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Sam Evans likes cheesecake. He likes solving crosswords in the Times and he consistently half-finishes it without cheating by way of internet, but he always has to look up the words in the dictionary. He likes Isaac Asimov novels and paintings by Dalí, and whenever there's a song on the radio that he likes, he can repeat the lyrics after one listen. He can't spell them, maybe, but he can sing them, and that's what matters.
He likes boys. He likes girls, too, but. He likes to think about kissing boys, about touching boys, about their penises and their strong arms, their butts and their necks.
His mom always says it's okay to be scared, but he's not sure how she'll react if she were to find out. He knows what she dreams of: a beautiful, blonde girlfriend for him, so they can dance off into the sunset together, and then chastely make babies everyone will coo at.
He's not sure about the baby. He's fairly certain there will never be a girl he'd want to make that unhappy. And frankly, he thinks about sex way too much to manage the chaste part.
- - - - -
Sam knows he's not the smartest boy around but he does okay for himself. He studies hard even though it only gets him mediocre grades. He knows mediocre grades are better than bad grades, and if he gets into a college on a football scholarship, he'll still have the knowledge to pass tests there if football fails him.
He can't do anything about his spelling, but he can (slowly) read the assigned books with care and show the teacher that he's giving his best. Sam always gives his best. Sometimes, it's not good enough, and sometimes it's just enough; but as long as he can feel good about himself afterwards, it's okay. He's honest with himself. That's what matters.
He's honest enough to admit that he's failing French.
The ironic thing is that he loves foreign languages. He loves all of them, Spanish, French, German, Japanese. He watches French films in French, and Japanese anime religiously in Japanese, because he loves the sound of the foreign words, enjoys the way the speakers put emotion into their voices in a completely different way than Americans would.
It just seems that he's incapable of learning a language himself. He tried Spanish in Junior High, because his best friend was Mexican. But then Andres moved away and Sam never got anything above a C- anyway. French's even worse. His tongue refuses to work around the French pronounciation, and every time he tries to put down a sentence, the letters just mix up into salad and he can't make any sense of them.
After his latest failed test, Sam decides it's time to take action. He needs to pass this class, for himself; and he could play the quarterback card, he knows he could, but he's not that kind of guy. Instead, he goes up to his teacher and says, "Mrs Denny, is there any way you can find me a tutor?"
And that's how he ends up in an after-school special with Kurt Hummel.
- - - - -
When Sam chose not to join Glee, he had a good reason: It's one thing to admit to himself that he would, hypothetically, probably, enjoy sucking cock. It's a wholly different thing to shout it out at the whole school. He's sure most guys in Glee aren't gay, but those who are known to be straight either have a girlfriend, have had a girlfriend, or are manwhores. Sam's not judging, but he doesn't want to be judged either, thanks; he's equal opportunity on that front. And he doesn't have a girlfriend. Hasn't had a girlfriend. And he's not planning on sleeping with lots of girls just to prove his straightness. It wouldn't be fun for anyone involved.
Kurt doesn't seem to have that problem. He's toughing it out, the insults, the shoving, the humiliation. Sam's seen it happen in the hallways. He's ashamed of himself for looking away, even more so now when, Monday after school, Kurt sits down next to him and pulls out a book from his backpack.
"Right," he says, composed, every hair in its place, but with a slightly cold tone to his voice. "I'm Kurt . I'm going to get you on at least a C in French class."
"You are?" Sam asks. Kurt sounds awfully certain.
Kurt gives him a look. "Don't fuck with me," he says. "Denny said you requested this. If you really want to, you'll put in the work and we can make it happen. If this is a misunderstanding, you're wasting my time. I could be getting a manicure right now, so make up your mind quick."
Sam feels himself color up. "I did ask Mrs Denny for a tutor," he says. "And I'm working hard. I will work hard. It's just not that easy."
Kurt's eyebrows rise. He obviously wasn't expecting this.
"Maybe we can just... start. And you'll see," Sam says.
Kurt nods. "All right."
They get to work. Sam doesn't ask what Kurt's getting out of this. Sam can't give him any money - he has none to give - and from what he's heard, Kurt doesn't need it anyway. He's wearing Evisu skinny jeans that come at 150$ a piece. Sam's seen them in the expensive denim stores downtown, the ones he only ever passes from the outside.
He doesn't wonder for long, because Kurt's relentless and demands his complete attention in the sixty minutes they have. Afterwards, Sam feels like his brain is mush between his ears.
He's not sure he's getting better, but at least Kurt's not looking at him suspiciously anymore. They walk together to the car park, even though they don't talk. Kurt keeps glancing at him, like he's a riddle he has to solve. Sam likes that, too.
- - - - -
They meet every day after school for the next week, an hour in which Kurt pounds vocabulary and verb conjugations and tenses and pronounciation into Sam's head. If only ten percent of it sticks, Sam's sure he'll pass the next test.
