"I'm not sorry," Puck says.
Kurt brings a hand up to rub at his eyes, tired and worn. "Of course you're not," he says, but there's no malice in his voice, just a quiet kind of acceptance. "You never are."
One of Puck's hands is bleeding, skin split and torn with blood running intermittently through his fingers. He sits on Kurt's bed, sheets rustling underneath him, and Kurt stands up from his desk chair and turns around, catching Puck's bad hand before he can lean back and inadvertently press it into the mattress.
"Blood takes an eternity to wash out," Kurt says, studying the discolored skin so that he doesn't have to look at Puck. "You need to be more careful."
Silence hangs in the air, heavy and thick, and Puck knows that Kurt's not talking about the bedsheets.
Kurt lets go of Puck and retreats to the bathroom, and Puck rubs his hands together in his lap, red streaking across his worn jeans. He picks at a fray in the left knee with his good hand, listening to the stream of water audible through the doorway. It seems too loud in a space like this; it cuts through the oppressive quiet. Oppressive, because there are things that he and Kurt should really talk about, important things, but neither of them want to bring it up, for fear of having to face... this, whatever twisted thing this is that he and Kurt have.
Kurt returns with a damp washcloth, a bottle of alcohol and cotton swabs. Puck eyes the bottle warily and Kurt arches an eyebrow, kneeling in front of Puck and taking his hand again. The first swipe of the cotton hurts, a thousand little knives piercing Puck's skin, and he hisses.
"I find it baffling that you will beat up two jocks without even breaking a sweat, yet you cower at the mere sight of disinfectant," Kurt remarks into the empty air.
It's easy, then, to respond; the sarcasm is familiar ground for the both of them, a cue that signals how they should act. Puck huffs out a chuckle and forces a smile. "You're only saying that 'cause the sight of me punching Karofsky's face in got you all hot and bothered. It's okay to admit it."
"Admit that the sight of you boorish jocks conducting yourselves like Neanderthals is oddly fascinating in a horrifying way? Yes. Yes, I will admit that."
The uncomfortable silence falls over them again and Puck bites his lip, tasting blood there, too. Is there any place he's not wounded? Puck feels like he's falling apart.
"It's not okay for him to call you that," he says, softly, and Kurt stills, pink cotton swab hovering over Puck's fingers.
"Believe me, I've heard worse," Kurt responds. His voice is shaky. Puck doesn't like it, doesn't like when Kurt is anything other than the Kurt he lets everybody else see. The bitchy, ice-princess façade that Kurt's built for himself is crumbling a little bit more every day and both of them are powerless to stop it.
"Who's called you worse?" Puck asks, in lieu of addressing anything else. Violence is an easy escape. "Tell me and I'll beat their face in."
Kurt hasn't looked into his eyes once during their entire conversation. "Punching yourself in the face would only make your hand hurt more, wouldn't it?"
The silence smothers them now; the air in the room feels cold, sharp. Kurt resumes his cleaning motions, turning Puck's hand over and brushing the swab over the skin; smooth, pale fingers meeting Puck's callused, dark palm. Puck watches, partly out of fascination, but mostly because he doesn't have an answer.
"I hate this," he mutters, finally, and Kurt does look up at that, sharp gray eyes meeting Puck's dark brown.
"What?" he asks, voice deceptively calm.
He hates this, he hates that there's so much between them that they can't ignore but try to anyway, hates that he can't take anything back, hates that they're drawn to each other even though they really, really shouldn't be. He hates the nights without sleep, nights of trying to figure something, anything out about his life and coming up with hands empty. He hates the questions they've dodged, the curious looks they've received, the knowing smirks when their friends think they've figured them out. He hates the threats that Kurt faces by just being himself every single day, and he hates to think that at one point he was the cause of many of those threats.
"I hate that you're used to it," he murmurs.
Kurt blinks, once, twice, three times, and sets the bottle of alcohol aside. He presses his hands into Puck's knees, fingers threading in the denim, and lifts himself up, slowly scooting into Puck's lap on the bed. Kurt places his hands on Puck's shoulders and Puck's hands come to rest on Kurt's back, brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.
"I'm stronger than that," Kurt whispers, expression steely. "And so are you." And he kisses Puck.
Puck lifts a hand to the back of Kurt's head, threading his fingers through soft hair, and kisses him back. Because, at this point, that's all he knows how to do.