Spoilers: Up to 2.10.
Warnings: Bullying, stalking, homophobia, attempted suicide.
Disclaimer: RIB and FOX own everything ever.

Note: This is a sequel to "Taking This One to the Grave", which y'all can find on my profile page.

Enjoy, and by all means review should it strike your fancy, my best beloveds.~

Dave may have accidentally given himself an obsession. Not, for the record, with Hans Christian Andersen. That is a healthy interest, it's educational even, there's nothing wrong with it. It is maybe a little childish, and it's definitely something to keep to himself in school if he doesn't want his ass kicked, but scholars study old Hans and shit, so it can't be that bad.

He may have accidentally given himself an obsession with Kurt Hummel.

He's been living with the constant, gnawing fear right behind his denial ever since he was thirteen, with the hasty, furtive sessions at midnight that make him feel like shit and he swears each time he'll never do it again, girls will work next time, and then they don't, and he has to pretend and ignore all day every day and Kurt – Hummel swans around like he's happy, and has friends that don't care –

So yeah, he's hated the faggot for a while. It just, it got worse this year, because Hummel grew up. He stopped looking like someone's kid sister and started looking like… this. Dave tries to describe him in his head sometimes and is reduced to clichés from his dad's old noir detective novels, things about legs from here to next week, eyes like cut glass, and pants so tight you can read the label on his underwear – now he's pulling from his mom's Guy Noir fests, but whatever.

The first day back after summer he'd been checking for a familiar loser to slushy, to get into the swing of things, and he hadn't even recognized Hummel at first; he'd seen him from behind and absently checked out his ass before making the connection between the hair and the ridiculous boots, and Hummel turned a corner and he got a look at his face. Startled, he'd punched Azimio's arm and said out loud, "Huh, check out the ugly duckling."

He meant… because of the swan part. Hummel was beautiful, all of a sudden.

Azimio had laughed. Said it was the weirdest damn insult he'd heard, but okay, if that's what floats your boat, man, now go slushy the little jerk, I need him to be late for French class.

Dave had been happy to oblige. He'd just wanted to get away. Azimio gets to do that, nudge him and nod to a passing girl without thinking, holler at girls with low-cut shirts and turn to him for a high five. Dave does not get to do that. Dave can't afford to do that, ever, not like that, not without thinking. He gets to scan the hallway desperately for a plausible girl and pray it's someone Azimio thinks is hot too, since his response to praise of non-hot girls is "what are you, man, a fag? She's a total dog." He gets to second Azimio's interest. He gets to not look at people he actually thinks are hot.

The slushy was supposed to help. He was looking forward to it; remind himself where everyone stood in about ten seconds flat. Hummel stands at the bottom of the heap, and Dave stands at the top, or near it, he's with Azimio okay, that's close enough. So it was going to help. It didn't. He didn't pay attention to the slushy the way he usually did – watch the arc of it, watch it hit, feel the rush, walk away. Instead, he watched Hunmel's flinch and shocked gasp, his splutters of dull rage and humiliation. The little gasp, in particular. And he'd thought, damn, really, if you could get him on his knees and shutting the hell up for a few minutes at a time, Hummel wouldn't just be beautiful. He'd be hot.

But it wasn't a big deal, wasn't even a thing, then. Azimio sometimes made comments about Berry's ass, but he wasn't consumed by perverse, bullying-fueled lust for her. You nod to yourself, acknowledge the anomaly of hotness in a loser, and move on. Dave didn't do that. The moving on. Because Hummel had to go and wear a skirt and Dave had to overhear some of the guys in the locker room talking about how he didn't even count as a boy and something ugly and hungry and lonely in Dave's head closed on that. Dave thought, well, maybe he doesn't. Count.

He thought about Hummel that night, and it worked, and he felt – he didn't feel as guilty as usual. Because Hummel didn't, doesn't, count.

That weekend he googled the phrase "ugly duckling" just to see where he'd gotten it; he was pretty sure it was from a movie. He ended up spending a half an hour on Hans Christian Andersen, because. Well. It started because, flipping through some random bio and then Wikipedia, he found out Hans was awkward, he liked guys, everyone thought he was weird in school, and he loved to sing (soprano) and dance. So, yeah.

It kept up because he looked again the day after and Hans was like bi or some shit, whatever, he liked guys and he was still… successful. At the fruity job of writing kids' stories, but seriously, he was famous as hell and "feted by royalty." It hadn't ruined his life. Hell, it was olden days and it still hadn't, he'd been… okay.

The thing is, Dave can't stop thinking about Hummel. And Hans fell in love with dudes, but mostly he fell in love with people he couldn't have.

Dave used to have a system for dealing with feelings. About guys. He'd pinch himself or slap his own cheek or, in public, find someone else to slam, and then he'd think about a girl. So, great, except it had never worked. Thinking about Hummel is a system that works. He catches himself looking at or thinking about a normal guy, one who doesn't deserve this shit, and he redirects to Hummel, and that – that does work. He doesn't think about anyone but Hummel at night, because that works too; he doesn't slip back to other people the way he did when he'd try to picture girls, and he doesn't lie awake after hating himself, because it doesn't count.

Which is where the accidental obsession comes in; it turns out that when thinking about something makes his problems seem manageable, he thinks about it a lot more. Hummel turned into a habit. And then he realizes – he'd never thought about how Hummel felt before – that Hummel kind of hates him, and it slides into a bit more than a habit.

He hadn't meant to kiss him, or wink at him, or threaten him, or steal from him, or drag him behind the school and run a knife all over his face and oh God had he not meant to come out to Azimio – no, that's not what happened, Hummel told, the kiss in front of Az was an accident – it's just that it kept getting harder to stay away. He wanted him to shut up, it was always because he had to shut Hummel up about something, and he'd ended up doing… this shit and everything seemed like all there was to do while he was doing it. Each time, afterward, he'd realize it had made everything worse.

