A/N: It's not mine - and I recommend that you read it in serif font. it was written in it, and to me, looks better. any grammar 'mistakes' (varying levels of capitalization, tense-jumping, weird punctuation) are intentional. any spelling mistakes are not.
four days before christmas
it's four days before christmas, and kurt has to do some last-minute present shopping. he hasn't gotten mercedes one. he always has, in the past, but they're not so close right now and it hurts. but it's alright, because he's got all these gorgeous boys to look at, and their lovely, lovely hair. and their lovely, lovely scents, and he's shivering now, and that's not that great, he's not even outside yet!
Pull it together, Hummel.
It's only midnight, and the lights are up, and the snow is falling. So what if Lima is a small town? Business is business, right? And he's right, because the mall is open. the trees dotted along his path there are mildly pregnant with snow, more snowflakes adding to their burden.
the lights are up, if a little shuttered, and Kurt heads straight for the opshop.
Mercedes loves that shop, he remembers.
Before he leaves, he puts his gloves on. They were a present from his father, two years ago, and they still fit him snugly.
He has his hands to think about. Do you think they get that soft by neglect? No, it's work. Actual, hard work, keeping them soft. Anyway. Shopping. That's good.
Yes. Shopping. In this cold, cold weather.
He pulls on his scarf, making sure it's the wool instead of the muslin. Fashion is fashion unless you get frostbite. then it's called survival. Kurt shakes his head, and pulls the sweater on, the thick red sweater and the gloves making him look bulky, but he sets off out of the door anyway. the cold assaults him straight off, cutting into his cheeks, but the snow is wonderful and bloody freezing, and his feet are freezing even through the layers of thick socks. But he trudges through the lumpy snow anyway.
The lights are up at the opshop, and he can see Mrs Schuester bustling around, keeping and arranging everything so that they're all on display. Kurt smiles and sighs - Mrs. Schuester's romance is kind of desperate, but he's a kind-of desperate romantic himself.
Kurt shrugs, dislodging a patch of ice on his bulked-up shoulder, and walks into the warmth of the mall.
right. so. mercedes. he walks into the shop and begins to rustle through the clothing for her. mercedes trusts his taste. he trusts his taste. if everyone would just trust his taste, then there wouldn't be walking fashion disasters like ... finn's flannel. Honestly, that boy...
kurt shakes his mind away from finn. he's over that now.
really.
he finds a shirt that mercedes would adore and walks up to the counter to pay. he makes small talk with mrs schuester, and notices that the snow outside is falling harder. the lights in the store, already blue and dim, begin to flicker as the electric wires hang low with snow.
"Aha, Mrs Schuester, I've got to get going. I don't want to get caught in a snowstorm."
she smiles at him, a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and pats him on the head. her smile says 'run along, little boy', and Kurt's kind of glad to go. he tucks mercedes' shirt into the cotton bag she's given him, all recycled and fantastic, which he cares about because he likes doing his part in saving the envrionment. he looks out the glass display.
the lights behind him cast illumination on the snow, which is about twice as thick as it was when he walked in. he winces.
a shadow falls in the light, and kurt looks up for a second. there is no one there, only the muffled snowfall. Kurt shakes his head. Perhaps he was imagining things.
he pushes the door open and walks through.
it's solid, he wonders dizzily, a moment later. his butt is rather cold, but that's only to be expected since he's sitting on the snow. solid, and a bit firm. like the warm leather sofa his father bought him when he was four and his mother was still alive. he can still remember that sofa, black and sun-warmed. he might be a bit dizzy, but kurt is wondering why that sofa has made a re-emergence into his life after his father threw it out when the springs poked up, all jagged-like, through the seat.
mercedes' shirt, the white one with blue shoulders, is open in the slushpile. kurt scrambles for it. it's important. but he can't get a grip on it, the gloves impede his movements. he mustn't cry. he doesn't know why he's crying. tears will only freeze, tonight.
it's christmas in four days.
"Oi, Hummel."
Kurt freezes. Oh, great.
"Why don't you look where you're going? Oh, wait, I don't want your dirt-brown eyes staring at me. Who knows where those eyes have been looking?"
Kurt looks up. Puck. Of course it would have to be him. Of course. His muscle stands out, even under the heavy red coat he's wearing. he matches his own clothing, kurt notes, half-wearily. of course. he had to. just great.
"there's no dumpster around, puck," he says wearily. "so there's no point in you trying to throw me into one."