On Friday afternoon, when they pack up, Kurt says, "Finn's told me about you."
Sam's head rucks up.
"About the singing. That you came to try out for Glee at the beginning of the school year. But then you chickened out." He's half-smiling. It's not a nice smile, but it's not mean either. Not yet. "Didn't take you for the type to be scared of bullies."
Sam licks his lips. He feels nervous, like Kurt can see right through him if he gives the wrong answer now. He only catches Kurt's gaze following the movement of his tongue because he's looking for evidence that Kurt knows. Strangely, it calms his nerves. Inside, he thinks, oh. And just like that, it's his advantage.
"I can sing," he says, and does.
"Somehow I'm leading someone else's life
I cut a star down with my knife
And right now I still see the way the moon plays this tune
Though our nights died
My hands shake
My knees quake
It's everyday
Same way."
Sam's always been proud how well he can cover some of Joshua Radin's best; but Kurt, of course, just steps in, catches him in the middle and sings,
"I thank the boys who kicked my ass when I was 17
I thank the ones who chose to laugh and those who acted mean
I thank the bullies for body slams and accidents and then some
They shaped my life; they made me like who I've become."
It is much more fitting for Kurt than for Sam.
Sam catches his breath, watches Kurt sink into the song. It's beautiful and moving, and Sam wants it to go on, but he can't stand it. "It's not that easy," he interrupts.
"You should come back," Kurt says, like it is just that easy. Like they didn't just sing together, like they haven't spent hours together this week.
"I'm not sure," Sam says softly. He looks at the desk before him. "I'm not very good at this."
Kurt doesn't touch him, but he looks like he wants to. He looks like he has no idea what to do to help. "It's your decision," he finally says, and walks away. Sam is left standing in the classroom; outside the window, kids are heading towards their cars in groups of twos and threes, joking and making fun. Life used to be easier.
- - - - -
Sam likes having friends. But that's the problem with moving: you leave all your friends in New York. In Lima, Ohio, you're a nobody. And even when you're somebody - the quarterback, the pretty kid, the new student in the class - you still don't have any friends. The best you can hope for is to be overlooked.
When his phone rings on Saturday afternoon, he's sitting alone in his room, playing Farmville on his facebook account and chatting with some of the people he's left behind in a glittering, exciting city where, he thinks, he might have told them, sometime soon. Here, he can't trust anyone. It's a different world. It's hard to stand.
Sam expects the caller to be his mother or his father, or maybe his football coach. When he sees a number he doesn't recognize, he's very surprised. He's even more surprised when he picks up and a voice at the other end asks, "Is this Sam? Sam Evans?"
"Kurt?"
"Yes. It's me." There are voices in the background, music. Kurt shushes someone. "Listen - we were wondering if you wanted to join us. We're doing movie night at my house."
"We?"
"My friends and I. Mercedes. Quinn. Mike and Tina. You should come."
"Are you drunk?"
Kurt snorts. "Sadly, no. But there is non-alcoholic fruit punch. And cake."
Sam gives it a second. He cannot imagine they would play a cruel prank on him. Not the Glee kids. Not when they're the target of pranks themselves at school all the time. Still, he hesitates. "Why?" he asks.
Kurt hums. "Why not?" and Sam hears the unspoken, because you have no other friends, so why not?
- - - - -
"How did you get my number?" is the first thing he mumbles when he finds himself face to face with Kurt. He was carred to the front of Kurt's house by his mom. She waved and left without waiting for anyone to open the door. She knows how embarrassing that would be for him. She's a good mom.
Kurt is smiling at him. It's a nice smile, genuine and sweet. It makes heaviness pool in Sam's stomach, hot and tingly. "Apparently, you signed it in with the football coach. I'm a cheerleader. I have access."
"Oh," Sam says. He wonders why Kurt would want access to his phone number. But it might be best not to ask that. He follows Kurt inside instead, and then downstairs. There are no parents to be seen, but a few members of the Glee club are there: Mercedes, painting Mike Chang's nails hot pink. Tina is dancing with Brittany, choreographing a dance to some music only they can hear. Tina's lost most of her make-up, and she looks even prettier than she does in school. And then Quinn - she's a shock, he didn't expect her here - comes down the stairs behind them, carrying a plate of cookies and cake, and an extra glass.
"Hi," he says and feels very shy. The enthusiastic, loud chatter stops. Everyone stares at him, no one's hiding their curiousity. He bites his lip.
Then Mercedes grins broadly. "My next victim!" she exlaims, pointing the nailbrush at him. Everyone laughs. It's not a mean laugh, it's like they're happy to see him and glad he's not acting weirded out or disgusted. Sam flushes with pleasure and doesn't protest Mercedes' plan. Mike seems to bear it with pride, and Sam's a good sport about these things. As long as you can wash it off afterwards.
