So, the question of livejournal has been asked...the answer: I do not have an lj that I use. Livejournal is too complicated for me (what can I say, I'm a little bit of a fail).
"Listening
To the souls in the fool's night
Fumbling mutely with their rude hands
And there's heartache without end"
"Whispering"
Tuesday was Glee practice. All of the groups and Quinn were set to perform in the order Schu told them of their parts. First was, of course, Rachel and Finn. As usual, Finn looked and sounded gorgeous. The song wasn't necessarily the best pick for his voice (he thought that Puck's deeper, somehow smoother voice fit the role better, but whatever), but Rachel, as always, did amazing. Perfect, even. Then Quinn went. He knew that Schu had chosen the song for her because of the whole pregnancy thing, which was a good idea, he thought, since she seemed to really get into it and did quite well. The girls went, then, and he almost stood up and started singing with them. Mercedes' somewhat soulful interpretation fit the song perfectly, and the other girls really got into it, the way it should be sung. Artie totally beasted '"All That's Known", as was to be expected. Kurt honestly wasn't paying too much attention though because, for the first time in a long while, he was nervous.
He sat on the floor a little in front of the risers, as they had rehearsed, next to Puck, who had his guitar on his lap. The soft piano part began, and the mohawked boy played the cello notes on his guitar. Taking a deep breath, the soprano began.
"Just too unreal, all this. Watching the words fall from my lips."
Puck's mellow voice drifted in easily. "Baiting some boy with hypotheses..." He laid the guitar down at his side.
Kurt joined him in, "Haven't you heard the word of your body?"
"Don't feel a thing, you wish." Slowly, he extended his arm, as they had rehearsed, and they joined hands, not looking at one another.
"Grasping at pearls with my fingertips." He could feel a very thin layer of sweat form between their palms, but it was impossible to tell whose it was.
"Holding his hand like some little tease."
They stood, facing each other, then, together, "Haven't you heard the word of my wanting? Oh, I'm gonna be wounded. Oh, I'm gonna be your wound. Oh, I'm gonna bruise you. Oh, you're gonna be my bruise." Kurt stood, facing his audience, as Puck took over his crooning solo, circling him, as Kurt followed him with his eyes.
"Come, cream away the bliss. Travel the world within my lips, fondle the pearl of your distant dreams." Puck came up behind him and he almost shivered at the hot breath on the back of his neck. "Haven't you heard the word of your body? Oh, you're gonna be wounded. Oh, you're gonna be my wound. Oh, you're gonna bruise, too. Oh, I'm gonna be your bruise."
"Oh, I'm gonna be wounded. Oh, I'm gonna be your wound. Oh, I'm gonna bruise you. Oh, you're gonna be my bruise," Kurt sang, ignoring the strangeness of Puck looming over him. He really was taking to the whole seduction thing quite well. Of course, it was to be expected, considering his reputation.
They sang together again, "Oh, you're gonna be wounded. Oh, I'm gonna be your wound. Oh, you're gonna bruise, too. Oh, I'm gonna be your bruise." Kurt swore he heard Rachel chime in for the last note and cursed her in his head for stealing their thunder, but he may have imagined it. After the last traces of sound died out, the room was dead silent. It almost seemed like no one breathed. The boys glanced at each other awkwardly, wondering if they should move or sit down or stay where they were.
At last, Schu filled the silence, saying, "Wow. Now that's what I'm talking about. Teamwork. That was excellent, guys." Kurt smiled proudly and sat down daintily. "I'm really impressed." He kept talking about the performance, but Kurt zoned out.
From the back of the room, he heard Rachel whisper, "Looks like someone skimmed off the cream." His head snapped around.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he hissed, trying not to cause any sort of distraction.
"Nothing. I'm just glad to see you've moved on from my boyfriend." Kurt didn't like what she was implying. He simply didn't see Puck that way. At all.
"For your information, I have not stopped liking Finn. It's only a matter of time before he realizes that girls are a total pain and he'd be better off with me." Even as he said it, he felt like he was leading himself on. Every day proved that Finn hardly even thought of him as a friend, let alone liked him. But he would persevere until either Finn loved him, or he found someone else. Someone gay and hot and perfect. Basically like Finn, only smarter. Just a little smarter. You know, so he could at least cheat well.
"So, guys, that was a great rehearsal. I'll see you next week," Schu concluded, grinning wide at them. Kurt felt a little guilty for missing the whole speech, but it wasn't anything he hadn't heard before. "Puck? Kurt? Can I talk to you two for a minute?" Kurt groaned. That was all he needed.
"Yeah, Schu?" Puck asked, looking as pissed off as Kurt felt. Was it not enough to put on an awkward (albeit brilliant) performance?
"I just wanted a moment with you two in private. I know it was really hard for you both to work together. I appreciate that you did it. I understand that you two have some fundamental differences, and I wanted to thank you for working them out. And, I have to say, that was one of the best duets I've seen in a long time. Your voices really complement each other. I might consider featuring you two in a song at sectionals. So, just keep up the good work." Schu slapped them on their backs happily and they left.
