Chapter Text
It’s all Lindsey Lohan’s fault, really.
Kurt’s way of dealing with the loss at Regionals is to settle in his favorite chair with the current issue of Italian Vogue, judging the summer collections and wishing desperately for a fast-forward button on life so that he can be a fabulous urban fashionista already, all while watching his favorite movies.
It’s halfway through Mean Girls when he looks up at the screen and realizes that Jesse St. James and Vocal Adrenaline are clearly Regina George and the Plastics, inhuman perfection whose sole mission in life is to destroy others while at the same time inspiring awe.
“They need a Cady Heron to take them down from the inside,” Kurt muses, flipping a page and admiring Gaultier’s magnificent use of hats. “Except without all the accidental converting to the side of evil and the resulting drama.”
It’s a thought that festers as he watches the rest of the movie. He can’t help but to remember how he lost any chance whatsoever to get a solo after Jesse showed up on his mission of evil, all the more appalling because it was so meaningless to the robot himself.
The worst part of losing, Kurt thinks, is that they’d all been pretty sure then that they’d win Regionals. No one would admit it, not out loud, but they all thought they were pretty hot shit, and that their passion would win the judge’s hearts in face of such soulless, robotic perfection as Vocal Adrenaline. That would have been the perfect revenge, proving that they’re collectively better than St. James and his rakish good looks and Broadway potential.
But somehow in the midst of a Journey lovefest Kurt had forgotten the most basic fact of his – really, all of their – existence: nothing ever works out the way you dream it.
But Kurt remembers Jesse St James, and the way he’d grinned when his stupid, already-charmed team continued their charmed lives while New Directions had nothing. He knows he can’t let it slide. And Kurt knows that he’s the perfect Cady Heron.
He’s not Rachel’s biggest fan – Rachel is pretty much on her own in that regard, thanks to her sandpaper personality – but he remembers her face during Another One Bites the Dust and knows that this is the best of all possible revenges.
*
Kurt intends to keep his plan to himself, which lasts all of three hours before he dials Mercedes’ number.
“I need a plan of seduction,” he says as soon as she answers.
There’s a pause.
“Honey, I thought the Finn thing had already crashed and burned.” She sounds very concerned, like she thinks he might be planning on showing up in Finn’s bed wearing only fishnets and heels a la Gaga. Not that Kurt has considered such a course of action, especially not after things between his father and Finn had warmed up enough that they’re all living together again.
“Not Finn,” Kurt says. “Honestly, he’s practically my brother.”
Mercedes makes one of her famous skeptical sounds. She manages to imply that Kurt is, in fact, that desperate and that she is completely justified in assuming the worst of him, all in one guttural sound.
“Really!” Kurt’s voice raises in pitch. “This is a far grander scheme than my own personal satisfaction. This, my dove, is revenge.”
“I’m listening,” Mercedes says.
*
“So when you said you were bringing friends, I thought you meant, you know, friends,” Kurt tells Mercedes.
“I did,” Mercedes hisses back.
Kurt looks back at his foyer. Santana Lopez is still standing there, hand on a Cheerios-uniform clad hip, surveying the room with a undisguised look of disgust on her face.
“I thought you meant Tina,” he replies. Brittany is milling around, looking her usual level of vaguely lost, even though she’s been to Kurt’s house plenty of times.
Santana rolls her eyes. “Like she’d be any help.”
“Tina has valid ideas,” Kurt says, even though he can’t think of anything Tina could have learned from dating Artie, which mainly seems to consist of holding hands and making goo-goo eyes.
“Look, Santana has the most expertise in the field of infiltration and seduction,” Mercedes says. “We’re going to have to pull out the big guns to make this work.”
Kurt is affronted. “I could make this work on my own, thank you,” he sniffs.
“Uh-huh,” Mercedes immediately answers.
“I’m doing you a favor,” Santana says.
Kurt narrows his eyes. “Why? You don’t do favors. You get favors done for you, and never repay them.”
“Look, Mercedes mentioned your little plan to Quinn, who told me, and I decided that you could use an expert. Someone, for instance, not in possession of a V-card,” Santana says snidely. “I’m just being altruistic.”
Santana Lopez has never been altruistic a day in her life. Kurt turns to Brittany. “And you?”
“I like love stories,” she says with a shrug.
Kurt sighs. “Fine, let’s go downstairs.” He has enough common sense to know when Santana’s trying to screw him over, at the very least. And it’s true, she’s an expert in seduction, unlike Kurt, whose attempts to date have resulted in his intended basically becoming his brother.
Once inside Kurt’s room Santana settles herself down comfortably in his favorite chair. She looks less disgusted now that there are no mounted deer heads in sight – his father’s lamentable addition to the décor. “So what are we working with?”
Kurt isn’t sure how to answer that question.
Santana looks aggrieved. “Look, how much experience do you have?”
Kurt stares at his loafers sullenly. “I kissed a girl and I didn’t like it.”
Brittany offers helpfully, “You have baby hands.”
“Oh god,” Mercedes sighs.
Santana looks him up and down. Kurt shifts uncomfortably. She sighs. “I wonder how much it would take to get Puck to give you make-out lessons.”
Kurt’s horror is palpable. It’s entirely plausible that his horror could be seen from space. “No.”
Mercedes looks thoughtful. “We’ll keep that in mind, if Jesse doesn’t seem to be taking the virginal boy-next-door bait.”
Santana is looking at him in a way that makes him very, very uncomfortable. “We could put him in a lot of white. Emphasize his innocence. Boys love that shit.”
“I don’t need to be told what boys like,” Kurt reminds them tersely. “I am a boy! I know exactly what we like.”
It’s impossible to hate Brittany, even when she’s laughing at you. Kurt gives them all the stink-eye, but Santana is the reigning queen of stink-eye, and Mercedes gained an annoying immunity to it sometime around the time she had decided that dating Puck was an acceptable life decision.
“Oh, cupcake,” Mercedes says, patting his arm. “If that was true, you wouldn’t need sex coaches.”
“I didn’t ask for sex coaches,” Kurt grinds out, but the sting to his masculinity is already fading. He’s never really had guy friends, after all. Guys in this Podunk town avoid him like they could catch gay cooties. He really, really wishes he’d been born, well, anywhere other than Ohio.
“Is Jessie even gay?” Brittany asks.
Mercedes shrugs. “He has pretty fabulous hair.”
Kurt raises his eyebrow at her.
Santana says, “He dated Rachel Berry. For more than a week. No one that pretty would be that desperate unless he was secretly into dudes. She has man shoulders.”
