The coffee's bitter.
It's the only thing Kurt can think about. There's a tall, tan, beautiful man playing the coffee shop piano; the lady with the poodle is putting shots in her tea again; Randy the cashier is chasing loose change to stash in his apron pockets; they're all ordinary, something he sees almost every time he walks through the door.
The latté he ordered, on the other hand, is different than usual. It leaves too prominent a taste in his mouth, distracts him from his writing instead of helping him slip into it. A quick glance towards the bar tells him all he needs to know – a gleaming steel coffeemaker is standing where the small one that Doris bought in Italy was just yesterday; Doris, herself, is about two minutes from ripping all her hair out, it seems.
Kurt thinks about helping her for a few seconds. Then he remembers.
She'd probably chase him away, thinking he's there to bother her. She wouldn't know his name, even though he shows up almost every single day after school; even though his mother used to be her friend and neighbor. Kurt knows all about Doris– she has a passion for Italy, three cats and a husband who occasionally has too much to drink. She also dyes her hair while trying to convince everyone it's always been this black.
Actually, Kurt knows all about almost every patron sitting in the café – they're mostly regular clientelle, much like him; wannabe poets, people from close by, lost cases. He knows their names, their coffee orders, knows if their writing is any good from the glimpses over their shoulders.
And, he's absolutely sure, nobody – not a single one of them – knows who he is. Maybe sometimes, if they happen to look into the very corner of the room, to the round table with a single chair that's almost completely lost in shadows, they would notice. They'd remember him as the awkward, skinny kid with watery eyes and ugly glasses, limp hair and secondhand clothes; dismiss him right there, judging from just one look.
Kurt can't blame them, not really. There isn't anything interesting about him – he's an ugly nerd who likes to write and sing, too shy to even introduce himself when faced with a stranger. He's invisible – a nobody, the same way he's been ever since his Mom died. It's been some years; he's used to it.
Of course, that doesn't stop him from wanting – from yearning to breathe life to the version of him he lays on paper in his pathetic self-insert of a novel. The confident, openly gay teenager, flashy and fierce and unapologetic; everything the real Kurt Hummel isn't. That Kurt would have the potential to shine in high school; to have friends and maybe be in glee club like he secretly wants, and become a star.
That Kurt wouldn't have a borderline manic, girly crush on one of the school's most popular jocks. That's right – Kurt's not only a nobody – he's a gay nobody, and wants everything he can't have. Like Noah Puckerman.
You see, Noah Puckerman – Puck, if you don't want to end up hanging off a flagpole by your underwear – is the single hottest guy Kurt has ever seen. True, he's not much in the brains department, but his Greek god body fully makes up for it, if Kurt's being shallow.
Noah Puckerman is also openly bisexual, sleeps with a different person every night, and has no idea Kurt exists. Not that that's a surprise.
If Kurt wasn't the blushing virgin that he is, he'd even admit to having a special notebook that he locks in his hope chest, full of everything he'd like to do if he ever got his hands on those rock-hard pecs, or his fingers into that rebellious sort-of-incredibly-sexy mohawk. Not that he knows what he's talking about – it's mostly kisses and touches and awkward fumbling. He's got about as much sexappeal as a freshly hatched baby penguin.
With a frown, Kurt slurps the last of what was very probably the worst cup of coffee he'd ever had and crosses out the last paragraph, which is about everything he'd written in the past two hours. He briefly considers asking Doris for some tea to chase the acrid taste out of his mouth, but she probably wouldn't notice him waving, anyway; his writing's not going to get better, either.
He stands up, leaving a few coins on the table for Randy to suss out, and slips into his coat easily. There's what appears to be a big group of noisy college students just walking in, dripping wet from the rain outside.
Kurt is certainly not interested in being shoved around while they're trying to find their places. He hastily collects his notebook and pen, stuffs them into his bag – swearing softly, because of course he doesn't have an umbrella – and before it can get too crowded, he slips outside.
Nobody notices the bell chiming happily above the door as it closes behind him.
When Kurt gets home, it's just before nine and the smell of burned chicken is in the air.
"Dad?" he shouts into the shadowy house, shedding one soaking wet piece of clothing after another, while simultaneously trying to wipe his glasses clean.
"In here!" comes the reply from the living room. Of course. Kurt ruffles his hair, sending rainwater splattering against the walls, and stops in the doorway. Deadliest Catch is on TV. Typical.