Hans fell in love with people who couldn't love him back, straight guys and sisterly girls who didn't see him that way. He got his heart broken a lot.

He probably didn't threaten his crushes with a knife, at least.

So now Hummel is gone. And Azimio knows. The worst has happened, and it wasn't that bad. Dave was afraid his life would be over and it isn't; he can still use Hummel in his head to distract himself and Azimio hasn't dumped him, so he's still okay at school, getting by anyway.

Just.

It's so –

He knows he didn't have Hummel, but. He was there. Dave hadn't been the only one. And while Azimio didn't know, it wasn't true, and Dave wasn't one, too; he could be not-the-only-one with Hummel and not-one-at-all with Azimio, and now he doesn't have either, and life goes on, but he can't. It's that simple. Or at some point it becomes that simple.

Hans has plenty of stories about unrequited love. Sometimes he fixes things at the end, makes it go the way fairytales should; Gerda gets Kai, and it was only ever the cursed mirror that made him think he didn't love her. Sometimes he doesn't give the characters any better than what he got; the prince doesn't love the little mermaid. Why would he, Dave thinks, when she never really talked to him, when she was a freak who didn't belong but pretended to, who fit wrong with everything else and made it harder for everyone by being there.

She killed herself. She went away.

Dave drives to Westerville sometimes. This is a problem. He knows that. It's not normal. But it won't matter much longer and he has to see Hummel. Dalton is a nice school, with big windows and lots of lights; sometimes he succeeds in catching a glimpse of him. He seems happy. He talks to people, different people all the time. And he talks to – that guy. He smiles and laughs and flirts.

The mermaid's prince fell in love with someone else. Someone who was normal and would make him happy. The mermaid almost killed him. She stood over him with a knife, knowing she could go home if she used it.

He hadn't planned on using the knife on Hummel, not really. He hadn't planned on not using it, either.

The next time he drives to Westerville he knows it's the last time, and he doesn't think about why. He just wants to give the cake topper back. He hadn't meant to steal it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

"You can't not tell me now," Blaine says.

"No, I can very definitely not tell you now. It's a lot easier than you seem to think it is." It isn't, actually, easy; Kurt has never gone in for small crushes, and not doing something Blaine asks him to goes against the grain of his very nature. Or at least that recently developed part of his nature that thinks, in a dazed sort of way, that anything Blaine wants goes because, well, Blaine.

"Kurt," Blaine says, and tilts his head just so.

"I said never mind," Kurt insists, pretty heroically, in his opinion.

"You can't tell me you have something to say about how you felt when you arrived and how you're adjusting here and then change your mind." Blaine's flirty routine (it is flirty, maybe it doesn't mean anything but it is definitely flirty, almost ninety percent definitely) is giving way to his helpful mentor one. This is comforting, but not the direction Kurt wants to go in.

"Fine." He flips his book shut and twists sideways on the couch to look at Blaine properly. Maybe if they just get this out of the way. "You're blowing this out of proportion. It was a stupid joke to begin with, not a soul-searching prelude to my bursting into tears all over your uniform."

"I'll take what I can get."

"Promise not to laugh at me."

Blaine's smile widens, which doesn't bode well for him not laughing, but he nods.

"I felt like Ariel."

Blaine makes an unattractive noise which is not, technically, laughter, then clears his throat. "I'm sorry, that wasn't so much funny as it was confusing. Why did you feel like Ariel?"

"Because," Kurt says, and wishes he didn't blush quite so obviously and that he hadn't started this to begin with. "You know what, I have this whole parallel worked out in my head, and I'm not sure I need you to know how completely insane I am."

Blaine is really grinning now, wide and sweet. "Come on, don't leave me hanging here. Now I really have to know, not only for your mental health but for my personal amusement."

"It's sort of a combination of Ariel and Melody," Kurt warns. He's only going to humiliate himself a little, he rationalizes, and as long as Blaine keeps smiling…

Blaine's brow crinkles. "Melody? Is that one of the fish?"

"No, she's Ariel's daughter. From the sequel."

Blaine makes that sound again.

"I changed my mind, just laugh if you're going to."

"I might a little."

"It works! I would watch that when I was a kid and be furious that Ariel would leave this crazy, beautiful place, with all of her insane friends and her huge family, just in order to try desperately to fit in somewhere she clearly didn't belong, and where she constantly looked like a complete idiot and the only thing she had going for her was that Prince Eric thought her tripping over things and using the wrong fork was hot, or however that scene goes, even though everyone else there thought she was a complete airhead."

Blaine looks less amused. Kurt can't stop himself.

"And I hated her in the sequel, because she let this one person take everything away from her. She wouldn't even visit. I don't remember the witch's name, but she was pathetic – she was jealous and lonely, she wasn't even good at being evil. But no one could figure out how to do anything about her, really? So Ariel was stuck in the castle, trying to fit in, and sneaking a covert wading session now and then."

"Kurt," Blaine says.

"That's not… I don't mean it the way it sounds." He had, for the first few weeks. He'd arrived and realized that he was one of the poorest, least-cultured kids there (him! Least cultured!), that his sense of humor didn't make sense to most of the other boys, that as much as he loved being able to hang out with boys he really missed girls. He'd realized that he had no enemies but he also had no friends, aside from Blaine. He'd realized that he loved the idea of being challenged in school, but the reality was time-consuming and tough and included grades that weren't an A or B and not just in math, at least until he found his scholastic footing.

He missed his dad, he missed Mercedes, he missed Carole and Tina and Brittany. He even missed Finn and, god help him, Rachel. He missed Mr. Schuester – not so much his narrow, binary view of gender or self-indulgent teaching methods, but the familiarity of him, his genuine concern for his kids and even the baffling, inept ways he demonstrated it.

He missed knowing how things worked. He missed knowing where he fit.

