.” He grinned. “One who romances other princes. I’d pay to see that Disney film.”
Kurt snorted and looked Dave up and down, and Dave tried not to fidget. He knew Kurt was just looking at his costume, but it had been a long time since he had worn something this form fitting--his uniform didn’t count because, well,
pads
--and it sure felt a hell of a lot like getting checked out.
Kurt’s eyes lingered at Dave’s waist and he had a moment of panic, before he remembered the mask in his belt. Kurt’s eyes widened.
“You’re the Dread Pirate Roberts!”
“Admitted with pride,” Dave said, and bowed. Kurt came closer and inspected Dave’s sleeve.
“This didn’t come from one of those Walmart bagged costumes.”
“Nope,” Dave said.
Kurt froze, and gave Dave a look that was half-glare, half-something Dave didn’t know and wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. “You
didn’t make this yourself.
” Kurt practically hissed.
“No,” Dave said. He shifted. “My grandfather did. He’s made my costumes, like, my whole life. He’s a tailor. Was.”
Kurt nodded, looking almost relieved, and Dave added; “Did you make yours?”
“Of course,” Kurt said. He adjusted his crown in the mirror one more time, and grinned at Dave. “It’s a Kurt Hummel original.” He gestured towards the door. “Let’s head back downstairs before everyone arrives. You can leave your clothes in here, if you want.”
“Thanks,” Dave said, and put his clothes on the seat of Kurt’s desk chair.
The doorbell rang when Dave was halfway down the stairs, and he followed Kurt to the front, intending to sneak out and grab his boots. It was Santana, Brittany, and Quinn, dressed in a black catsuit, a white playboy bunny, and a black teddy with mouse ears.
“Good God, you’re the Plastics,” Dave said.
“You know
Mean Girls?
” Kurt asked, surprised. Dave shrugged, and hoped he wasn’t blushing.
“Watch yourself, Cubby,” Santana said as she passed, carrying bags of chips. “Your dork is showing.” Quinn had a tray of some kind of dip, and she smiled her head cheerleader smile at Kurt and Dave as she followed Santana.
Brittany had bags of marshmallows, and they bounced against Kurt’s back as he hugged him tightly. “My prince!” she squealed. Kurt laughed, and kissed her cheek.
“My--” Kurt looked her over. “What are you, exactly?”
“I’m a mouse!” Brittany chirped. “See!” She pointed to her ears. Kurt nodded, eyes wide, and Dave had to leave before he started laughing. Karen was too perfect a costume for Brittany.
Dave was sitting on the lowered gate of his truck, tugging on his second boot, when Finn’s truck pulled up. He saw blue feathers trailing behind Finn’s head, something bright pink in the passenger seat, and felt very, very sorry for Finn.
Sure enough, when Finn got out of his truck, he was in head to toe blue; embroidered doublet, those puffy diaper pants, and some floppy monstrosity of a hat that had a gigantic feather off the back. Berry was tiny and pink and much more normal looking in a velveteen dress, and when she got out of the car, she put on one of those cone hats with the streamer.
Dave hopped down from the bed of his truck, stomping for a moment to settle the boots on his feet, and strapped the sword to his waist. He took a moment to tie on his mask, and walked over to join Finn and Berry.
Finn looked up when he got closer, and pointed at him with a grin. “You’re the Dread Pirate Roberts!”
“Well, no one would be scared of the Dread Pirate Westley,” Dave said in response, and bumped fists with Finn. “And you are--”
“We are those embodiments of eternal love, Romeo and Juliet,” Berry gushed, and looked up at Finn with googly eyes. Finn smiled back at her, all sap and sweetness, and Dave had to say it:
“I thought
Romeo and Juliet
was a tragedy, not a romance.”
“It’s very romantic!” Berry protested. “The lengths to which they’ll go for each other...”
“Are extreme, yeah, but they’re also the age of most Freshman. I remember freshman year, everyone was dating each other for--like--a week and it was life and death then it was over and everyone had moved onto the next ‘romance.’ Romeo was in love with a different girl every other day. It’s was Juliet’s introduction to society, she didn’t know any other boys. How much do you think they really loved each other?”
“They--what?” Rachel said.
“Dude,” Finn said. “When did you learn that?”