"Were you trying to cook again?"
Burt turns around in his armchair, looking surprised, then raising the beer bottle in his hand in greeting. "Nice to see you too, kid."
Kurt rolls his eyes. "You are aware there's at least a week's worth of perfectly edible food in the freezer, right?"
"You have to unfreeze that first."
"Which is so much harder than putting a whole chicken in the oven."
"Don't be a smartass," Burt says, and the Maybe I Should Teach You How To Cook conversation is succesfully avoided yet again.
"You did eat something that wasn't takeout, though, right?" Kurt bites his lip. He always feels guilty when he's not home in time to make dinner and ensure his Dad won't be getting another heart attack any time soon. Preferably, you know, never.
"Relax. We still had the very healthy spinach pie the bald neighbor brought over yesterday."
"Her name is Ms. Tucker. And she's not bald."
"She always wears the damn hat. How am I supposed to know?" Burt answers, eyes fixed firmly on the giant pikethat's currently trying to bite off some poor fisherman's arm.
Kurt sighs. "I'll be here earlier tomorrow, okay? Make enough soup so you can take some to work as well."
Burt nods absentmindedly. "You in that café of yours again?"
"Where else?" Kurt smiles sadly.
There's silence. It isn't awkward – it never is, not with his Dad – but Kurt still just wants to crawl into bed and maybe try to get back on track with his writing. The ideas are there, shouting over each other in his head as usual, and he's almost feeling the familiar delicious twitch in his fingers. He half-fakes a yawn.
"Anyway, I'm beat. Night, Dad," he throws over his shoulder when he's already halfway down the stairs, knowing the general message will be received.
Downstairs, he barely makes himself shed his clothes and climb into the shower, inspiration finally belatedly hitting him, a wohle new world opening up inside his head. It's going to be a good night. Ten thousand words, at least. Not much sleep. Just the way he likes it.
By the time he turns the shower off, the mirror is fogged over and a glance at the clock tells him it's nearing ten. Kurt makes quick work of putting on his pajama pants, opening his laptop and turning off the lights. The clear night sky is blinking back at him through his small windows, and he walks over to look on instinct. It makes him feel close to his Mom, watching the sky – they used to sit in front of the living room window together when Kurt was smaller; she'd tell him all the stories, about the animals and warriors people loved enough to see them in the stars, about how they got trapped up there and were to stay forever.
He traces the familiar lines with his eyes – they're all there, the Great Bear, and the Big Dipper within, unchanged over the years, and he suddenly feels the warmth of his mother's touch all over. Hears her say, the way she always did: You're never alone, darling, remember that. Even when I'm not there, the stars are watching over you. It used to make him cry, years ago, to realize she'll never tell him another story, never whisper another reassurance, but nowadays, any memory of her only makes him smile.
Kurt's just about to turn around and forget for a while, until the Moon is out and the sky is clear another day. Then, he catches a movement from the corner of his eye. He blinks – probably just a reflection – but no, it's still there, making its way gracefully towards the ground, its tail sparkling, snaking through infinte number of blinking dots on the inky backdrop. It's too big, shines too long to be a satellite, and that's when Kurt realizes – it's a shooting star.
The first thing the thinks about is his Mom again – she used to tell him to never waste a shooting star, because they're rare, and special, and make wishes come true. He doesn't believe that, not anymore – he's made so many over the years, for her to come back, for his Dad to stop just going through the motions and start living, for the kids in school to notice Kurt and talk to him. Needless to say, nothing ever happened.
And yet, he'd never stopped wishing.
It seems like time has slowed down – the star dissapears, and another one emerges in its place, then another one - they fly together for a few seconds that feel like minutes before they vanish. Kurt doesn't stop to think when he climbs onto an armchair to have better view - he doesn't care how childlish his actions are. The second another bright dot blinks and starts falling, he shuts his eyes tight and focuses on the one thing that he always remembers wanting the most.
I wish I was who I want to be.
I wish I was good-looking, confident, sexy. I wish people would notice me. I wish I wasn't invisible.
I wish.
When Kurt opens his eyes, the star is gone. He waits for a few more minutes, but to no avail.
He scoffs and laughs at himself when he hops off the chair and climbs into bed, pulling his laptop close and opening a blank document.
A seventeen year old wishing on shooting stars. That has to be a first.