And he missed – still misses – not knowing about Karofsky, anything about him. He doesn't want to know that he's gay, or that he has a weird little attachment to Kurt personally (as the only one around who wouldn't tell anyone about being sexually harassed by a total creeper just because said creeper is in the closet, but still, it doesn't make it feel any less personal). He really doesn't want to know that Karofsky is scared and confused and suicidal, or that Azimio knows all that and doesn't care. Because Karofsky is many things, but none of them are Kurt's problem.

The problem, for the first few weeks, was convincing himself of that. He kept jumping at loud sounds and flinching when people came too close, too fast. He had nightmares. He wondered why he'd bothered to leave, put himself through all of this to escape one person who was managing to haunt him anyway.

And then, recently, things started to click. The other boys don't care whether or not his family has money – mostly in the "money doesn't matter" way that's insufferably rich, but still – and they can adapt to his jokes if he can adapt to theirs. They don't go in for hair-braiding or fingernail-painting over drawn-out, soulful conversations, but they're perfectly willing to treat him like a friend in the way they know how. He just has to get used to it, not having had guy friends as such. And no, he isn't as close to anyone – even Blaine – as he is to Mercedes, and that sucks, but he's been here a few months. He can afford to give it some time, get to know people better. He needs to study more, but he can do that too. He can miss people without it being the end of the world; that's what phones are for, not to mention laptops. He can visit. He can miss Mr. Schue and still appreciate that Wes and his little council get things done, if differently. And he can stop thinking about Dave Karofsky.

He's pretty sure that thirty days of something is habit-forming. It took a little longer than that, but Dalton is a habit now. He's stopped planning for his triumphant return to McKinley and started looking into what he'll be doing here for the rest of this year and the next.

Probably he hasn't made it sound that way to Blaine, just now.

"I thought you were happier here now," Blaine says, distressed.

"I am. I'm sorry, I had a rough night. But I really am." He gets the impression that Blaine's experience in public school was worse than his, that it had no positive aspects whatsoever, because Blaine is very understanding about everything but can't quite seem to fathom missing it at all. "I'm considering joining the French club," he says.

"You don't have to change the subject. I think, if you're upset, we should talk about it."

"I'm not changing the subject. Bear with me."

Blaine settles back, folding his hands. "Lead on."

"I know that colleges want extracurricular activities. I like extracurricular activities. And I still only had glee club when we met, do you know why?"

Blaine smiles, painfully. "They were the only ones who would have you."

It almost hurts, how relieving it is not to have to explain it or defend it, to have someone who knows. "There's a rule that anyone can join any club. Rachel's on the Black Students Union. Santana is in the celibacy club, and trust me, that's hilarious. But…"

"They can make it a lot easier to not join, or to quit very fast," Blaine finishes. "For us."

"I was on the football team, briefly, after Finn ran interference on my behalf, but you can imagine that wasn't worth it. And the Cheerios, if I wanted to starve myself professionally, might have taken me back. But everything else…" He shrugs. "So, yes, I'm happier here. I'm even thinking of making a long-term commitment to the French club, and you know how the French are about that."

"It would be tragic if they hunted you down and drew a little moustache on you in your sleep to avenge their honor, should you withdraw," Blaine says, with a heart-melting half smile.

"My concern exactly."

"Kurt, when I told you about my situation – why I came here – I called it running."

"I remember."

"And you just kind of called it running – I mean, from a sea witch, but still. I think we should discuss that."

"Well, I think we should discuss" your face. No, really, let's just talk about how unbelievably handsome you are; feel free to reciprocate "the fact that you're an idiot."

"Really?" He looks worried. "About what?"

"I'm not eaten up inside about running away anymore, not really. It bothers me sometimes, but…. It was a dangerous situation, so I got out of it. Rachel was right about that. My responsibility was to be safe, not let myself get slammed into lockers for giggles. Neither of us owed it to anyone to stay there and get hurt." He touches Blaine's arm. "And I think it was really… noble of you to want to help Karofsky, but he's not our responsibility either."

Blaine studies him for a long moment, and Kurt can't read his expression. "I'm glad you're here," he says, finally.

"So am I."

Kurt never used to answer his cell unless he knew who was on the other end. There were charges, and prank calls, and wrong numbers… nothing he wanted to deal with. If it was someone who actually wanted to get in touch with him for a legitimate reason, they would leave a message. That, and before Dalton, he almost never spoke on his cell phone; mostly he texted. Now there's too much to say in texts, since he doesn't share the day with anyone he's close to and needs to exchange stories. But the point at which he started answering his phone no matter what was when his dad had a heart attack. He can't afford not to answer, in case. In case it's the police or the hospital or Carole on a strange phone.

It's four-thirty p.m. and he is hanging out with a group of boys who want him to be there. It's starting to feel more normal, but it's still excessively nice when he stops to think about it. Granted, Jason is trying to wrangle a ride on Wes' shoulders for no reason Kurt can imagine, and they are going to fall over and break one of David's guitars, but he and David are doing French homework together and Blaine is using Wes' computer to write a paper about some war or other, so some civilized things are being accomplished. At first. He realizes he's humming "Under the Sea" only when David picks it up too.

"Darling it's better, down where it's wetter," David sings, making an obscene gesture.

"Oh my god," Kurt protests. "Get your filth out of my childhood."

"The seaweed is always greener, in somebody else's lake," David continues, grinning now, and jumps off the bed. "Such wonderful things around you, what more is you lookin' for?"

"You're messing up the lyrics," Kurt informs him; David's response is to tug him up and start twirling around the room with him, cheerfully mangling the lyrics to a Disney song. Blaine, duty-bound by their impromptu concert rules, grabs a guitar and starts playing along. Jason starts dancing with Wes.

And through all of this the door is open to David's bedroom, and none of them care. David hurls himself backwards in Kurt's arm, forcing Kurt to dip him, and –

"Can – can we shut the door, I'm not really comfortable with people watching" but Finn had been right, hadn't he, look what that had gotten them.

And no one here cares. People walk past from time to time, some of them stare because it's the Warblers, but it's not bad staring.

