Kurt walks with his head down, teeth clamped hard around his tongue. Bits of sticky, syrupy ice slide both fast and slow down his neck, dipping beneath his shirt and making him shiver. His shirt, an expensive designer piece that his dad had bought for his birthday, clings to his skin uncomfortably.
A sob bubbles in his throat, but he pushes it down, shoving his way into the girl's bathroom and dropping his books to the floor.
He doesn't even bat an eye when the girls already in there cast him dirty glances before rolling their eyes, grabbing their make-up bags, and shoving past him. (Quinn is there, and she makes sure to be the last one out just to rest a supposed-to-be comforting hand on his shoulder, but it only makes him feel worse.)
Numbly, he lets the hot water run while walking to the end of the row of sinks and cranking out a good two feet of paper towel. He tears it in half, leaving one part dry while he dampens the other under the warm flow of weak water.
It's when he's carding the cheap paper through his hair that he hears the door creak open.
He ignores it, caring more about his hair than what is probably some stumbling freshman girl with bad acne, until he sees Noah Puckerman's lumbering form behind him. Catching his eye in the mirror, Kurt notices that the jock seems somber, almost angry.
"This is the girl's bathroom, Noah," Kurt says bitterly. "You might want to get out before somebody catches you."
Puck doesn't say anything, which is honestly more surprising than his presence in general.
Sure, gone are the days of Puck sending him headfirst into dumpsters, and he's come to think of them as acquaintances, at least, but he still expects an insult or two thrown his way every now and then.
Instead, Puck just walks towards the end of the room, expression blank as he cranks the paper towel dispenser and tears off a piece even bigger than the one Kurt took.
Without looking him in the eye, Puck nods at his shirt.
Confused, Kurt shakes his head. "Look, I don't know what you're trying to make up for by doing this, but you really don't—"
"Shut up and take the damn shirt off, Hummel." Puck's voice is sharp, but somehow still gentle.
It makes Kurt dizzy, but he shakes his head and moves to tug at his layers, both refusing to be self-conscious and desperate to free himself from the sticky fabric.
Wordlessly and with a flush staining his cheeks, Kurt passes his clothes off to the other boy, frowning at the designer tag that waves him as if to say goodbye.
Catching his pout, Puck smiles in a way that would be fond if he wasn't Puck. "I'm not totally stupid, dude. I've been slushied too, so my mom taught me how to get the stains out, just in case it ever happened again."
Not entirely convinced but surprisingly touched by the gesture, Kurt returns his smile before turning back to the mirror to address the matter of his hair. He feels naked without his layers but, even though the thought makes him ache, he finds some sort of comfort in the knowledge that somebody as dreadfully straight as Noah Puckerman would be the last person to check him out.
They work in silence for a few minutes, until Kurt no longer feels sticky and Puck his wringing out his shirt, muscles bulging in such a way that Kurt refuses to call distracting. His undershirt lies discarded on the floor, but the material is cheap enough that Kurt could honestly care less.
"Impressive," Kurt says, nodding at the damp, stainless shirt in Puck's hands. "Probably not good anymore, but impressive." Offering the jock a genuine smile, Kurt walks over to his bag, pulling out his emergency 'McKinley High Football Team' t-shirt and shrugging it over his head with a tired sigh that makes his bones feel heavy.
When he turns around, he's surprised by Puck suddenly being right there, gaze intense as he looks down at the shorter boy. He grins when Kurt blushes.
"Th-thank you," Kurt stutters. "For helping me and everything, but if you don't want to be seen with me, then you should probably—"
He's cut off by the soft press of the other boy's mouth, his lips gentle but sudden against Kurt's own. His eyes slide shut before he can help himself, body melting without his permission in the arms that wrap around his waist.
For the first time since he walked through the doors of William McKinley High school, Kurt feels the crazy, wonderful sensation of being safe.
Puck pulls away first, but their noses are still brushing, and he brings up a surprisingly gentle hand to cup the curve of Kurt's cheek, thumb brushing over soft skin.
"I'll admit, I totally had ulterior motives when I decided to come in here," Puck whispers, lips twitching around a satisfied smile.
"But you're straight," Kurt blurts, feeling stupid for saying it but feeling like he should know better than to believe something so good.
Shrugging, Puck brushes their lips together again, quick and sweet and dreadfully chaste. "I'm definitely not gay, but I can't really look at anyone in that way since I started looking at you in that way. I figure I'm, I don't know, Kurt-sexual."
Cheeks flushing again, Kurt tries to look down, but Puck stops him with another kiss. The touch shoots all the way down Kurt's spine, trapping him in a current that he never meant to get himself caught in.
"Hey, stop being shy, alright? I'm not here to hurt you, I promise."
It's hard for Kurt to believe it, as used to the endless torture and ridicule as he is these days. Nobody has ever been this kind to him before; his first kiss was with Brittany, for Christ's sake.
Still, there's some small part of him that doesn't need much convincing.
Puck makes him feel safe, though it doesn't make any sense. And, despite not having many kisses to compare it to, Puck's lips definitely had the power to make him forget his own name.
So, swallowing down whatever shy fear he might feel, he stands up on his tip-toes and kisses the other boy hard, winding his arms around his shoulders and pulling him close.