"but there is a handy snowdrift," puck returns, and kurt scrubs at his eyes. everything seems so muffled around them, only the hot hot gaze of puck's eyes, contempt at forefront. "there are so many snowdrifts, and each of them has your name on them."
kurt gets up, brushing himself off. "it's midnight, puck. i'm going home."
he knows that ignoring bullies don't work when they know you by name, where you live, who your neighbours are. but he's cold, he's tired, he's still dizzy from the collision, and all he wants to do is to go home and forget about school and the disappointment of the year.
he's tired. "goodbye, puck," he says, and begins to trudge home.
behind him, puck scratches his head and pulls the hood of his jacket up. he looks at kurt walking away from him and doesn't really know how to feel. except that he's not meant to feel. he's a man, dammit.
except that -
for a brief second, when kurt hummel crashed into him and puck caught him so that he wouldn't do permanent damage to his skull by smashing into the toboggan in one hand, the part of his arm that touched his face burned. sizzled. he wouldn't have been surprised to see steam rise from it.
it still itched, as a matter of fact.
and hey! hummel was still walking away! This wouldn't do.
puck hurried after him, forgetting that the toboggan in his hand had been come to be repaired. at midnight, but so what? the guy in the snowboard shop owed him a favor anyway.
kurt trudges through the snow, his gloves under his arms and the bag dangling somewhere outside. the trip to the mall didn't seem as long as the trip back, although it was more like flat ground instead of mountains. but the disturbing thing is that he can't seem to shake the feeling that someone - someone is following him.
he doesn't like it.
the cold is quickly becoming oppressive. and the hush is becoming unbearable. he can't wait to get home to his house, set the fire going, listen to his father bang around in the kitchen failing to make hot chocolate and sticky, gooey caramel. eggnog on christmas. kurt closes his eyes, the snow on his lashes floating before him. he takes a deep breath, and keeps on trudging.
kurt is a silhouette on the wintry day. puck brushes the white stuff away from his hood as he plows through the things, the toboggan slinging from one hand almost absent-mindedly. he's not quite sure why he's following the fag...no, that's not, that's not right, the other boy, but he doesn't want some kind of faggishness-no. some kind of kurtishness - to have rubbed off on him. burned him. whatever. for a brief moment, kurt's in sight. one of the streetlights, buried under snow, throws a pool of light onto the surface of frozen-over puddles, reflecting and refracting a dance of colors. kurt stops for a moment to catch his breath, and puck stops too. he has to. kurt is beautiful.
...in a manly way. no, in a girly way. no, in a manly way. oh, screw this.
kurt hummel has always has feminine features. and puck is one hundred percent straight. really. so that's why he thinks kurt hummel is hot. because he looks like a girl. and even though quinn was an okay lay and he got with her because he could, the instant she came she was beautiful (and felt hot and tight around his cock) but her entire body glowed. it's that glow that surrounds kurt now, as he looks up at the starlit sky and puts his tongue out to catch a snowflake.
puck stops to breathe. he's not cold anymore, because he can't feel anything. his entire body is empty, but it's trembling, raring, nervous like final quarter's about to start and they're one touchdown behind.
kurt smiles up at the sky and then he LICKS HIS LIPS and suddenly that's not emptiness he's feeling, it's heat, roasting heat, boiling from the inside out, so hot that he's surprised he hasn't fallen through the snow to the hard concrete below.
kurt bites his lip and puck has to physically restrain himself from slipping his hand down into his pants because a) that's a really stupid idea b) he would get frostbite on Puck Jr, c) why the fuck is he wanking over kurt hummel, dumpster boy, anyway? and d) HE'S NOT GAY.
"Oi, Hummel!" he yells before he can keep his voice to himself. "Do your kinky shit elsewhere where people can't see!"
he sees kurt straighten instantly, his gaze go hard, and then he flicks his head away and begins to trudge off faster. puck curses himself. why the fuck did he do that?
then, as he sees kurt move faster, he curses kurt. why didn't he respond? most times, kurt will respond to him. they'll fight, he'll insult kurt, kurt will insult him, and then he'll throw kurt into a dumpster. except in glee club, when they'll be singing and kurt will actually be happy to see him, or at least something a little more than tolerance. or outright hate. he ... kind of prefers both, actually - because there is something like goosebumps about seeing the outright hate in kurt's eyes when he walks up. something like - the fact that he exists. he ... gets off on it, almost.
he doesn't know why he cares.
but that reason is what makes him walk fast.
