He fixes her with a glare, but doesn’t bother opening it again—the lock always sticks, and it’s simply not worth the effort of getting the rest of his books. “What are you talking about?”

“The new kid,” she snaps, exasperated. “Obviously.”

“No, Santana. I just got here. How would I have seen him?”

“It is too early in the morning for your snark.” She jerks her head. “His locker’s over there. Check it.”

Huffing out an exasperated sigh, he obliges; his eyebrows inch north immediately. The first thing he notices about the new kid is the hair: so slicked back that it looks like it wouldn’t move even in a cyclone (and, being that they’re in rural Ohio, the likelihood of anything so interesting as a natural disaster is probably, like, nil anyway). Then there are the thick glasses, which could probably pass for geek-chic if they weren’t paired with an argyle sweater-vest and khaki highwaters. “Oh. My. God.”

“I toooold youuuu,” Santana sing-songs. “What do you say we go give this kid a good, McKinley High welcome?”

Kurt’s stomach twists. He’s done a lot of things over the past couple of months that he’s not proud of, but this is one he just can’t. “No,” he says, going for casual. “Why bother?”

“Good point, your man’ll probably take care of it in a couple minutes anyway.”

Kurt hums noncommittally, flicking a nonexistent bit of lint off his uniform shirt. “Do we know his name?”

“No.” She looks at him like he’s insane for caring, and then a slow smirk spreads across her face. “Here it comes.”

Despite himself, Kurt looks up again. Dave is wandering past them, looking deceptively innocent, a Big Gulp cup held loosely in his left hand. “Welcome to McKinley, new kid,” he says, all faux friendliness.
The kid finally steps back from his locker, an uncertain smile starting to curve his lips—and that’s when Dave strikes, flicking the cup with practiced ease. Immediately, the kid is covered, ice completely coating his glasses, dripping from his hair, staining his shirt and sweater-vest. He gasps soundlessly and Dave laughs, dropping his weapon and making his way back toward Kurt and Santana.

“Hey, babe,” he drawls, winding an arm easily around Kurt’s waist and kissing him deeply. Kurt wraps his arms around Dave’s neck, blocking everything else out, losing himself in the sensation. Times like these are the best, he can’t help but think. Better, even, than some of the nights when they’re alone in Dave’s room. Because here, Dave doesn’t have the time to really think about things, about everything that’s wrong with his life. To get lost in his mind, to find himself in a place where Kurt isn’t quite enough for him anymore. No, these moments, in the hallway at school when they only have limited time to be with each other, when they don’t have the opportunity to disagree or argue, are nicest.

But then the bell rings, and Santana’s whacking Dave upside the head, bitching about how if they’re late for English one more time, Mrs. Trebble will give them detention. (“You better hurry too, Hummel. If you get in trouble and miss practice today, Coach’ll slaughter you, and I’m not in the mood to save your ass.)

“I’ll see you later,” Kurt says, smiling slightly. Dave kisses him one more time, hard, and then walks away, tossing a little grin over his shoulder as he goes. Kurt knows that he’s late for Spanish, but for some reason, he doesn’t leave yet. Instead, he chances one more glance down the hallway, to where the new kid’s locker is.

He’s still standing there in front of it even though it’s closed now, drenched in red liquid that drips off his clothes like blood. He’s not moving—he hasn’t even attempted to wipe it off his glasses. The hallways are empty; no one has even tried to help him.

And Kurt Hummel walks away.