He's sweet, funny and chatty; and he loves his cat.
He has faith and big dreams, and an even bigger heart.
By the time he's eight, his life gets shattered to the core.

Graveyards aren't children-friendly places. They smell like solitude, like a hundred thousand tears. If one were to open their mouths, they would taste withering footsteps on green grass, a sense of despair, and the intensity of loss. It would climb into one's throat and choke them on the draining feeling of insanity wanting to corrode (lives, souls, hearts, memories).

A graveyard is not the best place for a shild to spend an evening.
Kurt, eight years old, goes every Tuesday. He sits near his mother's tombstone, and sings her the songs she liked the most, in his unchanging voice; he tells her about his days, about his father, about his dreams, and the things he never got to tell her (i once stole one of your rings to wear it to school; i like a boy from my class, but he doesn't like me back; i wish it were me instead of you, mom).

There were lot of things he would miss, but he wanted to dance. To dance a classical waltz with his love interest before he died.

He knew dieing wasn't quite the same thing as dissapearing.

He left his parents a single note, it said: 'live. Live every day. Smile. For me. And never, never, never forget how much I love you'

He dreams of it, most of the time. And it's sad, and it's terrible, but his mother is still alive, her sweet fresh perfume everywhere, and her hands fold over his father's back, and she whispers we'll be okay. Somehow, we'll be okay.

And maybe, maybe, it would be worth it.

:::...:::

Noah's father leaves before Sarah is born.

So he suddenly becomes a man. Suddenly, the weight of the world is on his shoulders, suddenly there are things he can see that he shouldn't, because he's eight fucking years old.

At age fourteen he starts sleeping with anything that stays still long enough; it's a coping system.

:::...:::

Life has a cruel sense of humor. They both end up in McKinley.

They meet, and they need; and, then, they hold onto each other, in a hazardous attempt to dull everything else (a deadbeat father, an alcoholic mother, a younger sister that looks up to him; a dead mother, a father who doesn't know how to bond with him at all, an unfathomable loneliness).

It's like they start existing in a tight schedule of fight or fuck. No time for pleasantries, or anything that isn't snarling at each other, or gasping through orgasms, or both.

It works for both of them, for awhile.
But somehow, somewhere along the line, something changes.
And there is jealousy.
And sometimes, they are both too tired to delude themselves. So, sometimes there's this warm stupid thing that neither thought they'd ever discover with and within each other.

(:::...:::

Kurt during sex is one of the prettiest things he's ever seen. He flushes a delicious bright pink all the way down to his neck; his mouth looks enticingly red and obscene, and his eyes turn sort-of-green.
And he sounds like heaven, his moans, his grunts, his soft hisses. He sounds like beauty would sound while being born.
And he is so tactile, and so there, like he could torn you apart, and then build you up again, and again, and again.
He's perfect, and Puck could just come from seeing him like that, without even having to touch himself.
He could write odes all over Kurt's body. Odes about eternity, about finding a single perfect place where everything is fine.
(Sex's never been like that before)

Puck is not above begging (on his knees, sweaty, naked, erotic) to get what he wants. He's not above whisperingg a string of broken pleas (pleasepleaseplease, like a song of devotion) just so Kurt will let him touch every bit of exposed skin, taste every inch of that flexible, artistic body; kiss him all over; set his nose where the delicate and slender legs meet his hips, nuzzle his musky scented pubic hair, open his mouth greedily against Kurt's throbbing erection, and just exhale a shaky breath.

He wants so much. He wants everything all at once, and it should be unnerving, because he wants Kurt insidehim, and all over him, and Puck wants to rip him apart, and make himself at home on that body until he dies. And he's never wanted anything so intensely in his life.

:::...:::)

When the fears subside, they'll kiss, slow and deep, and wet.
They'll seize the moment the same way Puck seizes those milky shoulders he would love to bite until they bled for him; the exact same way that Kurt seizes Puck's arms, leaving half-moons all over that dark skin, scratching and bruising.

And then Puck will mumble i'm bad for you, and Kurt will reply –drowsy and gone- and i'm bad for you.

It could as well be their grand and mutual love declaration.

(That's as close as they will get.)