Dave rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Finch has been on a Shakespeare kick. No offense,” he said to Rachel. “I just really hate that play.”
“None taken,” Rachel said. “I’m willing to look over your slight towards the play in light of your obvious knowledge of the subject matter. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, after all, and it would be wrong of me to dismiss your opinion as uninformed. However, we shall just have to agree to disagree.”
“Yeah,” Dave said, “Totally.”
Rachel stuck out her hand, and Dave shook it, nonplussed. Rachel grabbed Finn’s arm, and Finn led her inside. Dave watched them go, and shook his head.
Un-be-lieveable.
The guests started arriving in clumps after that. The Glee kids came in two main groups; Mike and Tina (dressed as Morpheus and Death from the
Sandman
comics. Mike had pointed at Dave in recognition, while Tina had giggled and said: “Mawaige! Mawaige is what bwings up togewa...today.” to which Dave had answered, “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”), arrived with Sam and Mercedes (dressed as Wash and Zoe from Firefly, obviously Sam’s choice, though Mercedes didn’t seem to mind. Sam had seen Dave and laughed, and they had played through the entire Miracle Max scene while Mercedes cooed over Kurt’s costume), and Puck showed up in the van with Artie (dressed as, believe it or not, Magneto and Professor X. Artie cried out “Inconceivable,” and Dave, quite happy to do this all night, said, “You keep using this word. I don’t think it means what you think it means).
“Dude,” Dave said to Puck, as he held the door, “Sweet costume.”
“What better way for a Badass Jew to dress, than as another Badass Jew, right?” Puck said, fanning his cape out. “My boy Artie and I decided we’d make this party a Hal-bro-ween party, and come as Magnetbro, and Brofessor X.”
“Word,” Artie said, throwing up a peace sign. As weird as it was to see Artie do that normally, it took on a whole ‘nother dimension when he was wearing a bald cap. They bumped fists, and Puck wheeled Artie out onto the back porch. Dave shook his head. Gleeks.
Dave looked around. It wasn’t only gleeks, thank God. There were a few of the other Cheerios and a bunch of the underclassmen interspersed. Dave saw a Gorilla, Rainbow Brite, a cheap-looking vampire, Mario, three sexy devils, a freshman dressed as was looked like pixelated porn, Captain America, Iron Man, a giant Pizza, a couple zombies, and someone carrying a stapler in a Jello mold and wearing a nametag that said Dwight.
Someone handed Dave a red solo cup, and when he looked to see, got an unintended eye-full of Santana’s cleavage. “Could you put that away?” Dave grumbled quietly, “You’re gonna put somebody’s eye out.”
“Just because you don’t want it, doesn’t mean someone else doesn’t,” Santana replied in the same low tone.
“And how is Brittany?” Dave asked.
“Best I’ve ever had,” Santana grinned and Dave felt his face scrunch.
“Come on,” Dave protested. “Don’t make me think about ladyparts, I just ate.”
Santana snickered, and Dave sipped his drink. It was surprisingly unspiked. He raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged. “Brit-Brit doesn’t like it when I drink without her,” she said quietly. “And Puckerman fell down on scoring the booze. Something about not wanting to incur the Wrath of Burt.”
Dave nodded. With Finn living here, it made sense that Puck would know to tread softly around Burt Hummel.
“So, the result is this,” Santana indicated the room with her hand. Dave looked around. It looked like a party, people were standing around talking and laughing. Sam, Finn, and Puck seemed to be in a cupcake-eating contest, trying to fit as many in their mouths as they could without choking. Music was playing and the back deck had been turned into an impromptu dance floor. There were a few people out there, including Mike and Tina, the Gorilla, and, Dave frowned, was Captain America grinding with Iron Man? “It’s Lame City,” Santana finished.
“Could be worse,” Dave said. “Nobody’s puking in the fishtank. And no one is likely to piss in a closet.”
“Don’t say the “c” word, Dave,” Kurt said as he waltzed past with Brittany. “And come dance!”
Santana followed them, cutting in and whisking Brittany out to the back deck. Kurt, flushed from the dancing, came up to stand with Dave.
“Everyone seems to be having a good time,” Kurt said.