Kurt made a distinct effort to distance himself from his former singing partner. Quinn was waiting for him by his baby since she'd felt too sick to drive that morning. She leaned against the shiny black door and cradled her stomach. It was always somewhat endearing to see her like that, and a little unnerving. He unlocked the door for her and hopped in the driver's seat. Buckling her seatbelt, she looked at him through her long lashes.
"You did really well today, even with Puck there." He pulled out of his parking spot and started home.
"The jerk can sing, I'll give him that. He needs training, but he has raw talent. I'll give him credit for that."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes. Well, Noah always was charming."
"In what universe? It's all I can do to tolerate him. I think everyone who's suffered through more than an hour with him deserves some sort of medal."
"And he's hot." He gave her worried look, and she shrugged. "Sorry. The pregnancy hormones are making me horny. God, I can't wait until this baby's out of my stomach."
"Speaking of which, don't you need a crib and all that stuff? I mean, judging by your belly, you can't be far from your due date."
"I don't know. It's...complicated." He raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell anyone this, but my original plan was to give the baby to Terri Schuester. Obviously, that failed. But I think I might give the baby up for adoption. Or, maybe, I'll see if Gwen'll take her for a while, just until I graduate, so I can get a job and raise her. I don't know. And, for your information, I've got almost two-and-a-half months before I can get my waistline back and get back into shape."
"Two months? But you're already, like, an elephant!"
"And I'll be a whale by the time I give birth. Jeez. I hate being fat."
"So do I. Or, I would. If I were fat. But I'm not."
"Thanks for that little confidence boost," she sighed sarcastically. He pulled into the driveway and they got out. Kurt collapsed on his bed almost immediately. He had the duet stuck in his head hardcore. It was not a song that was particularly welcome in his mind. Actually, part of him resented both Puck and Schu for making him do that song; it was a great song that he would thereafter associate with unhappiness and, well, Puck. A good song ruined for no reason. Obviously, a jock was to blame.
Two weeks later, Glee practice was going as usual. In the entirety of that time, Kurt had done very well at avoiding Puck, or would have, if Puck wasn't a freak who decided that the best way to charm Quinn into letting him be a father was to show up to his classes (half of which he had with Kurt, whom he insisted on copying off of) and to get a steady job (which, coincidentally, was with Kurt's dad). So, basically, he was about as effective at avoiding the homophobe as Billy Mays was at staying alive. And, yes, he knew that it was a distasteful comparison, but all the more reason for why it fit.
Kurt sat on his bed, thinking about Finn. Sort of. More like thinking about punching Finn in the face. After all, the more you loved someone, the more you wanted to kill them. Right? So it was perfectly fine to be angry at Finn. For being straight and being with Rachel and generally just being an idiot. He should have noticed by then that they were perfect for each other. Kurt was sweet and a good singer and wore nice clothes, all without being too bitchy or premenstrual. In short, he was everything Finn wanted. Well, everything he thought he wanted. Except, perhaps, for anatomy, but it was totally realistic to think that Finn could be bisexual.
Quinn sat on her bed, painting her nails. Kurt watched her for a moment. Obviously, Finn used to like her. What did she have in common with Rachel? Wavy-ish hair, maybe? That was pretty much it. Well, there was, of course, the fact that they had breasts. But whatever. He couldn't even begin to comprehend their appeal. But he did know someone who could... He flipped out his phone, sending a text message.
Robin, tell me this: as a self-proclaimed straight man, what is the appeal of 'boobs' on a girl? It was of course, his usual manner of texting, which included full words and correct punctuation. He found speaking in letters and abbreviations to be sort of ridiculous unless he had to shorten the message to fit the text into one message. But that was completely normal. Anyway, after a couple minutes, he got a response.
WTF? Who is this? Y r u in my phone as "Oberon"? Ur texting the wrong person. I'm not Robin. Kurt sighed and did a facepalm. Obviously, the idiot had never read Shakespeare.
In two messages, he sent, It's Kurt, you idiot. Go read some literature. Robin Goodfellow is another name for Puck in A Midsummer's Night's Dream. Oberon is the fairy king and Puck/Robin is his idiotic jester/servant. It seemed fitting. Now answer the question, douche. Btw, you totally ruined everything amusing in that by having me explain. A soft cry from across the room made him look up from his phone. Quinn was looking down between her legs. Kurt gave her a look.
"What?" he asked, sliding his phone into his pocket.
She glanced around, her mouth open in shock. "I think my water just broke." He stopped thinking. Shapes blurred past, and he found himself in his car, keys jammed in the ignition, with Quinn in the seat next to him. He passed his phone to her, trying to concentrate on driving.