"Don't let her make you, if you don't want to," Kurt tells him, winking, and then jumps on top of his bed and switches on the TV to play a music channel. Quinn sits down next to him and leans her head on his shoulder. "I think they'll have karaoke coming on soon on this channel," she says. "We could sing."
Kurt nods. "Have you guys heard Sam sing yet?"
"You can sing?" Brittany asks Sam, tilting her head. "You look faint. Don't worry. I get nervous, too."
Tina is smiling. "You should definitely sing something! We can sing a duet. Any ideas?"
Sam stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at his shoes, smiling too. "How about Something Stupid?"
"Sinatra for sure!" Mike chimes in, making shooing motions with his hands. "Do it!"
They watch Iron Man later, because the girls insist on a vote and trump Kurt's pretentious Austrian cinema flick collectively, and then they do add La Vie En Rose, because there's popcorn and cake left and no one wants to go home.
It's one of the best nights of Sam's year.
- - - - -
On Tuesday, Sam shows up to Glee rehearsal. When Finn stares at him, he ducks his head and heads over to where Kurt and Mike are sitting, thumb-wrestling. Tina's a very convincing referee. Mercedes and Quinn are poking fun at the people in a magazine that's spread across both their laps, giggling loudly. It feels comfortable, like they're all a family.
"Hey Sam," Brittany greets him, shifting over so he can take her seat. He's not sure why - there were plenty of free ones left. But he doesn't protest. It's Brittany. He's learned never to ask her unnecessary questions by now.
She leans over and asks, "Did you hear about the loose chickens in the Cheerio's changing rooms?"
Sam squints. "No. What?"
Brittany nods seriously. "It's a joke. You should laugh."
"Hah," Sam says. "Thanks."
"You're new, aren't you?" a girl steps in front of him. She's tiny, but she looks like someone on a mission. Her eyes are crazy. "I'm Rachel. How good are you, singing-wise? Can you replace that sorry excuse for a leading man?" She nods at Finn.
"I - I'm not sure?" he says, catching Finn's glower.
"Good. You'll do," Rachel nods, and glares back in Finn's direction.
"Lover's spat," Kurt whispers at him from the seat behind Sam. "You should be fine as long as you don't openly roll your eyes at all the drama."
Sam snorts with laughter. Kurt looks delighted at that. It makes Sam's neck heat up.
"Aaaaand, Mike wins. Sorry, Kurt," Tina announces. "Keep the eyes on the prize next time."
"I did," Kurt mutters.
"Are we still on for tutoring later?" Sam asks Kurt. It's the only sane option he has left, as far as conversational topics go.
"Actually, I had an idea about that," Kurt says, smiling warmly. "Mr. Schuester," he then cries, waving his hand in the air as the teacher steps to the front of the class. "Mr. Schuester, I have a proposition. We should do French song week!"
"I love French music," Rachel immediately joins in, swooping to the front, but Artie makes a sound, "Uh-huh," and says, "I think this one's on me." By the end of his rendition of La vie est Belle by MC Solaar, the whole club is on their feet, the girls joining into the chorus, while Mike does something absolutely incredible with his body that can only under extreme circumstances be called dancing.
"That was..." Sam breathes when Kurt joins him at the end of rehearsal. They're headed for their classroom to do learn some real French now.
"Great?" Kurt says. He's glowing with pride.
"Thank you," Sam says. "For making me come."
They both stare at each other for a beat. Then they break out in laughter, Sam flushing red-hot with innuendo.
- - - - -
Sam finds out he likes kissing when he passes his Friday French test with a B. B+. He has never in his life had a B+ in any foreign language test. Listening to a lot of French rap and hip-hop helped. So, he figures, did Kurt.
When Kurt waits up after the class has let out, coming to Sam's desk to check, Sam jumps on him with joy, giving him a tight hug. "I did it!" he says, and, "Thank you so much!"
Kurt laughs, "I cannot breathe, Sam, Sam, let me -"
And Sam lets him go just enough that they're on eye-level. Sam's three inches taller, but that's hardly any distance at all, especially when it's also the distance that separates their lips. He leans in and presses their mouths together, just like that, because if there's one thing he's learned in the past weeks, it's to go with it.
Kurt's lips are warm and soft underneath his own. He doesn't move, and then he does, pressing closer, hands on Sam's hips, crowding in. Sam gasps, and kisses him more, and then it's over, and there's a prickling, tingling sensation behind his forehead and on his tongue and in his belly.
"Wait, what?" Kurt asks.
Sam swoops in and kisses him again. He doesn't even care that they're in an open classroom and anyone could come in. Kurt doesn't protest. His hand just wanders to the back of Sam's neck and holds on.
Kurt likes kisses. And Sam, apparently.
Sam's in love.
- - - - -
~ End ~
- - - - -
written October 2010 for Kiss Bingo.