When Kurt opens his eyes and realizes it's Saturday, he silently thanks the God he doesn't believe in. He'd stayed up, typing wildly until about seven in the morning, and his back, neck and shoulders are screaming in pain.
It takes a few seconds for him to wake up and realize something's wrong. He pats a hand roughly over his face – no glasses, and yet he can see everything, clear and sharp, the way it used to be before his eyes stopped cooperating. His hand also feels strange – too soft, and strong in a way he's not used to.
What the hell is happening?
"Your wish came true, that's what," a voice suddenly says, and Kurt's sitting up, startled, faster than lightning.
All thoughts of clear sight and strange hands immediately leave his head – there's a man sitting on the couch opposite Kurt's bed. A very, very handsome man, if Kurt says so himself – dressed in a pink hawaiian shirt, worn jeans and flip-flops.
"W-what?" he stutters, and gives himself a second to marvel at how somehow, his voice seems to be louder by default. "Who are you?"
The man grins like a cat, his cheeks dimpling. He ruffles his long hair and waves a hand in a flamboyant movement. "The name's Jared," he says. His slanted, green-brown eyes are fixed on Kurt, and it seems as if they are somehow seeing into his very soul.
"Jared?" Kurt raises an eyebrow. He can't, for the life of him, understand why he isn't screaming and calling for help right about now.
"That's right. Or, you know. You can call me whatever you want, sugar," the stranger – Jared – smirks and throws one leg over the other. "I'm a jinn."
Jared the jinn. Okay. Yeah. Sounds reasonable. Now only if Kurt found an inconspicuous way to pinch himself—
"Don't bother, sweetcheeks. I'm real and you're most certainly not asleep. Now, I have a ton of other things to do and it's almost lunchtime. Please be so kind and tell me if you're satisfied, so I can be on my way."
Finally, Kurt's mind snaps back to the strange feeling, the tingling that seems to be spreading over his whole body. He looks down, over his bare chest – and suddenly, he's sure he's not even breathing anymore.
There's no way he's looking at his own body.
"Oh come on, could we maybe skip the whole 'this isn't happening' part of the deal?"
Kurt's gaze snaps up sharply. "Are you reading my mind?"
Jared rolls his eyes so exaggeratedly Kurt is afraid they're going to stay that way. "Well, duh. I wouldn't exactly hear you wishing while falling ten thousand miles an hour. I suggest you get up and go look into the mirror now, please."
Limbs completely numb withs shock, Kurt complies and stumbles into the bathroom on wobbly legs. He turns on the light, then flinches at his own reflection – there's a stranger staring back at him.
"Jeez, it's you. Come on, pat your face, look into your pants and tell me I'm awesome, so I can leave!" Jared shouts.
Shaking his head, Kurt takes a step closer, raising a hand – a strange, smooth hand with perfectly manicured nails – to touch his cheek. He can't believe what he's seeing – the man in the mirror looks almost ethereally beautiful. There's a wild mane of dark brown hair on his head; thick, barely giving way when Kurt runs his fingers through it. He has a high forehead, perfectly shaped eyebrows above stunning blue-green eyes; no squint, no glasses making them look dull, just a frame of delicate eyelashes. He has high cheekbones, a sharp, defined nose, and lips so sinfully pink he contemplates the thought of kissing himself for a second. His pale, bare chest is staring back at him, the awkward boniness gone – there's lean, toned muscle underneath, working like a machine with the slightest move Kurt makes.
"So...it's good, right?"
He snaps out of his haze. This is happening – somehow, maybe in some wonderful, fucked-up alternate universe – it's happening. Kurt's wish, his pathetic little call for help from last night was answered.
He takes a few steps, until he's standing in the bathroom doorway. Jared's still sitting on the couch, grabbing and sniffing everything within his reach.
"You're the shooting star."
Jared frowns and drops Kurt's copy of Alice in Wonderland. "Do I look like a shooting star? Seriously, you people and your tiny brains."
"Then how would you—"
"I was what you saw falling from the sky yesterday. Doesn't mean I'm a giant burning ball of gas, or whatever it is you humans think stars are. I heard your wish, and I liked how pathetically desperate you were, so I thought, why not?"
Kurt shakes his head like a wet dog, trying to clear his racing mind. He's having a conversation with a jinn, which is just a whole new level of crazy, even for him; and he writes fiction, for Christ's sake.
"What were you doing falling from the sky?"