“I think you all have very strange ideas about what makes someone gay,” Kurt tells them all. Really, it explains the whole windshield thing.
“Santana says it’s only gay if you give each other flowers,” Brittany says. “Maybe you could buy him a flower. Or a scarf.”
“I don’t want insight into you two’s weird thing,” Mercedes announces. Santana gives her the stink-eye. Kurt wants to ask her how it never loses its power, but the stink-eye is keeping him at bay. “Kurt, do you think Jesse St. James will be into you?”
Kurt smoothes down his blouse and says, “Of course he will. He has eyes.”
Regaining his confidence is the only way he’ll make it through this. Mercedes is going down for this. Seriously. Next time they go shopping, he’s going to tell her that she looks fabulous in bubble skirts.
Santana grins at him, and it’s like a wolf baring fangs. Kurt tries to keep up the confidence, even though he’s been in Cheerios long enough to know how very evil Santana can be. “I think this will work,” she says, and it’s so far from what Kurt expected that it takes a moment for the fact that Santana Lopez has sided with him to settle itself into his brain.
“I’ll make you a list,” Brittany says brightly. Kurt doesn’t have the heart to turn it down, especially since he doesn’t know what sort of list she’s talking about.
Mercedes looks unbearably smug, and Kurt decides that convincing her to buy a top in a particularly horrific shade of mustard is completely acceptable revenge.
He’s getting to be an expert in revenge, after all.
*
Kurt embarks on Phase One a week later, wearing an outfit that Santana approved as looking particularly virginal. He isn’t particularly fond of the fact that they’re using his inexperience as a cornerstone in the seduction plan, as it seems to him counter-intuitive, but he has to admit that Mercedes was right when she recruited the two most experienced girls in school as his sex coaches.
He waits, fiddling nervously with the tulle bow around his neck and the buttons on the radio, even though it isn’t on.
Jesse St James appears right on schedule. Kurt puts on his most derisive look and waits.
Jesse slides into the car, inspects himself in the mirror, and looks over. He doesn’t even startle when he realizes he’s not alone in his car. Kurt thinks he really might be some fancy robotics experiment set upon the high school show choir world for the sole purpose of ruining lives.
“St. James,” Kurt says icily.
“Gay kid from Lima,” Jesse says, equally icy.
“I’ve heard worse,” Kurt says evenly. “I’m not here for the reason you think.”
“You aren’t here on behalf of your club of losers whose preoccupation with their miserable lives distracted them from putting together a sufficiently complexly orchestrated number for Regionals and thus cost you the only sad chance at glory you’ll ever have?” Jesse raises an eyebrow.
Kurt looks down demurely, like Santana had taught him. “No. Not quite.”
“Then revenge for breaking Rachel Berry’s startlingly fragile heart?” There’s almost a touch of hopefulness in Jesse’s voice. It’s discomforting to hear emotion coming from him. From Kurt’s observations, he only emotes when singing.
“I came to thank you for that, actually,” Kurt says, and gets out of Jesse’s car before Jesse has a chance to respond. It’s sunny and warm out, and he puts just a bit of twist in his hips, as per Brittany’s instruction. (“Move like you’re underwater and there are snakes trying to get in your bikini.”)
He climbs into his SUV, sliding on his sunglasses and never looking back at Jesse.
*
Apparently girls’ nights have become a thing, as when he gets home Finn is sitting on the leather couch in the living room with marked discomfort, watching Deadliest Catch with Kurt’s dad.
“There are a bunch of girls in your room,” his dad says. “They kicked Finn out because he wasn’t invited to the slumber party.”
“They said I had to sleep on the couch.” Finn crinkles his brow. Kurt does not find it endearing or adorable. At all. “How come you get a basement full of cheerleaders?”
“I’m a Cheerio, too,” Kurt reminds him. “I won us Nationals, remember?”
Finn clearly doesn’t.
Burt shoos Kurt towards his room. “Enjoy your girl talk, son. I’ll keep Finn company.”
Kurt hurries down the stairs, and is more than a little surprised to see that Quinn has joined Santana, Brittany and Mercedes. They’re grouped around his vanity, trying out his moisturizers. “Finn told me I’m having a slumber party?”
The girls are, in fact, all wearing pajamas, ranging from Mercedes’ classic flannel to Santana’s satin nightie. No wonder Finn seemed so awkward upstairs, if he was thinking about half the Glee girls in his bedroom wearing skimpy clothes.
Kurt settles down in his favorite chair, surveying the girls. “It went well.”
“Did he ask you out?” Brittany asks.
“No,” Kurt says. “I’m going for full-out psychological warfare.”
“Meaning?” Mercedes has that look on her face, the one that implies that she has severe doubts about Kurt’s ability to wage any sort of social warfare.
“Meaning I let him reveal what he believed my motivations to be and subverted them.” Kurt inspects his nails.
Quinn is unimpressed. “Not to say that I doubt you, but… I doubt you.”
“He asked if I was there to avenge Rachel’s broken heart, and I thanked him for breaking it,” Kurt replies. “He is confused about my appearance and subsequent motives. Which means he will be thinking about me.”
Santana nods approvingly. “Did you do the look thing?”
Kurt nods.
Mercedes bursts out with, “We still don’t know if he’s even gay.”
Kurt gives her a dismissive hand-wave. “He’s a robot. They don’t register genders.”
Quinn snorts attractively. Kurt is awed by this achievement.
“So you got your manipulative bitch on,” Mercedes says. “What now?”
“Now, we do a little footwork. Get people around him to mention Kurt around Jesse. Keep Jesse thinking about him until they accidentally run into each other,” Quinn says.
“That’s the reason we brought you in on this,” Santana says, and they bump fists.
“How will you—“ Kurt begins, but Mercedes cuts him off.
“Do you really think we aren’t capable of planting a few suggestions into Traitor Boy’s head?”
“We have wiles,” Brittany adds.
Kurt has lost complete control of the situation, but he feels strangely comforted by having the might of the Cheerios Past and Present behind him. “You all hate Rachel,” he points out.
“So do you,” Quinn retorts.
“Yes, well, I’m the magnanimous sort,” Kurt replies airily. Mercedes snorts.
Santana sighs. “This is lame. Come on, Hummel, you’re going to make us snacks.”
He follows her back up the stairs, her nightie shiny and looking extremely inappropriate as they emerge upstairs. Unfortunately, his dad and Finn are in the kitchen, heating up pizza rolls in the microwave.
“I’ve told you, those things are disgusting,” Kurt says, curling his lip as he peers inside the microwave at the bubbling greasy mess that will soon be contributing to his father’s future heart attack. “Why aren’t you eating the snacks I got you?”
