Hummel hovers in the doorway, nose scrunched slightly in a frown. His fingers clench and unclench, like he wants to help but isn't sure if he's allowed. The harsh bathroom light isn't flattering to his face; it washes out his skin and eyes, highlighting the shadows under them.
Puck doesn't know why he's just standing there: they fucked once, underneath the bleachers in the rain because Puck was angry and Hummel - he doesn't know what Hummel was. Probably just lonely (and he knows Hummel better than that, but he's not interested in wasting time thinking about that when he could be focussing on getting this damn slushie goop out of his clothes).
Hummel moves, then: he takes a halting step towards the paper towel dispenser to grab some, and then dampens them in the sink. He stands, the sodden green wad dripping all over the floor of the boy' bathroom, and stares at Puck as if considering something. He's biting his lip. Puck can't figure what's going on behind his eyes, and didn't he just tell himself that he wasn't going to bother about that 'figuring out Kurt Hummel' shit?
After a tense moment, they both realise just how stupid they must look; Hummel steps forward to offer the towels and Puck extends his hand to take them. Their hands don't touch.
Puck returns to washing his shirt. The syrup has soaked in enough that it'll need to be put through the machine after school, but for now it'll have to do; he can put up with the small discomfort - wait a minute, why is he even considering staying at school? He can just cut class and go home right now.
Then he thinks of the asshole's face, and remembers - pride, that's why.
For one ludicrous moment, he wants to cry.
That's ridiculous. Deep breath, stare hard at the shirt and don't bother wondering why Hummel still hasn't left.
The hiss of running water catches his attention, and he turns around to find Hummel running hot water into one of the sinks. What the hell?
"Take off your shirt," says Hummel. He doesn't say it loudly, but it echoes slightly in the cold, almost-empty bathroom. Puck stares at him.
A sigh.
"Take off your shirt," he repeats, "I need to wash it." After a moment, Puck does. He holds it by the cleanest edge, letting it dangle limply because he's not sure what to do with it now.
Hummel's pouring something liquid into the sink. He also keeps glancing at Puck out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment he feels a bit self-conscious about the nipple ring. Then he remembers: Who cares what Kurt Hummel thinks. His new motto, apparently.
"Travel wash," says Kurt, by way of explanation. "Here, give me your shirt." Puck does, and watches him plunge it underwater and scrub at it vigorously. He should probably offer to help or something, but he'd rather not get that close to Kurt.
A couple of minutes later, though, Kurt takes the shirt out of the sink, dries his hands and starts rooting in his bag.
"It's in here somewhe- got it!" And he triumphantly pulls out a hairdryer.
Travel wash and a hair dryer? Christ, this guy's prepared for everything. He probably keeps a mechanical toolkit in there too, just in case his precious car breaks down. He watches as Kurt plugs the hair dryer in, turns it on and starts to dry Puck's shirt.
Puck, by this point, feels kind of useless. Girly, faggy, pretty Kurt Hummel is proving himself to be calm and competent; he can feel his worldview crumbling about his ears (this may be a slight exaggeration, but right now he doesn't care). Of course, being an emotionally repressed teenage boy, instead of helping he chooses to stand there and sulk about the unfairness of it all until something soft hits him in the chest. It's his shirt, clean and dry, albeit slightly crumpled.
"Sorry, even I don't carry an iron." When he looks up, Kurt is smiling. Puck clears his throat.
"...Thanks," he says, then puts the shirt on because he must look like an idiot just holding it. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again because what can he say? He starts towards the door, determined to get out of this with the last remaining shreds of his dignity intact.
"Hey," says Kurt. Puck turns around, pulse jumping which is ridiculous, and finds himself being kissed.
It's very quick, so he doesn't get much more than soft and warm and Kurt, and when he opens his eyes again it's to Kurt ( and when did he start thinking of him as 'Kurt'?) fleeing, barely pausing to grab his bag.
For a moment he just stares after him, at the dark fake-wood of the bathroom door. Then he slumps back against the counter and exhales loudly. The fluorescent lights give everything a faintly bluish cast, calming, and Puck closes his eyes because he doesn't want to feel calm, he wants to feel disgusted, or something else that would be an appropriate reaction to being kissed by another guy, make him normal.
He can't do it. He keeps replaying the kiss in his mind, the awkward sex under the bleachers, the way Kurt felt, curled up against his side, warm and there.
Slowly, he starts to understand why that memory makes him smile.
FINIS