Possibly the only thing that would make this more perfect would be Blaine wanting to dance with him, but it is really, really nice to dance with a straight guy who doesn't care, isn't even making a big gesture out of it, as wonderful as that had been. It's really nice that David doesn't think anything of it.

When his phone goes off once, he assumes it's a text and steps back to fish for it, still laughing.

"Who is it?" David asks, still dancing.

It's still going off. The number isn't in his contacts. "I don't know." He considers not answering, but then sighs. "I'll be right back." He hits send and retreats from the commotion toward the door, where he can hear better. "Hello, who's calling please?"

"Fancy."

He's not as over Karofsky as he thought he was. He can feel the knife sliding over his face and Karofsky's breath hot and heavy on his neck. He doesn't hang up in that instant because he doesn't remember how.

"Kurt," Karofsky says, slurring.

Humiliation-fueled rage flares in his chest. "Did you drunk dial me? Did you seriously drunk fucking dial me?"

"No, no, nonono. I just wanted to tell you. You can come back. It's okay now. I just wanted you to know. I didn't. I wanted to say goodbye, okay? You can have everything back now."

There's a roaring in his ears, the kind that's supposed to be the ocean in a seashell. "Why is that?" he asks calmly, and walks up to Blaine. He leans over his shoulder and types into Blaine's paper, Call 911. There is no instant in which he considers not helping, and no instant in which he has any desire to help.

"I just called to say goodbye."

"Yes, you said. Why do you need to say goodbye?"

Blaine has dialed. He's not going to know what to say when they pick up.

"Because," Karofsky says slowly. "Uh. So you know. He was right. I didn't mean to… hurt you. I didn't mean to, I don't know, I didn't mean anything. So now you can be happy."

Kurt's fingers are cramping around the phone. "I meant, how did you make sure of that?"

Karofsky breathes, slow and deep.

"Karofsky! Tell me what you did."

Blaine, who had been looking capable even with 911 about to pick up on the other end of a call he had no idea why he was making, pales. Jason, David, and Wes have quieted.

"The same thing," Karofsky says. "As last time." He pauses. "I made sure this time. I'm just, you know, everything's confusing now."

"I imagine it would be, you have a serious excess of heavy-duty sleeping pills in your system," Kurt says, looking at Blaine and backing off so that, ideally, Karofsky won't hear him relaying the information to 911. "I think you've made a mistake. Maybe if you stay awake we can talk it over."

Karofsky laughs. "Yeah, right."

"I mean it. If you would – can you please try to make yourself throw up."

"No, I have this all planned out," Karofsky says, all confidence and sincerity and slurred consonants. "I'm going to go now." The line clicks dead. Kurt stares at his phone.

"They need to know where to go," Blaine says.

"Give me a second." He's already thumbing over to recent calls and telling his phone to dial again. He doesn't even hesitate. He doesn't feel particularly guilty about his intense desire to throw the phone across the room, either.

"Kurt?"

"You need to tell me your address," he says authoritatively.

"If I did, would you come here? Everything's hard and I think I'm scared."

"I'll come right there," he says, and grabs Wes' keys off the desk in case he can hear the jingle. "I'm coming now. What's your address?"

"67 Lewis," Karofsky says, and then, "Can you stay on with me until it's over?"

"I will," Kurt promises. "67 Lewis, right?"

"Oh. Right, yeah, but you shouldn't come. I'm sorry. I don't think – I'm sorry for what I did to you. I don't think I really did all the things I remember right now. It was never about hurting you. I never. Just stay on with me?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Hey, Kurt." Karofsky makes a choking sound, a laugh or a sob. "If I had been nice to you, like ever, would you maybe have thought about it?"

It's probably not healthy to hate the boy whose life you're trying to save. "I don't know," he lies. "Where are your parents?"

"My dad's working late. My mom's out of town. I made sure. You'll be happy, right? Now?"

Oh yes, nothing makes me happier than my favorite bully possibly dying slowly, if he managed to do it right this time, while on the phone with me. "No," Kurt says. "Not like this. Can you please try to throw up?"

"I know how this works," Karofsky says, suddenly resentful. "You can stop now. Your whole life gets better once I'm gone, we both, we know that, you can be where you want, be with – with who you want – don't pretend. Just talk to me until it stops."

"You don't want to die," Kurt says, because people who want to die don't use sleeping pills, don't use sleeping pills again after they fail once, don't call someone halfway through to alert them to what's going on; people who want to be helped do that, people who have at the very least changed their minds a little late. But that Karofsky would call him – "Think about this. You can't want your dad to come home from work and find you like that, for him to go through that."

"No," Karofsky says. Kurt isn't sure whether he's agreeing or objecting; he stops and fails to elaborate.

"You have people you're responsible for – Karofsky? Karofsky! Dave."

"Kurt," Blaine says, touching his shoulder. "They'll be there any minute. You've done all you can."

"Right," Kurt says hollowly. He hangs up and texts Azimio.

"Do you want…" Blaine looks over at the others, who are staring, pale and tense. "Do you want me to drive you to St. Rita's?"

"No." What he wants is never to think of Dave Karofsky ever again, and now he'll never have that, because he couldn't even commit suicide without dragging Kurt into it. "I think I just want to go lie down, or." He can't remember when he started crying. "He's not my problem," he says. He wants to feel like he can tell Blaine anything, but he can't tell him, the boy whose reaction to hearing that Karofsky wasn't just a homophobic bully but a gay one given to sexual assault had been to try to help him, he can't tell him this. He can't tell him that what he wants, with a cold, savage intensity, is for Dave to have done things right. "He could have called anyone," he says instead, and this is part of it too. "His parents or one of his friends. He's not mine and I shouldn't have to –"

"I know." Blaine's hands drops to his elbow. "But you did, and it's over, one way or the other. You said you wanted to lie down?"

"Yes," Kurt says. It's not over, he thinks, not even close. "Please."