Jared raises an eyebrow. "Not that it's any of your business, but I was in a meeting. Again. My goddamned fucking boss has no idea just how pleasant it is to crash into a field and dig yourself out of a ten feet deep crater. And before you ask," he rushes to say when he sees Kurt opening his mouth, "no, I will not tell you who my boss is. I value my life too much for that."
Kurt takes a deep breath. "Okay, so...you fulfilled my wish and you don't want anything in return, just like that?"
"Oh, please," Jared waves a hand, "You don't have anything I'd want. And the wish expires in two months."
"It what?"
"Do I look like a God to you? Two months is the longest I can swing. But—" he digs in his backpocket and pulls out a notebook with a pink fluffy pen, "you should be grateful for even that much. I've got it all here – I made you hotter, fixed your eyes, gave you more confidence, an eye for fashion, more spunk, more sexappeal, and as a bonus, I disguised the changes to your Dad. 'Cause, you know – there's awkward and then there's awkward," Jared rambles on, ticking off every change he'd made in his tiny notebook. Kurt's staring, the wheels in his mind turning, and he has no idea what to say.
"So you don't live in a bottle, then," is what he settles for. He has no idea where the question came from.
"I'm afraid I'm too big for that," the jinn leers. "The only thing you people got right about us is, we grant wishes. For all I know, the bottle myth came from some butt-drunk, hallucinating nobody. And then there's Aladdin, of course."
"I—okay. Wow." Kurt sits down, not sure his feet are quite up to carrying him anymore.
"Now," Jared huffs while standing up and Jesus, he's tall. "Since you're not bitching me out about your anything being too something, I guess you're happy with the result. If you'll excuse me, there's a schintzel with my name on it over in south Germany. Enjoy and have a nice life." He grins, and waves, and then there's only a flash of light before he's gone.
Kurt doesn't move for the next two hours.
As it turns out, when you become exactly the person you've always imagined yourself being, it's very easy to happily go on with your life.
On Monday, Kurt gets up, takes a shower, and puts on the clothes he'd spent the whole Sunday picking out at the mall – a simple blue cardigan, a blue bowtie, white shirt and grey slacks. The garments hug his body in all the right places, making his reflection in the mirror look just fabulous, and he wonders, once more, about how it all seems so clear now - the colors and materials and the way they complete each other; the sizes that finally seem to fit perfectly.
It's intoxicating to feel all the gazes on him. He can literally feel them - they're crawling up his spine and leaving a pleasant shiver behind. People finally see him. They acknowledge his presence as he walks to the front entrance, up the stairs, they part in the hallways to let him through and stare after him. It's new, pleasant and warm, to know he's got them all wondering.
Naturally, it only gets better as the day progresses. Kurt auditions for the glee club before lunch and his rendition of Defying Gravity leaves everyone in the room gaping, just like he knew it would. In Biology, he sits in the front, instead of his usual desk in the very back, and all the eyes on him are pleasantly burning holes in his back.
One pair of eyes in particular stands out, and how could it not – it's only been a part of Kurt's wildest fantasies for about a year now. It's Puck – unashamedly staring and checking out Kurt's ass after the lesson ends. He leers, and smirks, and waggles his eyebrows, and Kurt's flushing hot with something that's actually not embarassment.
He's giddy when he's driving home, feeling light as a feather – he can do it now, he knows. He can get the man of his dreams, and it might not even be that hard.
As soon as that happens, Kurt's sending Jared a fruit basket.
It doesn't take very long – it's only Wednesday night when Kurt's bedroom door bangs closed behind them. Burt's out of town, thank God, and as a strong body slowly backs him toward the bed, Kurt's heart is beating so fast it's a miracle it's not out of his chest yet. Puck is obviously very skilled - his mouth and tongue and hands are everywhere, making Kurt's skin burn and his whole body shiver with pleasure.
It was very instinctual, this thing between the two of them. They've barely exchanged any words – Puck's burning eyes spoke for him and Kurt's new confidence met them right on, clashing and sparking with unhindered electricity. Kurt had his first kiss behind the bleachers on the football field, and it was barely half an hour later when Puck whispered 'You got a place we could go?' dirtily into Kurt's ear.
Maybe he would've waited a bit, since he still has the whole virginity thing going on, but this is Noah Puckerman. Noah Puckerman doesn't wait; he moves on, and Kurt had wanted this, wanted him, for way too long to just give up – and so they ended up here.