“Because, son, they taste like rotten cardboard,” Burt replies. He turns to Santana. “Sweetheart, if you stand in front of that fridge any longer Finn is going to horribly embarrass himself.”
Finn manages to turn even redder than he already was, and he hastily retreats. Santana laughs and calls, “Nice to see things haven’t changed, Finnocence!”
Kurt doesn’t want to know. He is no longer desperately in love with Finn, but nights are long and he doesn’t want his fantasies ruined by the knowledge that Finn isn’t a Viking in the sack.
Santana has amassed a pile of ice cream and helps herself to a bag of chips, hopping up on the counter and munching thoughtfully. “Don’t bring up the baby to Quinn,” she says sternly.
“I know that,” Kurt says. “Mercedes is my best friend, and Quinn’s been living with her.”
“Yes, but you often say cruel things. Possibly without even meaning to, though that would lower you in my book, because I can respect a bitch,” Santana replies.
“He is a total bitch,” Burt agrees.
“Dad!”
“Last week you hid all my flannel shirts,” Burt points out calmly. He pulls the cardboard tray of pizza rolls out of the microwave, hissing and sucking on his finger when it comes in contact with the escaping pizza ooze.
“They’re not only hideous but seasonally inappropriate!” Kurt can put up with a lot, but seriously.
Santana snickers.
Kurt says, “Don’t think you’re any better, Miss Horrific Polyester Blend Nightie.”
“This,” Santana replies, motioning towards her outfit, “isn’t intended for you, sweetheart.”
Screw it, it doesn’t matter if he proves their bitch theory correct.
“Brittany does like cheap things,” he agrees.
Burt gathers up his pizza rolls. “Don’t get into any catfights, kids,” he says as he heads back to the living room.
Santana rolls her eyes and hops off the counter. “Carry the food,” she instructs as she heads back down to the basement.
*
Kurt didn’t doubt the abilities of the girls, but it still comes as a surprise when he receives a text from Jesse. This is Jesse St. James. I have interest in your motivation.
“What does that even mean?” he demands.
Tina squints at the phone. “Maybe he malfunctioned.”
Artie shook his head. “Too grammatical for that. Maybe he’s planning on future investment in, um, Kurt Hummel Enterprises. Or else he wants to hit dat.”
“Well, let’s hope it’s the latter,” Kurt says. He types out, Oh, honey, you have no idea, and hits send quickly. “I want to get this plan on the fast track.”
“What if he doesn’t fall for you? How will we crush his heart?” Tina fiddles with her brooch, then continues, “I mean, he didn’t let the Rachel thing affect him. What if this isn’t any different?”
Kurt looks blankly at her. “But, unlike Rachel, I am not an acquired taste. I am like fine wine.”
He receives several skeptical looks.
“Kurt, your jacket has feathers on it,” Artie says, as though that means anything.
“Fine. Wine,” Kurt grits out and glares until everyone agrees with him.
*
Kurt is thumbing through the most recent Vogue when Finn comes lumbering down the steps.
“Um,” Finn says. “Jesse St. James is at the door.”
“Oh, goodie,” Kurt replies, setting down his magazine carefully, so as to not to crumple any pages.
“Isn’t he our arch nemesis?” Finn asks. He’s been on a comic book movie kick that Kurt has been doing his level best to ignore, though it isn’t completely invalid if they introduced Finn to multi-syllabic words.
“I was never battling for Rachel Berry’s affection,” Kurt replies coolly. He’s fond of Finn, even though the fires of passion have abated, but telling him about the plan is strictly out of the picture. For one thing, Finn would probably tell Jesse about it. Boy isn’t great at being subtle, not like Kurt. Kurt is cunning.
Finn sighs. “I know that, Kurt. Just, I thought you wanted to get revenge on him as much as the rest of the guys. I guess I was wrong.”
Kurt feels a pang of unwanted and unwarranted guilt but sweeps grandly past Finn on the way upstairs anyway. Jesse St James is standing in the foyer, hands in his pockets, looking intently at the coat rack, which, given the summery temperatures outside, is bare and completely uninteresting.
“Greetings,” Kurt says. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Jesse smirks. “I think you know.”
Kurt opens his mouth to say something coy, but the words are stopped by the very warm presence of Jesse’s lips against his own.
“Mmmph!” Kurt exclaims awkwardly, given the liplock he’s a part of.
Jesse’s hand curls around the back of his neck, tangling lightly into his hair, and Kurt’s eyes flutter shut. It’s a nice enough kiss, but Kurt is too startled to properly enjoy it.
Jesse breaks the kiss, but stays close, hand large and warm against Kurt’s nape. He smirks. “I knew you were after my rakish good looks.”
“I don’t like rakes,” Kurt says immediately, “nor rogues, scoundrels or any other kind of handsome, talented, sexy sort of man who shows up at ladies’ doors and kisses them senseless.”
Jesse breaks into a full-out grin. “Senseless, huh?”
“No!” Kurt ducks away from Jesse’s hand, stepping back and inadvertently stumbling into the coat rack. He fumbles with it a minute, finally managing to right it, and says, “I wasn’t referring to myself. Just. In general, that sort of thing. You. Out of my house. Shoo. Skedaddle.”
Jesse’s still grinning and he blows Kurt another kiss before turning and walking out the door. Kurt does not watch how his ass fills out his jeans as he walks away. Definitely does not. He finally remembers to slam the door and yell, “And stay out!” when Jesse slides into his Camaro and revs the engine.
Stupid boy.
Kurt charges down to his room, snaps, “Don’t even ask about it,” at Finn, and does his moisture routine three times, until he can no longer feel the ghost of Jesse’s lips on his own.
*
“Spill,” Mercedes says.
The entire glee club, with the notable exception of Rachel, Finn and Mr. Schue, are in the practice room, despite the fact that summer break is soon and glee is on hiatus until next school year.
Kurt is more than a little surprised to see the football guys in attendance, and says as much.
“We’ve been recruited,” Matt replies.
“Revenge is my whole deal,” Puck says. “No one plots revenge without the Puckster in on it.”
“How is revenge your whole deal?” Artie wonders aloud. “You’ve always been the bully. You have nothing to avenge.”
“Shut your piehole, wheels. Vengeance needs no questioning,” Puck responds, pointing threateningly.
Mike appears to be doing his level best to hold in laughter. Kurt feels like he’s been dumped in a very wacky alternate reality and, masochistically enough, kind of misses his own reality of strict social order and frequent dumpstering.
“There’s nothing to spill,” Kurt says primly, returning to the issue at hand.