And it isn't, not even close. Kurt sleeps for five hours, and wakes up to Blaine sitting at his desk, doing something on a laptop – he thinks for a second that it's his, and hopes dully that Blaine hasn't accidentally seen anything he'd been emailing Mercedes because most of that is about Blaine. It's not, though, it's Blaine's laptop.

He sits up, and Blaine turns around. "Kurt," he says softly.

Kurt makes an odd sound, feeling like all the air has been punched out of him. "Where did you get that?"

Blaine looks down at the cake topper in his hand. "I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I wanted you to be able to adjust to being here without thinking about him." He traces the outline of the bride's dress. "Karofsky was here a while ago, looking for you. I ran into him in the parking lot. I told him he needed to leave you alone, and he asked me to give this to you. I just… I couldn't figure out how to do it without upsetting you."

"Oh." Knowing that wouldn't have made any difference. It doesn't matter.

"I gave him my number," Blaine says. "In case he needed help. I really thought he was going to leave you out of it."

"I don't think he remembers how to." Kurt stands up and tries to pat his clothes into order. "Do you know what happened?"

"No. I called the hospital, but they can't just release that kind of information. I thought I'd try."

"He didn't really mean to," Kurt says. For the first time, he's afraid that Karofsky might have succeeded. "Oh my god. What if it worked and he never even meant it to –" He's not sure what he did with his cell phone. Blaine picks it up from the desk and hands it over. "I don't know who to ask," Kurt says, staring blankly at his contacts, and out of desperation tries Azimio, who hasn't answered him.

He is probably breaking some rule of etiquette, texting a boy about his best friend's attempted suicide rather than calling, but the thought of having to talk to someone about this makes him want to smash the phone.

hes alive, Azimio texts back. he's real bad off tho an wants for u 2 come here

"He wants to see me," Kurt says, distracted by his gratitude that Azimio went to the hospital at all. "I'm not going. He has Azimio, I'm not going." He sinks back down on the bed. "I'm going to have to tell my dad about this. I'm going to have to out Karofsky to his father, or convince Azimio to do it, if he hasn't himself, because this…"

"I'll go with you," Blaine says.

"My dad's going to figure out the rest of it," Kurt says numbly. "I can't put this kind of stress on him."

"From what you've told me, I'd say your dad is a pretty strong person. I know you don't want to have to tell him about this, but I think he'd probably like to know. And I think he'll be able to handle it."

"None of this is even about me," Kurt says. "Karofsky doesn't like me, he doesn't know me. He could have… fixated on somebody else."

"I know."

"I understand why it's me. I get why I made sense to him. But it didn't have to be. If someone else had caught his attention –"

"I know," Blaine says again. "I'm so sorry, Kurt."

"Anyone else," Kurt says.

This had seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Dave hurts all over, especially his stomach and his arm. There are tubes sticking in him. The alcohol hadn't played nice with the sleeping pills, although apparently they got along better than he'd planned. Hans never wrote anything about what to do when it didn't work.

His dad is upset. Probably his mom too. He hasn't talked to her yet. They hadn't found out about last time. He hadn't thought about having to see them after.

Hans wasn't very helpful on the friendship score, either. He doesn't know what to say to Azimio, who won't touch him or stay in the room for more than five minutes at a time, but keeps coming back. Dave doesn't have any plans for this. His mom is on a plane home and he doesn't know what to do when she gets there.

He asks Azimio to get Kurt when he remembers to. He knows Azimio hates it but there's no one else to ask. Azimio has Kurt's number, he knows because that's where he got it (he'd seen "Homo Alert" as a contact and almost thrown up but no, his number was separate, and that only left one other person). Azimio knows everything he did to Kurt, and he asks him to repeat it once or twice because it's awful, it makes him want to try again, but it's not everything he remembers right now. His head is all messed up and he remembers things… It was Kurt, wasn't it? Maybe this is okay if it was Kurt who saved him.

He thinks maybe Kurt would be able to tell him what to do if he came.

Once he knew what he was going to do, he went to see Hummel one last time. He wanted to give him the cake topper back. He wanted to ask him not to tell, too. He didn't want his parents to know why, and he knew that was cruel but it was better than the truth. The truth is that he tried it because he doesn't know how to do this anymore, pretend to be normal when every breath hurts, when all he does by even trying is hurt people. And the truth is that he can't keep waiting for Hummel to tell – that Dave is a freak and in love with a loser and can't even do that right, that Dave followed him around for a chance to shove him into lockers or corner him just to see him seconds from crying, that Dave held him still with a knife and kissed him, that Dave kissed him at all.

He didn't plan on trying to find him through a window, but he got there and that happened. Hummel was in the lounge downstairs, talking to some guy. They were probably just studying. It wasn't the guy. Dave watched for a little and then went around to the front. It'd be locked, he figured, but eventually someone would leave or come back. He'd ask to come in, or ask them to get Hummel, or just punch the dude out.

So he waited for a while, and when another car pulled into the lot he figured he'd gotten lucky; it hadn't even been that long. Except the person who stepped out and jogged up the stairs was him.

"Oh, sorry," he said, unfazed by a guy twice his size looming in the darkened doorway of his school. "I didn't see you."

"Yeah, well, boo," Dave said.

His eyes widened a little, and he looked the way he had when Dave had shoved him up against the wall on the stairs and after – cautious, surprised, calculating, everything but scared which was what he should be. "Dave Karofsky, right?" he said.

Dave shrugged. "I need to talk to Hummel."

The smarmy little fuck held his hand out. "I'm Blaine. I don't think we've been formally introduced."

"Whatever. I'm here to talk to Kurt, not his boytoy."

Blaine withdrew his hand. "I really can't let that happen."

"Oh, yeah? You his keeper now? Why don't you let him decide?"