“Yeah,” Dave said. “People are really loosening up,” he tilted his head towards the deck, and the dancing superheroes. Kurt blinked at what he saw, then smiled, wide and sappy.
“Oh, aren’t they cute.” Kurt paused. “Wait, does this make the not the only out kid anymore?”
Dave shrugged. “There’s a difference between being out and dancing with another boy while wearing a mask. Nobody here is going to talk about it, so, you know.”
Kurt inspected the cuff of his sleeve. “You sound like you’ve thought about it.”
Dave drank from his cup, taking a moment before he said quietly, “I have.” At Kurt’s look, he said. “It’s pretty much all I think about. Should I tell people? When? How? There’s a part of me that wants to just, like, announce it over the loudspeakers at school, just so that it’s done, you know? And another that wishes you’d told everybody last year, so I wouldn’t have to. And there’s another part that wants to crawl back into my closet and never crawl out.” Dave sighed. “I don’t want the whole school to know until after Hockey. But the GSA been good about keeping what’s said at meetings, at meetings. Every meeting I think about saying it, just in case the school
does
find out, I’d have some friends who already knew.” Dave drained his cup, and wished somebody
had
spiked the punch.
He felt Kurt’s hand on his arm, and when he looked, Kurt was smiling at him. “I think that’s the longest I’ve ever heard you refer to yourself that way, and certainly the first time in a room of people. I’m proud of you.”
Dave shifted. “People keep saying that. They’re proud of me for telling them. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything to be proud of.”
“You have,” Kurt said. “None of this is easy, and you’re doing it without any major melt-downs.”
Dave snorted. “I just don’t want to give Dr. Banks-call-me-George any material to work with. The guy’s a tool.” At Kurt’s questioning look, he explained, “The guy I see for anger management. He’s convinced that I have some deep dark secret, and that if I let it come to light, then my anger will evaporate.”
“Well,” Kurt said. “You kinda do. And you are. And it is helping.”
“Well, yeah,” Dave said. “But that’s, like, common sense. I’m not giving that jerkoff the satisfaction to know he was right about something that I could have told him.” Dave sighed. “Just because I wasn’t ready to understand doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
Kurt squeezed Dave’s arm and let his hand drop. “When did you get so wise?” Kurt murmured.
Dave shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of time in the penalty box to think.” Dave grinned when Kurt shook his head, confused. “Hockey,” Dave explained. “When you foul, they put you in the penalty box.”
“
Time out?
” Kurt grinned. “There’s a time out in Hockey?”
“There’s time out in every sport--”
“No, no. I mean, like, punishing two-year-olds time out.”
Dave rolled his eyes. “If you want to oversimplify, yeah, I guess.”
“I do,” Kurt said. “I really do.” He looked Dave over. “So do you foul a lot?”
“Nah,” Dave said. “At least, never when the ref’s looking. But when I do, I seem to go big.”
“We’re not really talking about Hockey, are we?” Kurt said.
“No,” Dave said. “Well, yes and no. One follows the other.”
“Good to know,” Kurt said. He looked around the room, then sighed dramatically. “Oh,
Finn
,” Kurt sighed. Dave looked. Finn had knocked over his soda, and was attempting to mop it up with an icing-covered napkin. Kurt rushed forward to help, or take over, and Dave followed Finn into the kitchen when Kurt chased him away, intending to give a hand.
“Party foul?” Dave asked, leaning against the sink as Finn dumped a wad of soda-soaked napkins into the trash.
“Yeah,” Finn said. “I tried to fix it, but Kurt swooped in from nowhere. The guy’s like a cleaning ninja or something.” Finn brushed at his front. “Fuck, I got soda on me.” Dave turned and dampened a paper towel to hand to Finn. “Thank,” Finn said, and tried to wipe the soda off his costume. “Man, Rachel’s gonna kill me,” he moaned. “I think it’s a rental. And it fucking
caifs.
” He made a frustrated noise, and reached into his pants to adjust himself. Dave looked away, trying not to laugh. “Tights are hard to wear, man. I don’t know how girls do it.”
“Most girls don’t have anything there
to
caif,” Dave said. “So that probably helps.”
“Oh,” Finn said, pausing. “Right. I knew that.”