“Oh yes there is,” Mercedes says. She’s tenacious, Kurt has to give her credit for that, but damn is it an annoying character trait when it’s directed at him. “Santana heard from Puck that Finn said that Jesse showed up at your house the other night.”
“He did,” Kurt replies calmly. “He showed up, kissed me, then I kicked him out.”
“You know the number one rule of seduction is to not kick the seducee out after they kiss you, right?” Santana does not look impressed.
Kurt rolls his eyes. “If the point is just to seduce them, yes. But remember the whole psychological warfare deal? This is going to fuck with his mind. He’s got to think that he’s the seducer, not the other way around.”
Mercedes nods. “We’re kicking it John Hughes style. Gotta get them discombobulated and have the relationship full of overdramatic strife before we go in for the kill.”
If Kurt were the type to fist-bump, that is definitely what he would do with Mercedes right now.
Tina taps her chin thoughtfully. “He showed up at your house, that’s good.”
“How did you kick him out?” Mercedes asks.
“Um,” Kurt says. No need to mention the whole rake thing. Or the coat rack disaster. Or the fact that the word ‘skedaddle’ had burst forth from him. “I said, ‘you, out of my house.’”
Puck yawns loudly. “We’re not here for girl talk.”
“We’re laying the groundwork,” Quinn says.
“Something you know nothing about,” Santana adds with more teasing than meanness.
Puck flips her off with a smile. “You both know how good I am with groundwork, because I am a stud.”
Brittany cuts in with, “I like the ponies with wings.”
Everyone shares a look, but no one is willing to question the Brit-logic.
“Now is when we need to step up our A-game,” Artie says. “Santana’s got the Cheerios on making sure everyone around Jesse keeps mentioning Kurt-related things.”
“I’ve got this,” Santana says. “Girls?”
“They’re all suddenly huge fans of Kurt Cobain and Hummel figurines,” Mercedes says. “Granted, we had to do some creative googling, and it turns out that Hummel figurines are the most terrifying things on the planet.” She turned to Kurt. “I very much hope you’re not related to whoever is responsible for that horror.”
“Thankfully, no,” Kurt answers.
Brittany tosses her ponytail as she says, “I helped.”
“And now it’s the boys’ turn,” Quinn announces. She turns, sitting primly in her chair, and surveys them. “You need to do something horrible to Vocal Adrenaline.”
“Horrible like dumping slushies down their pants or horrible like hiding dead fish in their bedrooms after banging their moms?” Puck asks.
“I am truly alarmed at how quickly you came up with those options,” Artie says.
“The porta-potty thing doesn’t seem so bad now, huh?” Puck replies, clearly proud of himself.
Quinn glares at Puck. “No mom-banging.”
Puck opens his mouth and Kurt just knows that he’s going to fuck up whatever thing he’s got going on with Quinn with one, “Not even you?” Thankfully, Mike nearly falls off his chair elbowing Puck hard enough to make him double over.
“What the fuck, man?” Puck snaps, and the crisis is averted.
Mike shrugs.
Quinn sighs. “Keep him in line, boys. Vocal Adrenaline need to think this is our revenge for Regionals. We have to make Kurt look innocent.”
“Easy enough,” someone whispered, and Kurt whips his head around, trying to pinpoint the culprit.
“And remember,” Mercedes tells the room at large. “No telling Rachel the plan, and that means not telling Finn, because he’s a blathermouth.”
No one points out the irony of Mercedes calling someone else a blathermouth.
*
“Am I the only one who thinks it’s really, really weird that Puck is helping with our plan for me to seduce a male competitor?” Kurt asks Mercedes as soon as they’re alone.
“You do have to give the boy credit,” Mercedes replies. “He’ll jump on any boat if it means he either gets some or gets to give someone a wedgie.”
Kurt sighs, leaning dramatically against the bank of lockers. “I’m just worried this is going to crash and burn, and then I’ll have all these bitches knowing all my business.”
“You’ve never been shy about flaunting your business all around town before,” Mercedes points out. She adjusts her scarf. “Look, Kurt, I know this is a weird way for you to get your first boyfriend. But you gotta tell me. How was that kiss?”
Kurt doesn’t mean to, but he’s pretty sure that his face is a textbook example of a dreamy smile. “Nothing spectacular.”
“Uh-huh, I can tell,” Mercedes replies. “Sweetie, you aren’t going to get yourself hurt with this, right? I only agreed to help because I thought you were a callous bitch who had no problem manipulating the feelings of others, which, you are, but I think that heart of yours is pinned on your sleeve.”
“That is a terrible way to accessorize, and you know how good I am at accessorizing,” Kurt promises her. “Really, it was just that his hands were so warm. And I was surprised. Next time will be callous and cold. Emotionless. Cross my heart.”
Mercedes purses her lips and changes the topic to what they’re going to wear the next day, though her grip on his arm seems gentler and more reassuring than usual.
*
When Kurt arrives at the garage after school, his dad gives him a funny look.
“Some kid’s asking about you,” he says. “He’s in the waiting room.”
Kurt stands on his tiptoes, and he can see through the half-glass wall into the tiny waiting room. Jesse St James is sprawled in one of the plastic chairs, thumbing through an issue of Hot Rod. “Oh god.”
“Want me to kick him out?” Burt asks. “Cuz I can. He can come back for his car later.”
Kurt then sees the Camaro on the lift, getting its tires rotated. Probably completely needlessly, given how new it is. He sighs dramatically. “He’s probably just here to heckle me about losing.” At Burt’s blank stare, he clarifies, “He’s the star of Vocal Adrenaline. I’ll just go get this over with.”
Burt catches his arm. “Don’t take any shit, kid.”
“Never,” Kurt promises as he enters the waiting room, very aware of the fact that his father is watching his every move. He turns and makes shooing motions, and Burt visibly sighs and retreats to his office.
“Hi there,” Jesse says. He’s wearing all black, from his t-shirt to his shoes, which only makes the shiny silver of his plain belt buckle all the more noticeable. Kurt does his best not to notice, as staring at that region will just make Jesse think he’s winning.
“St. James,” he says. No undue familiarity, no sir. Kurt Hummel can be just as emotionless and robotic as the next guy. Especially when the next guy is Jesse St James, who has big warm hands and whose lips are all right there, attached to him, like he’s some big thing composed of sexy parts. Kurt scowls.
“I came to offer my most sincere apology for the other day,” Jesse says. “I’ve come to realize that perhaps I was a little forward in my affections. Allow me to make it up to you. Perhaps with dinner and a song? I’ve prepared an Elton John number I think you’ll find satisfactory.”