But somehow, the jinn on Kurt's shoulder must have found a way to push this wild, squirming, burning ball of pure passion into Kurt's gut, because as soon as his back hits the sheets, it's almost as if something took hold of his body. He's kissing, fierce, with tongue and teeth; biting, and sliding his way down the rock-hard body flushed with pleasure underneath him. He takes Puck's cock into his mouth with no hesitation, mouth working with a certainty he shouldn't have. He lets Puck thread fingers through his hair and whisper filthy praise, then turns him around and shoves a finger inside and the jock mewls with pleasure. It only fuels the fire in Kurt, and soon there's two fingers, and three, and then he's putting on a condom with a sure movement, drinking in the miles of tan, sweat-slick skin he's wanted to get his hands on for ages. It's happening, and his head is spinning, and he pushes into Puck, deliciously, completely in control.
He doesn't know how long do they spend just lost in each other; just that every second feels like an hour, blissfully dragged out and white-hot with pleasure.
When Kurt finally comes down from his high, the clock says it's half past one in the morning.
As the room gets colder again, slowly but surely, the wild, passionate part of him retreats, and he feels small and vulnerable for a second, almost afraid he's turned back to his real self. He can't believe what he just did – who did he do it with – how amazing it was.
They both just lie there, minute after minute after minute, chests heaving. Then, Puck rolls onto his side and bites down on Kurt's earlobe.
"You're something else," he rasps, barely audible, and Kurt shudders, but then the warmth at his side is gone. Puck is jumping around the room, one leg in his jeans, looking for stray pieces of his clothing. Kurt snags his wrist when he comes back around.
"What are you doing?" he asks, hating the pathetic sound of his own voice. What is he even doing? This is Puck, the most famous stud of McKinley; he probably has two other people to screw tonight, or so his reputation goes. Kurt knew that – knew that he wasn't getting anything meaningful of long-term out of this, but that doesn't mean it can't last at least a couple more hours.
Puck just looks back at him, eyebrow raised, the duh clearly visible in his eyes. There's something else, too; a tiny spark of something that looks like hope, maybe, and it makes Kurt wonder if maybe there's actual layers to the boy in front of him – if he's more than the dumb jock people take him for. He doesn't let go of his wrist, feeling the pulse underneath his fingers quicken.
"It's two in the morning. Just—come back to bed?" Kurt's shooting blind now, and he's probably overstepping some kind of boundary, but he can't help the nagging feeling that tells him this is the right thing to do.
Puck looks away, the hand clutching his t-shirt going limp, then brings his eyes back to Kurt's. They're impossibly brown even in the gloom of Kurt's basement room, and something in them gives.
Seconds later, a warm body is sliding under Kurt's covers. A big hand is closing around the back of his neck, sending tingling pleasure down his spine, and Puck's lips close over his; the kiss is so fleeting, chaste and gentle, it feels like it's coming from a completely different person than before.
Slowly sinking into sleep, Kurt thinks he feels wetness where the other boy's head is pressed into his neck, but he's probably imagining things.
Somehow, after that night, they just keep going back. They sneak into Kurt's room, into Puck's house, steal kisses behind the bleachers and in the janitor's closet, and it almost feels too right to be true.
It's about three weeks into this – whatever it is that they have – when Kurt can't help adressing the giant burden on his shoulders he wakes up with every morning. They're lying in Kurt's bed, Puck's hand barely touching Kurt's shoulder in light caresses, and Kurt feels his eyes well up with tears when he thinks about how little he has left. It's already lasted for too long, this illusion of Puck's – it's not like they promised each other anything, and Kurt is not looking for anything that's not there, but he knows what the jock next to him is supposed to be doing. He's supposed to be in someone else's bed right now, getting lost in yet another of the willing bodies that he loves so much.
Instead, he'd spent the evening with Kurt, eating popcorn and watching horror flicks. Kurt doesn't want to think about what it all means; if, God forbid, this new but fake him has somehow managed to tame the Puckzilla, he'd feel even worse about having to turn back. Who'd want him the way he really is – painfully shy, boring, invisible and short-sighted?
It's driving him crazy and he's thinking in circles, and so he finally rolls over so he's facing his – fuck buddy, friend, the person to potentially spend forever with but he doesn't ever think of that – well, Puck.
"Hey, Puck?" he asks, still tentative, because he's used to being small and unimportant and can't get used to the fact that he can actually speak the boy as his equal.