kurt looks back. puck's following him. puck's following him with his muscles straining and flexing as he walks, and kurt bites back a whimper. if puck wasn't such a jerk, he would be hot. he would be eyeing him all the time instead of enjoying it when puck lifts him for a brief moment before his clothes are ruined by the dumpster again. but he's a jerk. and so he's not someone to associate with. kurt walks faster. why has his night degenerated into something so horrible as being followed home by noah puckerman?
good looking, jerkface noah puckerman. but good looking. kurt huddles into himself more and trudges faster. why doesn't the snow offer him a grip to get away from noah? please -!
he runs. the adrenaline pumps through his heart, pounding and his throat is dry, the cold is dry, his scarf seems to itch and he's running. There - the Summers's house. only four houses more, and he'll be safe. there's a dumpster nearby, too, and kurt sobs with fear and he runs faster, faster away from that looming spectre.
"Kurt! Fuck!" Puck says behind him and Kurt sobs again, running away from his own feelings and the warmth in his stomach because it's like stockholm, isn't it, craving this need he needs to breathe - home.
kurt fumbles around inside his jacket pocket and realises with absolute horror that he's left his keys inside the house, and his father is asleep because the lights are dark inside.
he's cold, he's tired, and now he's locked out of the house? this is horrible. horrible.
a rattle behind him warns him, and he turns to see puck, staring at him, the red coat actually red by the sensor light rather than black in the snowflake-falling night.
"hummel," puck says gravely, and kurt shrieks quietly, dropping his bag and fleeing. cursing, puck follows, the tobaggan falling with a muffled clump over the cotton.
that boy can really run. and vault. puck blinks as kurt scales his backyard gate with ease, running away from him with his breath leaving huge puffs of steam in the air. puck matches it with his own breath and grins. this is a chase now, a chase which burns in his blood and crackles in his muscles. kurt hummel is the prey, and he is very, very good prey. puck lunges.
kurt sobs and heads for the park, slipping on stray patches of ice. he runs as though the hounds of hell are on his heels, which is a suitable comparison because puck is a complete bitch. it's not because puck is a hellhound, and he is certainly not hot. kurt comforts himself with the thought, and promptly yelps because a hand seizes his arm. he drops, rolls, doesn't think about the cold, and sprints off again. he's gotten used to this before - being bullied really helps stamina.
dear god, puck pants. maybe they should replace hudson and put hummel on the team. kurt's led him all the way to the park, and he'd only managed to get a hand on him once, and now that hand is completely useless because it's got faint pins and needles all the way through it. he hopes it's not going numb, but he can still feel his fingers. he thinks. he wiggles them just to be sure.
"hummel! slow down!" he calls. "i just want to talk!"
"fat chance!" kurt calls back, still running. "just leave me alone!"
prey don't get to say that. puck puts on a burst of speed.
he catches up with kurt hummel in the park. kurt doesn't have anywhere else to go. he seems trapped, deciding on which path to take. he leaps. they go down in a tangle of limbs, kurt breathing fast and shallow under him. puck rolls so that he's on the bottom so he can see kurt properly.
"hi," he says, and he curses himself because his voice breaks. what sort of man breaks his voice at tackling another boy, anyway?
"why can't you just piss off?" kurt says, and pulls his hand free to slap puck in the face. his eyes are glistening with tears and puck burns. he likes to see girls cry. he admits it. he's bad at dealing with it but he likes it, likes knowing that when may-leigh went off into the bathroom to sob he did it, he did it and no one else. when kurt cries though -
he burns, he burns all the way through and he is falling from a great height but he's still trying to contain kurt, who is kicking and screaming and fighting to get away.
for kurt, this is a very surreal nightmare. or maybe a dream. he's warm finally, but only because he's on top of puck in a snowbank, the light of the streetlamps in the park, the old gothic english ones, faded and white and blurring their colours together. puck stands up finally, but he pulls kurt to his feet also, holding kurt's gloves in his bare hands and kurt is watching him. has to watch him. puck's eyes are usually shallow, like you can see that what he's doing is all he's thinking of, but in the fade-white that turns the snow from ghost-white into pallid gold he's thinking something deep. deep thoughts that move from underneath, and kurt draws in his breath because he has to.
puck stares at him. around him the midnight snowflakes continue to fall. kurt wants to kick him, but he opens his mouth and finds that he can't. he closes his mouth again.
puck's hands move down his hands to bare his wrists and kurt stiffens. his hands, cold and large, are firm around his wrists and kurt hisses, b-because lightning courses its way down his spine, electrifying and heat-filled, leaving dunes of goosebumps in its wake. he rolls his shoulders but he can't look away.
but he's cold and he's tired and -
no, actually, he's not cold. and he's not tired. he's just angry.