“I don’t want that,” Kurt says, while his mind is whirring trying to figure out what Elton John song Jesse would be hottest singing. Sing hottest, he means. Oh god. “Oh god.”
He desperately wants to clamp his hand over his mouth but he plays it cool, like he randomly squeaks out blasphemy all the time. It’s totally normal. He’s just going to stand here and stare down Jesse, who is looking confused.
“You know how stellar my vocals are,” Jesse says slowly, “and you still don’t want me to serenade you?”
“No,” Kurt says. “I mean. What I mean is, that I’m just… new to this sort of thing. You know. You saw William McKinley. I wasn’t expecting… I mean. You dated Rachel.”
Kurt thinks he’s been possessed. Possibly by Finn. He can’t believe that string of incoherent idiocy just came out of him. He stares at Jesse’s belt buckle some more, because he doesn’t want to see his face at all. There is no way he’s telling Santana about this. None.
“You think I’m playing you,” Jesse says. There’s something hard in his voice, something that makes Kurt’s palms sweaty. Kurt raises his eyes, peering up at Jesse’s face through his lashes. Jesse’s jaw is set and he narrows his eyes as he says, “I’m not. I know you don’t have any motive to believe me, not after what I did. But trust me, that wasn’t what I wanted to do, and this… I don’t mess around like this.”
Kurt believes him. “I don’t believe you.”
Jesse stands, looking completely fierce. Kurt subtly wipes his damp palms on his trousers, not even caring about the fabric. “Then I’ll prove it to you.”
Jesse brushes against Kurt as he leaves the waiting room, and Kurt sinks down on a plastic chair, wondering when this all got twisted up in his head.
*
When he gets home, he heads straight down to his room, ready to call Mercedes and get her opinion about what the hell just happened. He stops short when he realizes that not only is Finn in their room, but Finn is making out with Rachel Berry. In Kurt’s basement.
“This is unacceptable!” Kurt proclaims.
Rachel detaches her face from Finn’s and says, “Hello, Kurt. Finn said that you were busy this afternoon, and my dads were home, so we came here to study.”
There are, in fact, several textbooks currently being smooshed under Finn’s hip and Rachel’s leg. Finn is flushed red and says, “Hey, can you just… leave?”
“It’s my room,” Kurt bitches, but goes to get his phone charger and makeup bag. He was planning on experimenting with his new eyeliner, and he can do it just as well upstairs.
“You made me sleep on the couch the other day when you had that Cheerios sleepover,” Finn gripes.
Rachel perks to attention like a dog hearing a bell. “You had a Cheerios sleepover?”
“Yes,” Kurt says shortly. To Finn, he directs, “And Santana and Brittany called dibs on your bed. Trust me, you weren’t welcome.”
Finn goes a little cross-eyed and Rachel scowls. “Why? Cheerleading season ended weeks ago. You already won Nationals.”
“Some of us actually make friends with our teammates,” Kurt says. “Something you’d know nothing about. And I’d really rather not be here while you two are--” he makes a dismissive hand gesture “—studying. Anatomy, I presume.” He sniffs and sweeps up the stairs as dramatically as possible without actually wearing a Scarlet O’Hara gown.
Once he’s settled in the den, he calls Mercedes. “Rachel and Finn are making out in my bedroom. I feel so dirty.”
Mercedes is definitely laughing at him. “Pumpkin, you realize Finn’s allowed to bring girls to his room. Even if it’s your room too.”
“That doesn’t make it any less icky,” Kurt says primly.
“No wonder one little kiss from Jesse got you all fired up, boy, you’re desperate,” Mercedes responds.
That reminds Kurt of the real reason he called. “Um. So I think Jesse is going to try to woo me through song.”
There’s a pause. “And you didn’t open with that? What’s wrong with you? You aren’t still crushing on Finn, are you?”
“No!” Kurt’s voice is a few octaves higher than usual. “It momentarily slipped my mind. He showed up at the garage today. I think he asked me out? It was hard to tell.”
“Did you say yes?” That was clearly the only acceptable answer in Mercedes’ book.
“I turned him down,” Kurt replies. No need to share his verbal diarrhea with the class. “And he was worried that I thought that his motives weren’t pure because of the whole Rachel thing—“
“Imagine that!”
“—and he basically said that he was going to prove me wrong. He left all dramatically and back-lit, and I’m pretty sure he was plotting what musical number would most convince me of the sincerity of his motives.” Out loud it sounds vaguely ridiculous, but Kurt knows perfectly well the power of Jesse St James’ voice.
“Boy, you are screwed,” Mercedes says happily.
“I know,” Kurt says glumly. He’s pretty sure that the whole plan is going to backfire when he falls desperately in love with the dashing Jesse St James. It’s going to be so embarrassing, and he’s pretty sure Santana might shove him inside a locker for wasting all her time.
“Resistance is key,” Mercedes offers.
“Resistance is futile,” Kurt despairs.
From the silence on the other end of the line, he can tell Mercedes agrees. Dammit.
*
Kurt spends the next two days feeling like an extra in a particularly cruel horror movie. He keeps expecting a surprise musical ambush at any moment – perhaps with pyro and back-up dancers – but no dice. Jesse St James is elusive. Jesse St James is like a cheetah on the prowl, and Kurt is the wobbly-kneed antelope who knows that sudden death is out lurking in the savannah, but just keeps on hobbling around the water hole anyway.
There haven’t been any more planning meetings – Kurt is somewhat relieved to know that he’s not the center of everyone’s universe right now – and after two full days of nothing, not even so much as a cryptic text message, Kurt begins to relax.
So, of course, that’s when Puck corners him at his locker.
Kurt reflexively looks for a slushie.
“We took down Vocal Adrenaline last night,” Puck announces happily. “The full works. Wrecked their auditorium, egged their rehearsal room, paint-balled their cars, stole their trophy and stapled it to the roof of the AA meeting hall.”
“Congratulations,” Kurt says warily. It’s still disconcerting, having Puck nearby without fearing for his Dolce and Gabbana.
“Santana wants to know how you’re doing,” Puck continues, as though having a conversation alone with Kurt without the word ‘gay’ being featured frequently in startlingly unoriginal insults is somehow normal.
“Jesse is planning on wooing me,” Kurt says reluctantly.
Puck nods. “With a song? That shit totally works. At least, for studs like the Puckasaurus Rex.” He smirks.
Kurt isn’t sure if he’s supposed to agree that Puck is a stud or not. He chooses to ignore the comment and Puck’s increasingly inane nicknames for himself. “Yes. He’s planning to woo me through song. I’m waiting for said serenade to happen.”