He tilted his head. "I don't think you're considering how badly you messed Kurt up with everything you did to him. I understand that you feel alone and scared, and probably like Kurt's the only one who can help. But… he can't. There are people who can, and Kurt's not one of them. You have to leave him alone, David. It's about all you can do for now."

That was what he was trying to do, though. He even got that Blaine was right. He was going to leave Kurt alone. After just one more time.

"I can think of a few other things," Dave said, stepping closer.

Blaine was craning his neck to look at Dave now, but he didn't back away. "None of them are going to get you to Kurt," he said, gently, like he was doing Dave a favor. His eyes looked black, which was funny; Dave had thought they were lighter. Then he realized the kid's pupils were so dilated there wasn't any iris showing, he was that scared. The ugly, lonely thing in his head liked that, the thing that had grabbed Kurt. It's so much easier if they're scared.

He thought that he couldn't kill Kurt. He didn't really know about Blaine.

And then Dave was, abruptly, bone-tired. "Whatever," he said. "Fine." He reached into his pocket. "Give him this, okay. He can have it back." He handed over the cake topper.

Blaine took it and stared. "Sure," he said. "Absolutely, if that's what you want." He didn't look like he knew what it was. Kurt didn't tell him everything, then. Dave really hoped he hadn't told about the knife.

"Whatever," Dave said again, and turned to go.

"Wait," Blaine said. "Is there anything I can do to help?" There was the faintest emphasis on "I." Me, as in not Kurt. Dave couldn't really blame him. He'd put Kurt first too, if he were Blaine.

"I don't need some fag's help," Dave said.

"Right." Blaine sounded understanding still. "Well, in case you change your mind…" He dug in his bag and handed Dave a slip of paper with a phone number printed on it under the words ¿Necesitas ayuda con la tarea? "I'm a tutor for the lower-level Spanish classes," Blaine said, sounding incongruously embarrassed. "But it's just my cell number. I remember how it feels, David. If you want anything –"

"Sure," Dave said, and stuffed the paper in his pocket. He walked back to the car with his head down and thought how Kurt would never get his stupid, flowery little cake decoration back. Blaine would mean to but he wouldn't want to upset Kurt now, always later. And once it was over he wouldn't be able to at all, because he'd have to tell Kurt that he should have known.

He did it on a Friday. He spent every second of it he could with Azimio, even when Az got nervous and stated shooting him no-homo looks.

It was a bad day. Being with Azimio, especially nervous Azimio, meant policing the school. He slushied Chang and Azimio got Jones, again, and then they both got Berry. He called five separate guys some variation of the word "faggot" and Azimio never did. He punched Puckerman, who still couldn't fight back because of his probation deal, and knocked the wind out of him.

It all felt good, was a rush, while he was doing it and then made him feel nauseous right after, and like he couldn't breathe, and everything hurt. They knew, he was convinced everyone knew. His dad would be disappointed as hell if he found out about anything Dave did. It was a good reminder day, really.

He made a booze run with Azimio after school. He has better fake ID; it was a gift from the hockey team for his sixteenth birthday. Azimio had arranged it and stomped the fuck out of Henley when he said a gift was fruity, they weren't six-year-olds anymore, what was wrong with a pizza or was Azimio just in love?

Dave got into the car with four twelve-packs and handed Azimio the change. He could never afford to pay for shit any longer, his parents were afraid he was doing drugs or something and they didn't give him any money. Azimio said, "So you coming to the party tonight?"

Dave stared at him. "Why the hell you think I just got the booze? Are you high?"

Azimio shook his head. "I dunno, man, you been weird all day."

He hadn't been, though. He shrugged and dropped Az off with half the booze at his house, promising to see him later, before he had to pull over and get it together. It was a very good reminder day, he thought, because this, this was what he meant. He tried to be normal and every step was like walking on knives, and didn't matter that he tried because everyone could still tell. He doesn't belong, even now, and he tried to leave but it didn't work. He doesn't know why.

He got home and started drinking. He had two twelve-packs and didn't think he'd need them both, but hey, just in case.

He lay on his bedroom floor with the bottle of pills handy and drank slowly, steadily. He imagined:

He would walk down the hallway and the crowd would part for him, for him and for Azimio. Henley would high five him as he passed and say, "Yo, great game last night." Dave would acknowledge that it had been.

"Great game?" Azimio would repeat. "Great play, you mean. My boy here won us that suck-ass game," and he would sling an arm around Dave's shoulders the way he used to.

"Hands to home," Dave would say easily, with no vicious delight or stomach-gnawing fear because it wouldn't matter.

"I don't mind if you keep him warm while I'm gone," Quinn Fabray would interject, sliding under Dave's arm and smiling the way she does, pretty and poisonous, "but now that I'm here? Back off my boyfriend."

Dave would kiss her and feel desire the way he should, and Azimio would hoot approvingly and clap his back. Dave would grab him in a headlock, because that's an okay thing to do, and have Quinn under one arm and Azimio under the other.

Kurt Hummel would walk past and Dave wouldn't even notice.

Dave wondered when alcohol poisoning kicked in. Maybe he wouldn't even need the pills. He finished another bottle. He imagined:

His dad would pass the potatoes and say, "How was school today, David?"

"Okay," Dave would say. "I got an A on the chem exam."

His mom would beam. "Baby, that's wonderful."

"I dunno, I was going for an A+. I got like one hundred and twelve percent on the last one, I thought –"

"David." His dad would laugh. "You have a four point oh average, three teams, and a scholarship to Duke. We couldn't be more proud. Try to relax a little; stress isn't healthy."

"Right," he'd grin. "Guess you won't mind if I blow off some steam tomorrow night, then?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Going out with Brittany and Santana. They want me to take them to Breadstix."

"Both of them?" his dad would repeat doubtfully.

"It's their thing. They're joined at the hip. We're going as friends," he'd lie comfortably, the normal kind of lie a kid tells his parents.

"Well," his mom would say, "as long as you're not out too late. You can grab the cash from my purse later on."