"fuck you, puck!" kurt says, almost crying. "fuck you! just ... just fuck off! leave me alone!"
puck just watches him.
kurt curses and starts to struggle manically. "i'll scream. i will. let me go. LET ME GO!"
"no," puck says. "it's midnight. there's no one around."
a nameless fear fills kurt and he begins to struggle harder. puck just watches him. kurt turns his eyes away and tries to force puck's arms apart. it doesn't work.
"i'm not going to do anything," puck says. "if i was going to, i would've done it a while ago."
kurt continues to struggle. it's useless against puck's grip and the hordes of lightning caressing his spine, but he's got to try. he'd hate himself more if he didn't.
"i just...dammit, kurt, why don't you ever look at me?"
the anguish in his tone stops kurt for a second and he turns his gaze back. puck's eyes are like claws. claws that burrow into his stomach and eat away at his heart.
"why don't i look at y-" kurt says, his tone half-hysterical. "i look at you! all the time! moments before i fly into a dumpster!"
"i've got to, kurt, you don't understand..."
"don't understand what?" kurt snaps. "how to be a jerk? how to be a stupid, egoistical, jerkface who doesn't understand privacy? let me go, noah."
"no," puck says.
"please," kurt says.
"no."
"why do you have to pick on me, puck? why me personally? you've targetted me since middle school. just me alone. i mean, you'll help out mcconaugh and them, but i'm always - always just you - why!"
kurt breaks down into sobbing and stops struggling, looking at the trodden ground.
"hummel," puck says.
"my name is kurt," kurt says sharply. "but then again, you don't deserve to call me by that name, so hummel is fine."
the thick muscles gripping his wrist tighten for a moment, as if in pain, and then the grip on his wrists loosen, puck's hands slide up to take his hands, and then they're gone.
he should be exultant. so why does kurt feel like he's lost something? the lightning is gone. as if the clouds are gone, the thunderstorm building in his chest falling away. he's suddenly so light, but not in a good way. like he's empty. like the anger and the tension building up in him was a weight that found no resistance and just vanished.
he's not stupid enough to just sit down though. who knows what puck might do to him. he turns, and trudges away.
something at the corner of his eye prickles though, and he's crying. he hopes his tears don't freeze on his face. that would be painful. and unfortunate.
"kurt?" puck says. he sounds so lost. "please look at me."
how the tables have turned.
but it is only four days to christmas, and then seven days after that to resolutions and forgiveness, and kurt can still remember the safety of puck's arms around him and despite himself, despite himself - he turns around.
puck kisses him.
he moans breathlessly as the weight comes right back in with the force of a sledgehammer and bowls his thoughts all the way over and all he can think about is kissing, kissing puck back, standing up taller and locking his arms around puck's neck, kissing him, kissing him. his tongue is heavenly, and kurt mashes his lips into boy, beautiful gorgeous muscular boy, sucks and licks and bites and explores, and then the other boy moans and kurt smiles against the kiss and flicks his tongue against his partner's palate and curls around puck's tongue and he is So Warm he is roasting from the inside out and -
kurt breaks away, pushing away and bringing his hand up to his lips in surprise.
"puck, what?" he says, unable to make out any more. manage any more. say any more.
puck does not look him in the eye for a moment and he gets a little mad.
as he turns to whirl away sharply puck looks him in the eye and he sees that the heat is there, and it's not lightning that pours through him, all hot and scalding, it's need. Need, and his penis is hard, and he's almost completely certain that puck is harder.
Fuck.
"i...i want to touch you," kurt babbles, and clamps a hand over his mouth. puck's eyes darken further in the lamplight, and then he's flat on the ground with his hands pinned to either side and puck is a norn warrior over him, muscular and strong, his knees warm and sturdy and parting his own legs, and they are kissing again. he gasps as puck trails fingers down his neck and along his shoulder, gasps again as puck changes them into bites and nips.
he's too turned on to be angry, but anger is roiling in him now, unease and bitter, hurt anger.
but not enough not to capitalise on the opportunity.
maybe he will kiss puck, and like it, and then later he'll reject him. and puck will be hurt. and then he will know what it FUCKING FEELS LIKE!
It's a good plan, Hummel. Pummel. ...fuck.
"your house," he croaks at puck. "take me there."
luckily for him, puck seems to think that his croak is somehow okay, because he lifts kurt and begins to trudge. enclosed in the circle of puck's arms, kurt smiles. but his entire body is still jerking and jolting. just a few moments more - a few moments more -