“If he knows what he’s doing, he’ll wait until he thinks you’re desperate and your self-esteem has plummeted because he hasn’t said anything to you, and then, whammo! Song and dance and into your pants,” Puck says sagely. “Works like a charm.”
Kurt is pretty sure that he’s filing for moral bankruptcy just by listening to Puck talk. “That is horrible.” He pauses. “He wouldn’t think I’m really that desperate, right? I have self-esteem! I have more self-esteem than I know what to do with! My self-esteem could fill a swimming pool!”
Puck’s shoulders start to shake and Kurt realizes he’s being laughed at. “You. Neanderthal. Go. You’re offending my eyes with your stupid face.”
Puck legitimately pats him on the shoulder and leaves Kurt standing there, debating sending Jesse a completely casual text about how he’d forgotten Jesse St James even existed and definitely was not waiting for the promised serenade.
*
“Puck was right,” Kurt says. The words feel thick and cottony in his mouth, like his very soul is rebelling against the idea that Puck might be right about something.
“Did you eat some of that chicken salad that was in the Tupperware in the fridge? Because that shit’s been there for months,” Mercedes says, looking at him with deep concern.
“I know,” Kurt says. “I think I was the one who left it there. But I think he’s right about what Jesse is doing. He is kind of an expert in manipulating girls.”
Mercedes sighs. “Sweetheart, even if Jesse is manipulating you, you know about it, so it’s null and void. Also, did you forget the part where you had cheerleaders infiltrate his circle of known associates and brainwash them into casually mentioning things designed to make him think of you?”
Kurt purses his lips. “That is completely different.”
Mercedes raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest.
“In the way where Jesse is the enemy and everything he does is evil and thus everything I do is justified,” Kurt clarifies.
“Keep that in mind,” Mercedes says. She waves two bottles of polish at Kurt. “Now, which of these would look better on my toes?”
*
When Kurt gets home, he can hear the low rumble of a male voice and the lighter giggles of a female voice drifting up his basement stairs. He sighs and prepares himself to deal with Finn and Rachel yet again.
He has to blink twice when he gets to the foot of the stairs. Finn is nowhere in sight, Rachel is mercifully absent, and Noah Puckerman is sprawled out in his chair playing some hand-held video game while Santana and Brittany giggle on Kurt’s bed.
“You know, it’s considered polite to get an invitation before you invade someone’s room,” Kurt tells Santana.
“Your dad let us in,” she replies. “He thinks I’m a nice girl.”
Puck snorts.
“No, he doesn’t,” Kurt says. “He’s just happy you’re not Rachel Berry. Finn brought her over for dinner yesterday and she decided to perform a Barbara Streisand medley before dessert. Dad doesn’t appreciate Streisand, especially when it keeps him from his key lime pie.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Plus I think he expected me to bring home someone who insists on performing show tunes during meals, not Finn.”
“Dude, your life sucks,” Puck says.
“I am well aware,” Kurt replies. It really is alarming how often he’s been agreeing with Puck lately. Maybe Babygate did mature Puck. It’s definitely not a reflection of Kurt’s state of mind. “Why are you here?”
Puck glances over at Santana and Brittany. Brittany beams at Kurt. “Make-out lessons!”
Kurt blinks. None of them need make-out lessons. They’ve collectively probably made out with three-quarters of the population of Lima.
…Wait.
He narrows his eyes at Santana. “No.”
Santana rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t be a baby. Trust me, you need them.”
“I thought you were joking!” Kurt’s voice rises dangerously high on the last note.
“Relax,” Brittany says. “It’ll be fun.”
Kurt turns his still-narrowed eyes to Puck. “Did you actually agree to this?”
“I got promised a threesome,” Puck says with a shrug. Brittany and Santana nod.
Kurt, for the first time in his life, has no idea what to say. He just stares at the three of them, sprawled comfortably around his room.
“Is he broken?” Puck asks, tilting his head.
“He’ll get over it,” Santana says calmly. “Okay. What should we start with?”
“Kissing,” Brittany says decisively. “Pucker up!”
She and Santana dissolve into giggles.
“Um,” Kurt says. “Wait, is this actually happening?”
Puck responds by getting up and suddenly being entirely too close to Kurt. Kurt flinches away out of pure reflex.
“Don’t flinch with Jesse. That’s a bad move,” Santana calls.
“Jesse has never thrown me in a dumpster,” Kurt replies testily. “I’m not conditioned to flinch from him.”
“So you want me to just lay one on him, or what?” Puck asks Santana.
Santana taps her chin. “Yeah. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Kurt is pretty sure that this is a cruel dream he’s having. His subconscious is a bitch.
Puck looks skeptically at Kurt. “He looks awful skittish. Like a kicked kitten.”
Kurt keeps waiting on his words to return to him. Things are spiraling out of control. “I’m not skittish.”
“You backing out, Puckerman?” Santana demands. Brittany leans her head on Santana’s shoulder and winks.
Puck sighs and leans in and the next thing Kurt knows, he’s being kissed by Noah Puckerman. It’s kind of awesome.
“Do something with your hands!” Brittany calls out.
Kurt kind of flails them, because the only place to put them is on Puck, and that is too weird, even though Puck’s got a hand cupping his jaw and another hand resting lightly on Kurt’s hip. Puck stops kissing him but doesn’t move away from him, and Santana and Brittany are suddenly standing on either side of Kurt.
“Here,” Santana says, taking Kurt’s hand and resting it on Puck’s chest. “Nothing fancy, but it’s nice to, you know, acknowledge that someone is right there kissing you.”
Kurt’s cheeks are kind of warm, and he’s never felt this awkward in his life.
“Should I get you drunk?” Puck asks. “You aren’t going to have a diva fit, are you? Because I’m only down for so much.”
“I do not have diva fits,” Kurt says with as much dignity as he can muster, considering that Brittany has taken his right hand and is playing itsy-bitsy-spider with it, and that his left hand is still resting on Puck’s well-muscled chest.
How is this his life?
“The drunk plan isn’t so bad,” Santana says. She turns to Kurt, hands on her hips. “Either loosen up or we’re raiding your dad’s liquor cabinet.”
“Can we anyway?” Puck asks. “I think I earned it.”
“You’ve kissed him once, and he had scared Bambi eyes the whole time,” Santana says. “I want his toes curling.”
“I mean, I’m a stud and I can do whatever I want and it’s cool,” Puck begins, “but curling toes is starting to sound a little gay.”
He’s still like four inches from Kurt’s face, and his hand is still curled around Kurt’s hip.