The look Puck turns on him makes Kurt breath catch in his throat. "Yeah?"
"Will you—would you—" and he doesn't know what to say. Will you throttle me when I turn back into a nerd and ruin your rep? "What are we doing?" comes out in the end, and it's not the right question, Kurt knows it isn't. Puck stiffens next to him, presses his lips together and doesn't say a word.
The rest of the night is too cold for Kurt's comfort, and afterwards, there's an unspoken agreement between them to leave it alone.
Weeks go by strartlingly fast – they kiss, they have sex, they spend an unhealthy amount of time together and, rule number one, they don't talk about it.
The moment Kurt's resolve to remain in denial breaks happens about two weeks before his two months are up. To his surprise, the are no fireworks following the big realization, and no professions of love by cadlelight preceding it. It's just being with Puck, lying by his side in bed and feeling his hand caress Kurt's face like Kurt was something precious.
And, right there and then, the wall breaks.
Now Kurt knows – Puck is so, so much more than the brainless boytoy Kurt, and everybody else, had him for. He'd practically raised his little sister and still braids her hair every morning; he reads philosophy books; he can sing and play guitar and Kurt can talk to him about anything, and he likes it a lot.
He likes talking to Puck, likes watching movies with him and throwing popcorn at him and sometimes grabbing his hand just because he can. He likes helping him with his English essays and kissing him and just breathing, being next to him. He more than likes it.
He's in love with Puck, two weeks before everything goes to hell.
He feels like shouting at the sky, cursing Jared and calling him to undo everything and take him back, and he would, if he thought it would help anything.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
As smart as Kurt is, sometimes, he's just stupid.
It's the only explanation for how he hadn't noticed the days running away from him, pages in the calendar flipping until it was the fifteenth – exactly two months from his encounter with the sassy jinn, and he doesn't remember.
It's the only explanation for how he'd let Puck in, and kissed him and help him and writhed and moaned under him, and then let him fall asleep in Kurt's bed.
That, or he was just feeling too good.
Because now it's two in the afternoon, and Kurt is awake, not seeing anything without his glasses and freaking out in the corner. He has no idea what to do. He can't just wake Puck up and send him away, looking the way he looks. His protruding bones are back, as is his limp hair and watery eyes – he'd already checked in the mirror, to see if there was anything left from the beautiful, graceful boy he'd been for two months.
There are tears pushing to slide down from underneath his closed eyelits, and he lets them, crying silently. This is what he got for wanting to be liked, to be seen – a non-boyfriend, who's going to run away as soon as he sees him, whom he got to spend time with and fall in love with and now, he'll know what he's missing out on. It's going to hurt just that little bit more.
And then it's too late to come up with a plan; Puck is shifting, and snuffing the way he only does when he's on the verge of waking up.
"Kurt?" he murmurs when his hands shoots to the side and only touches cold sheets.
"H-here," Kurt stutters, not bothering to hide the tears in his voice, bracing himself for his first real heartbreak.
Puck immediately sits up, finding Kurt's eyes with his, pupils widening.
"Kurt?" he asks again, perplexed, and crawls out from under the covers to come closer. "What happened to you?" he sounds careful, and afraid, and Kurt hates himself for putting him in that situation.
"D-don't. Nothing. I'm f-fine. You should go," he rattles off, emotionless, and waits to hear the door slam.
"Why are you crying?"
He's coming closer. He's not supposed to do that.
"You mean that's not obvious?" Kurt raises his eyes, and sees the exact moment the shock registers in the other boy's eyes. Kurt shakes his head, sadly. "Don't bother asking. I wished on a shooting star. Then a jinn showed up, and made me look the way I've looked for the past two months. End of story, now leave."
Puck is frowning. "What did you wish for? Being hot? Popular? What?"
Why is he not gone yet? Kurt covers his eyes again, curling into a ball in the corner, tucking his knees as close to his chest as he can.
"I just wanted...I just wanted people to see me," he breathes out, and even he knows he sounds pitiful; pathetic.
"Oh, Kurt..."
"Don't. Don't pity me. I don't need that. Just go away. I won't tell anyone."
"Tell anyone what?"
And now he's too close, wrapping gentle fingers around one of Kurt's wrists and tugging it away from his face. He's holding Kurt's glasses in the other hand – the ugly, thick, horn-rimmed glasses Kurt claimed to use for reading sometimes. He has no idea how Puck knows, but he takes them, sliding them onto his face and immediately resenting the light pressure on his nose, the weight behind his ears.