“No!” Dave heard Kurt say. “Finn! Come tell your woman no karaoke!” Dave nearly choked on his soda at the “Oh Shit,” look on Finn’s face. Dave clapped Finn on the arm, wished him luck, and fled the kitchen.
He wandered for a while longer, never staying with one group, stepping outside when he was warm, moving inside when he got cold. He took to staring that the gorilla, trying to figure out who, exactly, was in that suit, but nobody seemed to know. Whatever; he or she wasn’t causing any problems, though it was weird to see him or her drink soda though the mask.
The music slowed, and Dave looked outside to see couples form on the “dance floor.” Santana was draped over Brittany, and had a peaceful look on her face that Dave hadn’t seen before. He smiled. Good for her. “I’d be lying if I said I was surprised,” Kurt commented quietly, come up to stand with him. “They look good together.”
Dave nodded. “Took her long enough,” he muttered. At Kurt’s look, Dave just shook his head. “I’m just glad to see her happy.”
Kurt nodded. “And are you happy, Dave?”
Dave thought about it and was mildly surprised to find that he was happy. He was having fun at a party with no booze, no cool kids, no
pressure,
and he was
enjoying
himself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than it had been in a while. “I’m getting there,” he said at length. Kurt smiled, and they watched the couples dance.
***
People began to leave around eleven, the underclassmen having to get home before curfew. As the party shrunk, people drifted inside, until only Dave was left outside, sitting in shadow on the railing, leaning against and staring up at the stars. Dave could hear them inside, still singing and laughing and talking, and he figured he was good out here a little longer.
Dave was thinking. If he left now, he could still make Az’s party, or at least enough of it to mend fences. He could get a beer and drink, and hope he didn’t get caught staring at the wrong person’s ass.
Dave didn’t move. When he finished his soda, he put the can on the railing just beyond his feet.
There were moments of choice, where the decisions one makes change everything. Most of the time, these moments pass unnoticed. But sometimes, these moments have weight, a physical presence. Dave felt that weight now, and he didn’t move.
The back door opened, and Dave looked to see Kurt step outside, crown askew. He walked up to Dave.
“There you are,” Kurt said. “If it wasn’t for your truck, I’d think you’d left.”
Dave shrugged. “Not used to parties without beer,” he said. How sad was that; he wasn’t used to parties that he
actually enjoyed.
“It’s easier when I’m drunk, sometimes. I worry less.”
“Alcohol and I don’t really mix,” Kurt said. “Last time I got drunk, I puked on Ms Pillsbury’s shoes.” Dave snickered. “Are you worried now?” Kurt asked.
Dave shrugged. A little. A lot. He didn’t really know. The weight was still on him. “I think I’m more worried about how
not worried
I am here, you know?”
“Come on in,” Kurt said. “There’s a B-Movie marathon on the Syfy channel. We’re gonna give it the Mystery Science Theatre treatment--make fun and throw popcorn until we crash.” Kurt held out his hand.
Dave took it, let Kurt pull him from the railing. He stopped Kurt just outside the door, and straightened Kurt’s crown. Kurt’s hair was just as soft as he remembered. Kurt smiled at him, led him inside, and, decision made, Dave felt the weight leave.
The only people left were the rest of the Glee club, and Dave hesitated, but Santana shifted over on the couch to make room for him next to her, Brittany, and Quinn. Finn looked at Dave for backup that
Street Fighter
was better than
Mortal Kombat,
while Puck, Sam and Artie argued against. Mike held his fist out for a bump. Tina passed him a soda. Mercedes passed him popcorn.
Dave would have to deal with Az somehow, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about that now. He would think about it in the morning, after he woke up, Santana and Brittany curled around him; after he stumbled into the kitchen, still dressed as a pirate, to have coffee with Kurt and Burt, who would pat his shoulder approvingly; after he would find his mask on the back porch and wonder just how long he had forgotten to wear it, and wonder more that he hadn’t noticed.
But right now, Rachel shrieked as Puck poked her, and Quinn laughed at something Tina said, and Kurt was sitting at Dave’s feet, warm against Dave’s leg where Kurt had curled up with Mercedes. He would deal with the fall out tomorrow. Dave
stayed
; he had bad special effects to mock.