Kurt thinks hysterical laughter is bubbling up in his throat. He’s never actually experienced the phenomenon before, but this situation definitely warrants it. “You really don’t have to make my toes curl,” Kurt says firmly.
“He’s very good at it,” Brittany assures Kurt. She’s now loosely holding his hand, and she leans forward and pecks his cheek.
“Pretend like we aren’t here,” Santana offers.
Puck raises an eyebrow at Kurt. Kurt sighs. “I’ll loosen up.”
Puck kisses him again, and Kurt does his best to pretend like anyone except Puck is kissing him and that two Cheerios aren’t analyzing his every move. It’s more difficult than he anticipates.
Puck pulls back. “This isn’t working.”
“It’s really not,” Kurt agrees. His hand is still resting on Puck’s chest.
Brittany sighs. “Do you want us to turn our backs?”
Santana snaps at Puck, “Back out now and you don’t even get to watch us make out, much less join in.”
“He’s the one with fish lips,” Puck whines.
“Kurt, you need to just go for it,” Brittany says. “You aren’t going to get a boy just standing there.”
Kurt smoothes his hair. “This is just really weird, okay.”
Puck nods, even though he’s been having zero issues. Kurt glares. If Puck can do this, he can too. He will not be embarrassed by being totally turned on by Noah Puckerman’s stupid muscle-y arms. Kurt Hummel is not a prude, and he’s more than a little appalled that Santana, Brittany and Puck all clearly now think he is.
“On the bed,” Santana instructs.
“Isn’t the bed a little too sexy?” Puck questions.
“Isn’t that the point?” Kurt wonders.
He gets an uncomfortable look from Puck and resists the urge to giggle. Brittany adds, “It’s Finn’s bed, so it’s not sexy.”
There was a pause as they all consider the truthfulness of this statement. Then Puck pushes Kurt down on Finn’s bed – Kurt tries not to be offended by the cowboy bedding that Finn insisted on – and is abruptly on top of him, kissing him and moving and it’s suddenly very, very easy to forget about their audience.
“See? Just had to get rid of the middle school dance vibe,” he hears Santana say dimly.
It turns out that Kurt likes making out with Puck. He likes it rather a lot.
After they get comfortable with the fact that they are sucking face, Puck starts giving advice – “Move to the left, just there,” and “Easier on the tongue,” and “Remember not to smoosh the chick, or, I guess, dude,” – and Kurt obeys and tries to ignore his dick, especially since it really wants him to rub it against Puck’s. He is not going to come in his pants. Especially not these pants, they’re nowhere near out of season yet.
He almost yelps when he feels a small cool hand grab his, and opens his eyes to see Brittany taking his hand and moving it to Puck’s ass. “Squeeze like this,” she instructs.
“Maybe his hand should go in the pants,” Santana says thoughtfully.
“Not gonna happen,” Puck mumbles into where he’s lazily kissing Kurt’s neck. “That’s gay.”
“You’ve got your hand up Kurt’s shirt,” Santana calmly points out.
“Totally different. It’s a chick move,” Puck replies. Kurt’s already planning what scarf he’s going to wear tomorrow to hide the hickey that Puck is leaving behind.
Kurt is a terrible person. Kurt shouldn’t do it. Kurt shifts his hips so that his dick, somewhat painfully confined in his too-tight pants, gets wonderful, delicious friction against Puck’s boner. Puck groans into Kurt’s neck, and Kurt smirks at Santana. “Chick move?” he asks.
“Fuck you, dude,” Puck replies. He doesn’t actually seem over-bothered by the level of gay, though, as he takes Kurt’s move as the all-clear to put his hips into motion.
Kurt promptly forgets everything, even the Cheerios still perched on the bed with them, when there is a loud “Oh my god,” from the direction of the stairwell.
Puck looks over. Kurt peers over one of Puck’s shoulders. Finn is standing at the bottom of the stairs looking scandalized. “Are you having an orgy on my bed?”
“There are way too many clothes not on the floor for this to be an orgy,” Puck replies easily.
Finn blinks a few times. “Are you making out with Kurt?”
“No, he slipped and fell onto my mouth,” Kurt says, rolling his eyes.
“We’re kind of busy,” Brittany says. “Unless you want in?”
“No! No, that’s fine,” Finn says quickly, backing up the stairs. He trips a little and grabs onto the railing. “I was just coming to say that, um. Jesse St James is on the front lawn with a bunch of back-up dancers. And a band. And I think a fireworks technician.”
Kurt tries to sit bolt upright, but Puck is in the way. He kind of bounces off him, hits the bed, and begins to squirm his way out of the tangle of limbs he’s gotten himself into. “Really? What are they wearing? Does it look like it’s going to be a classic Broadway performance or something more modern?”
Finn clearly has no answer.
“Hey, dweeb, you aren’t allowed to just ditch the Puckster,” Puck protests.
“Oh, right,” Kurt says. He pecks Puck on the cheek. “Thank you very much.”
Santana and Brittany giggle as Kurt scampers out of bed and hurries towards the stairs, then doubles back and perches at his vanity, carefully re-arranging his hair into something a little less debauched.
“Um,” Finn says awkwardly from the stairs. “Do you want me to…” He clearly has no idea what to offer.
“You can return to your Ice Road Truckers marathon,” Kurt says with a finger flutter of dismissal. In the vanity mirror he can see Santana, now perched on top of Puck, unzipping Brittany’s Cheerios uniform. Finn’s eyes are very wide as he obediently clumps back up the stairs.
Kurt doesn’t think there’s anything he can do about his swollen lips beyond dabbling some watermelon-flavored lip gloss on them, but he does add a jaunty scarf that adds just the right amount of maidenly anticipation – he works it – and hurries to the stairs. He spares Santana, Puck and Brittany a glance as he goes, but they’re already preoccupied.
He heard what Finn said well enough, but it’s still a shock when he opens his front door and there’s a portable stage set up, risers and all, with Jesse settled at a piano on the edge of it. There’s even a band and a string quartet. It reminds Kurt uncomfortably of Vocal Adrenaline’s set-up for Regionals, and he shuts the door firmly behind him, hoping that Finn will leave well enough alone.
“Kurt,” Jesse says grandly, rises and does a polite, gentlemanly bow. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a red velvet frock coat. The dancers arrange themselves – girls in tiny white taffeta dresses and boys wearing tight jeans, leather jackets and top hats – and it all makes sense when Jesse settles back down at the piano and plays the opening notes of November Rain.
“When I look into your eyes, I can see a love restrained,” Jesse sings. “And darling when I hold you, don’t you know I feel the same?”