"You guys rock," he'd say. His dad would pat his shoulder and tell him not to talk with his mouth full, and smile and understand him and not be disappointed –

He figured it was time to start with the pills; the beer didn't feel like it was killing him. He dropped a few, but got a bunch in his mouth and started knocking them back with a new bottle. He imagined:

"No, no, no," Kurt would say, "the green one is completely wrong for your coloring. Honestly, Dave the number of times we've had this discussion…"

"I like green." He would snatch the shirt out of Kurt's reach.

"No, what you like is pissing me off beyond all belief." Kurt would grab another shirt from the rack and coax, "See, this is the same thing, but in red, which is a color that suits you and, incidentally, me, and since I'm your boyfriend and will be standing next to you when you wear it, that is of the utmost importance."

"Okay, take it from me, and I'll get the red one."

Kurt would snort. "Do you have the first clue who you're dealing with? Don't come between me and my clothing choices, Dave." He'd step closer, close enough to touch or kiss, and be smiling and happy, eyes sparkling. "Just don't."

"Whatever," Dave would grunt, and Kurt would beam victoriously, snatching the green shirt. "Excellent. Let's get you this in a decent color and then go to a movie? Maybe Narnia."

"You hate Narnia," Dave would remind him.

Kurt would smile, smug and sweet, and lift an eyebrow. "I don't plan on watching the movie," he'd say, and reach for Dave's hand –

Dave was cold. He usually got overheated, drinking. He was cold and the carpet felt like it was pressing against his bones and he was lonely.

He just wanted something to be easy.

Kurt wasn't there. He knew Kurt wasn't there. But Kurt stroked his forehead and said, "This is going to make things so much better for me, Dave. So much easier. I can't thank you enough."

He picked up his cell phone and dialed. Blaine's number was in his pocket, but right then, he really needed Kurt.

"Do you want to see him?"

Kurt looks at Blaine and down at the text on his phone. he keeps sayin he did this for you you gotta come c him i think hell do it again, u tell him he don't have to or sumthin his dad is scared

"No," he says, dropping his head back against the seat.

"I don't want to sound completely heartless," Blaine says, managing to sound compassionate and as though his attention is completely on Kurt but also drive safely, "but… don't."

"I don't know what else to do," Kurt says, and refuses to start crying. "He won't stop."

"I know, really I do. Kurt, I think… my dad is a licensed psychiatrist –" when Kurt frowns, he winces. "Sorry, family joke, saying 'licensed' every time. It's gotten to be a habit and now I sound like a pretentious dick. But he is a psychiatrist," which, Kurt thinks, explains a lot, "and I've actually sort of seen this before." He glances over at Kurt.

"And?"

"Once someone has this kind of fixation on you – I know it might feel like you're being cruel to not give him the one thing he wants when he's in such a delicate condition, but the fact is, it's going to make it so much worse. You really can't help him. He's sick, Kurt, and you're not a doctor. If anything, he's made you into an unfortunate symptom of the disease."

"And now I'll never be able to hear the word 'lovesick' again without feeling nauseous," Kurt says. "You don't have to convince me, though. I thought seeing him might help. If it won't, I'm not going to." He doesn't say that he's afraid he'll start yelling at a boy who came out just this side of dying, because if Blaine thinks what he said sounded heartless –

The fear and anger still make his hands shake sometimes. And it's mostly anger.

"I'll just talk to his dad," Kurt says. "Do you think maybe you could… check on him, though? It's a lot to ask, you didn't have to drive me in the first place. I just thought…" Maybe if you take care of this I can stop thinking.

"Of course."

When someone walks in wearing that uniform, Dave's chest seizes up. He changes his mind. He doesn't want Kurt to see him like this. There's a desperate, screaming part of his brain that does, that would take a pity vote from the school fag just to get something, for Kurt to tell him that it's okay that it didn't work; the rest of his brain just wants it not to be Kurt right now, like this.

Both parts are disappointed when it's not him, though.

"Hi," Blaine says softly. He walks to the side of Dave's bed. "How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel?"

He smiles. Not a happy smile. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah? Don't be. I screwed up." He swallows. "Is Kurt here?"

"He's not going to come in," Blaine says so gently it hurts. "He needed to talk to your friend and your dad."

"He gonna tell my dad I'm a raging homo?"

"I think so, yeah. He's afraid you'll hurt yourself again. He never wanted you to get hurt."

"Sure," Dave scoffs. "He never wanted it. But it would have done him the most good, wouldn't it? I was going to leave him alone finally."

"You don't have to die to do that," Blaine says. His voice shakes a little. Good. Dave thinks he probably shouldn't start making a game of shaking this one up too, but it's even more satisfying than Kurt. Kurt just plain looks like he'll shake easier.

"I do," Dave confides. "I have it all figured out. I did, anyway." He really needs to look more pathetic now, right? But he's so lonely. "Look under the bed."

"Um, sure…" Blaine does, and comes up with the bag of things they'd gotten him from home.

"The book," Dave says.

It's pretty, a big collection of Hans' stories with illustrations on shiny pages every few stories or so. It annoys Dave that the illustrations rarely go with the stories they appear next to, but hey, he doesn't make books for a living, maybe there's some logic there. Keep people flipping for the story. It falls open to "The Little Mermaid" when Blaine opens it. The spine is worn that way. "It really made sense," Dave says, and thinks, if he laughs…

Blaine reads a few sentences and nods. He pulls a chair closer to Dave's bedside and sits down. "I can see what you mean," he says. "But… I think you interpreted the story kind of literally, don't you?"

"I don't even know what the fuck you're talking about."

"She kills herself in the end, right? Speaking literally. How does she do it?"

"Jumps off the ship." Dave grimaces. "I guess she couldn't swim all that well. Without a tail." He laughs a little. It's funny, out loud.

"Right. And then what happens?"

"There's some fruity shit about how she's a spirit of the air now, and she can earn her soul and go to heaven by doing good deeds. It's just to make the ending happier for kids. Once you're dead, you're dead. You don't get to fix stuff after."