"That you slept with me."
"What?" he's looking geniunely confused, and Kurt imagines the expression has to be mirrored on his own face – he didn't expect any actual talking to take place.
"Look, I know you don't want me like..." he waves a hand over himself, "this, so let's just make it easier for both of us. I can go back to being a loser and you can go back to screwing everything that moves," the tears are back in Kurt's voice, and he still doesn't bother stopping them. It feels like he's losing the best thing that ever happened to him.
"You really think that?" Puck asks, sounding geniunely hurt. He's frowning, but his hand on Kurt's wrist doesn't go away – he's still holding on.
Kurt meets his eyes. "I don't know what to think. I just...I've been at McKinley for almost three years and nobody, much less someone like you, has ever noticed I exist. Then I became exactly who I wanted to be, and I knew it would be temporary, and I didn't plan on any of this, but then I got to know you, and I couldn't stop, and I just—" he breaks off on a sob. "I'm so sorry."
"Kurt," Puck reaches out and his thumb runs over Kurt's cheeks, wiping the tears away. "Kurt, look at me, please."
He does. There's that same look in Puck's eyes – the same look he's been giving Kurt for weeks, something gentle and private that's for his eyes only, and Kurt doesn't understand.
"I used to be a shallow asshole. I know that, okay? But I'm different now. I haven't been with anyone else but you in two months."
"W-what? But...I mean, you—"
"I know. I didn't get it at first, either, but I didn't want to go to bed with anyone else, so I didn't. You...you let me stay."
"What do you mean?"
"That first night," Puck says, and his eyes are looking suspiciously shiny now. "You told me to come back to bed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Nobody has—nobody's ever done that for me before. Not ever."
Kurt chances reaching out a hand, now so painfully small against Puck's face. "Never?"
Puck shakes his head. "And you were—you were so amazing. I couldn't get enough of you. I still can't."
"Look at me! I'm someone you avoid if you don't want to comming social status suicide."
"Trust me, social status is really overrated."
Kurt shakes his head. This isn't going the way it's supposed to. Why can't he just make Puck see?
"You can't, okay? You can't say all this. I'm completely different. The person you knew for the past two months, he's gone. All the confidence, the flirting, the..." he can't help blushing already, "initiative in bed, I don't know how to do any of that."
"It doesn't matter," Puck says, and he sounds so convinced. "Tell me, what about Friday the 13th? And caramel latté? Jack Kerouac?"
Kurt furrows his brows. "What?"
"Was is the – how did you say it, jinn? – that made you like all those things? Did he make you super-cranky in the mornings? Did he make you smile the way you do when you're really happy? 'Cause I don't think so."
"Probably not," Kurt slowly shakes his head. He doesn't really understand where this is going – there's something happening right in front of his eyes, but it's just out of his grasp and he can't understand it.
"Then Kurt, I don't care."
"What?"
"I wouldn't leave you just because you think you're suddenly the ugliest person to walk the Earth. You're not, okay? You're beautiful, and I wouldn't just—I couldn't do that," he says quitely, almost in a whisper, and burshes Kurt's hair out of his face.
Kurt, for his part, can't do much more than blink. There's Noah Puckerman, the boy he's absolutely head over heels in love with, telling him something that sounds suspiciously like—
"I love you. I feel a hell of a lot better about everything I do when I'm with you, and I want to...just, stay with me, okay? Please?"
Kurt's stunned speechless – and how could he not be? It would be the first time in a long time, or maybe in his whole life, that he was getting something he really wants. Craves. Loves.
"Puck—"
"Noah," he interrupts, smiling, with eyes sparkling, and he looks very satisfied with himself.
"Noah," Kurt amends, and allows himself a smile, "I—of course I want to. I'm just not sure—" and he's cut off again, this time by warm lips, covering his own. He'd thought he was never going to feel it, feel like this again – like he was floating, lost somewhere where nothing but him and Puck – Noah, he reminds himself, and has to smile into the kiss – existed.
"Shut up," Noah smiles, real and most definitely not a dream, and pulls Kurt close, breathing into his hair. It's perfect in a way Kurt's never experienced before.
Letting his boyfriend pull him back into bed, he silently thanks his Mom and denies any tears of happiness that might or might not leave his eyes.
And Jared?
The man deserves a truck full of fruit baskets.