Kurt watches, eyes wide, as the dancers begin, and Jesse, after establishing his prowess with the piano, leaps into the fray, dancing his way through the troupe as he sings a heartrendingly beautiful version of the song, a version heretofore only dreamt of by Axl Rose. Kurt cannot look away.
And then Jesse looks straight into Kurt’s eyes as he sings, “So if you want to love me, then darling don’t refrain.”
The girls twirl around and the choreography is flawless and Kurt is helplessly, hopelessly smitten. He walks towards the stage and allows Jesse to spin him, to come in close and sing to him, to take his hand and tell him that he needs somebody, and then, as the final notes ring through the air, Kurt kisses Jesse.
Fireworks explode through the air, and Kurt thinks this is the single most perfect moment of his entire life.
*
They end up in Jesse’s car rather quickly after that – Jesse hissing that amateur fireworks are illegal here and that they need to get kind of far away pretty soon – and Kurt can’t stop smiling stupidly.
“I thought I would further show off my mastery of Freddie Mercury’s oeuvre,” Jesse says, “but then I remembered your choir’s somewhat perplexing adoration of hair metal classics. I hope it was to your satisfaction?”
“Quite,” Kurt agrees. He’s feeling a little dumbstruck, especially when Jesse smiles like that. Poor Rachel Berry. She hadn’t stood a chance. Kurt feels faintly bad for mocking her Jesse St James-related choices, if this was what she’d been presented with. “You stage epic numbers just before Nationals often, or am I special?”
There was one of Jesse’s big warm hands, stroking Kurt’s cheek. “I think you know the answer to that.”
Kurt lets out a tiny mewling happy sigh and took this opportunity to kiss Jesse again. This is pretty much the best night of his life, he realizes, carefully putting Puck’s kissing technique into practice. Making out with not one but two hot dudes, one of which he actually likes and has just choreographed an epic dance number in his honor. Kurt had always known his day would come, but he hadn’t really expected it to happen while he was still in high school.
“Want to take this to the back seat?” Jesse asks with a smoldering stare.
“Absolutely,” Kurt agrees quickly. When he climbs out to be able to fold himself into the car’s postage-stamp sized back seat, he realizes that Jesse has parked across the street from Rachel Berry’s house. Kurt tries not to question it as Jesse joins him and they awkwardly find a way to accommodate all the knees and elbows that suddenly seem to fill up the back seat, especially when Jesse manages to straddle Kurt’s hips and leans down and kisses him senseless.
But, as it turns out, not senseless enough that Kurt can ignore something like Rachel Berry’s house lurking outside the car, radiating disapproval and superiority.
Kurt breaks the kiss. “Why did you bring us here?”
“Where?” Jesse mumbles into Kurt’s throat, where he’s nuzzling the scarf out of the way in order to get to more skin. He’s also working a hand down Kurt’s pants, a move that is both impressive due to the snugness of Kurt’s pants as well as a move guaranteed to make Kurt lose his train of thought pretty soon, so he asks again.
“Here. That’s Rachel Berry’s house.” Kurt never would have thought he’d be talking about Rachel Berry while a dude was trying to feel him up.
“Is it?” Jesse’s voice sounds a little squeaky. “I mean.” He looks up. “Huh. It is.”
Kurt blinks several times. “Your subconscious had you bring your new boyfriend to your ex-girlfriend’s house to make out with him for the first time?”
“So you think you’re my boyfriend?” Charming smile. Kurt will not be swayed.
“Focus on the other half of the sentence, especially the bit where you purposely tried to rattle my group’s lead singer right before Regionals,” Kurt says testily.
“I wasn’t supposed to rattle Rachel,” Jesse admits. “I was just supposed to befriend her so she’d find out that Shelby was her mom. Shelby’s idea.”
“But then why did you seduce her?” Kurt asks.
Jesse manages to prop himself up on his elbow, one hand still tucked in Kurt’s waistband, and sighs. “It seemed like a good use of resources at the time. I’m very charming.”
Kurt raises an eyebrow.
“And for a brief time, I thought our combined vocal talents would be enough to convince her to join Vocal Adrenaline. And, tumor-like, she kind of grew on me,” Jesse admits. “But I had my career to think about, and the potential for disaster was too great.”
“So you egged her.”
“So I egged her,” Jesse confirms.
“And do you still have a crush on Rachel?” Kurt is really, really sick of boys he has crushes on being in love with Rachel Berry.
Jesse smiles. “Not anymore.”
His hand creeps lower, and Kurt decides that, really, in a town this small there’s no use in waiting around for someone who hasn’t dated people he hates. Jesse returns to nuzzling his neck, and pushes Kurt’s scarf out of the way.
There’s a pause.
“Why were you covering up your neck?” Jesse asks tersely. His hand is no longer in Kurt’s pants.
Kurt remembers Puck sucking on his neck like a Hoover.
“Um. Mosquito bite?” He goes ahead and removes his hand from Jesse’s ass. He has a feeling it’s not going to be welcome by the time this conversation is over.
“You cheated on me!” Jesse says, astonished.
“I did not!” Kurt defends himself. “I didn’t know we were exclusive! You only just wooed me! If anything, it’s your own fault for taking too long to stage an extravagant musical number!”
Apparently douchery is transmitted via saliva, because he’s pretty sure he caught it from Puck.
Jesse pulls away, and there’s a moment of awkward detangling as they each position themselves on a single seat. Kurt fastidiously smoothes his hair.
“Wait, was that why you didn’t come out when the trucks bringing the stages pulled up? Did you have someone in your room while I was serenading you?”
Kurt really can’t answer that question. It’s time to put the end game in action, he supposes. He really doesn’t want to.
“This isn’t going to work,” Jesse says quietly.
Kurt had hoped to at least get a few good dinners out of the whole dating-Jesse thing. “I’m not sorry. I don’t think you’re nearly as excellent as you think you are. And your hair needs some serious work, really. You look like Justin Timberlake after he’s been stranded on a desert island stocked only with mousse for two months.”
He sent a prayer of thanks for all the hair-mockery he’d heard from Sue Sylvester during his tenure as a Cheerio.
Jesse looks gobsmacked. “My hair is glorious.”
Kurt sniffs. “You’re no McDreamy.”
And with that, he manages to push the front seat forward, mentally cursing the designers of sports cars, and manages to climb out. Jesse sits despondently in the back seat. “Elaborate dance numbers have never failed me before.”
Kurt feels really, really bad. Guilty, even, and he never feels guilt, especially not when manipulating others. It’s a bad sign.
“Maybe you just aren’t as musically talented as you supposed,” he answers, hopefully putting the nail in the coffin of Jesse’s confidence and talent at Nationals.
And then he walks off.