"Right," Blaine says again. "Well, maybe I'm wrong, but when I read this story, I always thought the suicide was just a metaphor and the ending was the most important part. The suicide was her leaving the prince, because he'd turned into her whole life, and she had to come to terms with the fact that he couldn't be that for her. So she got rid of everything that her life was, and then – like you said. Once you're dead, you're dead. So, maybe, since she got to start over and build this whole new, better life and make up for everything, it's not about actually dying. Maybe she just found a way to move on."

Dave thinks this is bull. He started crying at some point during it anyway, because he's tired and he's changed his mind, he's sure now, he really wants Kurt to come see him.

Blaine puts a hand on his. Dave takes it and holds on tightly, because it's not much, not enough even, but it's better than nothing.

When they get to the waiting room, Azimio is sitting in an uncomfortable-looking chair with his head in his hands. Kurt isn't sure what the hospital policy on slushies is, but braces himself automatically before saying, "Azimio."

He surges up and Kurt flinches back. Blaine puts a hand on his elbow.

"Jesus, dude, take your time why don't you? Come on, I'll show you where he is."

"Wait. Where are his parents?"

"His mom's flying back from somewhere, his dad went on a coffee run. He'll be right back. Come on already." He grabs Kurt's arm.

"Don't," Kurt says, wrenching away.

Blaine steps between them. "Which room is he in?"

"Four thirty-two," Azimio says. "You a homo too?"

"Go on," Kurt says wearily. "Just… go ahead, Blaine, I'll be down here."

"Alright." Blaine holds his shoulder for a second. "I have my cell, if you need me."

Kurt watches him go, then turns to Azimio. It takes a great deal of effort not to say I told you so. It's childish, but it would probably feel pretty damn awful for Azimio to hear. It would be better than plenty of more sophisticated accusations he can think of. He doesn't use it. "I'm not going to see him," he says.

"The hell? Why not, ain't he your kind? You gotta snap him out of this, his dad's going crazy."

"If all it's going to take to snap him out of this is talking to another gay guy, then Blaine has it covered."

"Not so loud, dude, come on." Azimio ushers him over into a corner. This wouldn't normally be something Kurt would be okay with, but Azimio's hands are shaking and his eyes dart around so frequently he must be making himself dizzy. It seems safe to bet that he's preoccupied. "Don't be a dick," he whispers. "You know Karofsky's got a thing for you. You wouldn't say no if you could see him when he asks for you. Asks me to get you, man, that shit ain't right. He's out of it."

"You realize that the last thing he needs right now is for you to make him feel like he's disgusting for wanting to see a guy? Try to rein your homophobia in for five seconds running."

"Don't try and turn this on me, Hummel. You're the one that made him go all gay."

Kurt takes a deep breath. "I did not make him gay. That isn't how it works."

"Yeah? I didn't see him trying to jump any other dude's bones."

"Azimio. Are you serious? Look, I'm gay because I find men sexually attractive. Not because I'm generally straight but then one day magically I fell in love with one specific guy. Karofsky – your best friend – is gay. Generally. He would still be gay if I grew up in New York. He would have had to choose someone else to obsess over, granted, and I can't think of anyone else who would have done him the favor of not telling anyone –" Oh god, if I'd told someone sooner…

"What the fuck ever," Azimio snaps. "You are here, and he's got this thing for you, not some other random guy there could have been, and he keeps saying how he tried – tried it for you, so you gotta make him stop."

"No," Kurt says. "I don't. And I couldn't if I tried. That's not how it works."

Azimio grabs his shoulders and shakes him a little. "Then stop saying how things don't work and figure the fuck how they do, 'cuz while things aren't working Karofsky almost died."

"Fine!" Kurt shoves his hands off, stepping back. "Fine, I'll go up there right now. You tell me what to say."

"I don't know, just –"

"No, really. You tell me. I will go up there right now and see him if you think of something I can say to him that won't make this worse. What wonderful, magical thing can you think of that's going to fix Karofsky trying to kill himself?"

Azimio shakes his head, over and over. "I'm going home," he says. "Man, I didn't sign up for this."

"Welcome to the club."

Azimio doesn't go home. He walks back to his chair and sinks into it.

Kurt sits down between Azimio and an old woman who is wearing mismatched shoes and crying softly. "I'm going to tell his dad," he says. "I think that will help. They can get him a therapist."

"He's not crazy." Azimio sits up straight. "Hey, don't they have camps to de-gay people?"

"They don't work. They'd just make it worse."

"Huh." He slumps again.

"Anyway, his problem isn't that he's gay. Being gay doesn't do this to someone." Kurt looks sideways at him. "I need you to help me tell Mr. Karofsky. You're the only witness."

"He could just come back to school. I wouldn't tell anybody he pulled a pussy move like this."

"He can't. Will you please back me up on this, for his sake?"

Azimio shrugs. "I guess. If you want."

"Azimio?"

Someone is standing over them; Kurt feels all the blood leave his head when he looks up and sees Paul Karofsky. He's not ready for this.

"Here's your coffee," Mr. Karofsky says mechanically. He looks awful. He looks probably the way Burt would look if –

"Mr. Karofsky," Kurt says breathlessly, standing up too quickly and making himself dizzy.

Mr. Karofsky frowns at him for a few seconds. "Hummel? Kurt Hummel, isn't it?" He looks at Azimio, bewildered. "I didn't think… I didn't think you got along with David."

Azimio stands up too. "He doesn't."

"I h-have to tell you something," Kurt says. He stops and looks back at Azimio, who nods. It occurs to Kurt, in an odd, upsetting moment, that Azimio knows more about him than Mercedes and Blaine combined. "About your son," he continues. He wipes his cheeks.

"Yeah," Azimio says, and touches Kurt's hand, just a little, maybe by accident."He's maybe got himself an obsession with Hummel."