"Call your parents or anyone you want there. We'll be at St. August Hospital." Any sound after that faded into the background of angry horns and screeching tires as he focused on driving as quickly as was safe (and not necessarily legal) to the hospital. The red fuzzy outlines of other cars' taillights seemed almost blinding in the dark. Each second felt like hours, long hours during which Quinn was not in a sterile hospital room. It seemed like it took far too long for him to ease to a halt in next to the emergency room. In the back of his mind, he recalled statistics about teen pregnancies and complications. He wanted to throw up.
Kurt didn't even notice what was going on around him until he felt hands on him, pushing him away from a hospital gurney. He pushed through, reaching her side. Quinn's eyes were wide in fear or pain, he couldn't tell. His sweaty hand searched for hers, but was met with the hard outline of his phone, which he jammed into his pocket without a thought so he could hold her hand. A doctor shoved him to the side to hook up an IV. Another doctor pushed between her legs, then shouted something he couldn't understand. Suddenly, the gurney was moving. Someone shoved a mask into his face. He didn't realize what was happening until he saw a gloved, antiseptic hand skim a scalpel over the pale mound of Quinn's stomach.
Kurt awoke in degrees. First, he was aware of his body. His head felt like it had been folded in two and there was a strange rushing in his limbs. He found that he was awkwardly collapsed in a hard plastic chair. Then he heard noises. Hushed, frantic voices that ebbed and flowed. When at last he opened his heavy lids, he saw something he really could have lived without seeing. Doctors, nurses, and orderlies formed a writing mass around someone. Just clear of their huddle, extended awkwardly, was a thin foot. Dangling off of it was a pink flip flop, one he immediately recognized as Quinn's. He stood slowly and edged closer.
"Is she alright?" he asked quietly. There was no response, so he repeated himself. A nurse snapped his head around.
"Are you the father?" he barked, his hands lost behind a doctor's body. Kurt shook his head.
"Just a friend. She lives with me. Is she okay?" His eyes darted over to try to catch a glimpse of the former cheerleader.
"You're gonna have to leave the room. Only the father or her immediate family are allowed in here. Are they aware that she's here?"
He nodded. "Is Quinn alright? Is the baby alright?"
"It's too soon to tell. You need to go into the hallway. We'll let you know as soon as we can." Kurt nodded again and backed out of the room, feeling helpless. A clock in the hall told him that it was about an hour since the last time he checked his clock, back in his room. He couldn't tell how long it had been since her water broke, but it felt like ages away. He looked at his phone and checked the recent calls. One was made to his father and the other two to numbers that weren't in his contacts. Probably Quinn's parents and Puck's house. Or maybe Gwen and Puck's house. Where was everyone?
It was several long, stressful minutes before his father arrived, red-faced and out of breath. "How is she?" he puffed.
"No idea. Last I saw, they were cutting her open. I think I passed out. They won't tell me anything since I'm not the father or family." His dad sat down next to him and they waited.
When the hall clock said it was one o'clock, and Kurt was nearly asleep, his father told him to go home. There had been no word, just the occasional rushed orderly moving in or out of the door, silent and purposeful. No one else had shown up. Kurt coaxed his stiff limbs into a standing position and made the trek back to his car. He felt enormously guilty for leaving and not staying, but resolved to be back at six after catching a couple hours of sleep, if his dad didn't call him by then. He checked his phone and noticed a text message he'd overlooked from earlier.
I'm not going to explain boobs to you. Homo. PS Ur a geek for making a reference to a dead guy, even though I'd totes vote for you for fairy king. Well, fag king. A rage he'd never known before surged within him. Quinn was in the hospital, cut open and bleeding on a table and where was he, the father? Probably fast asleep and not caring at all about the girl he stupidly got pregnant. He hit the call button, letting his anger do the thinking for him. As soon as he heard the call get picked up, he started screaming.
"You FUCKER! What are you doing? You should be in the hospital right now, waiting for the mother of your child you get out of the O.R. Dear fucking god. I must say, I actually thought more of you than that. I thought you at least had the decency to be there for your child's birth. When Quinn called you. But no. You're the most despicable human being I've ever even heard of. Even Hitler would be there. And, yes, I did just compare you to Hitler for a second time, but this time, you can't deny it. So shut the fuck up and go kill yourself." He hung up, not caring about anything that asshole had to say. His phone flew across the room, and he found himself screaming and crying into the pillow for no reason at all.
A loud crash startled Kurt into full awareness. Squealing a little bit, he leapt out of his bed. His hands scrabbled for a weapon of some kind. The door to his room slammed open, and he tightened his hands on what he found, though, admittedly, an issue of Seventeen was not a good defense.
"I have a weapon!" he yelled. Heavy footsteps descended, so he rolled the magazine into a somewhat-hard tube.
"No, you don't," a surprisingly familiar voice slurred. "Not counting your overwhelming aura of gay." A very much worse-for-wear Puck sneered at him from the bottom of the stairs.
Kurt was shocked. "You're drunk!" he accused.
"No shit, Sherlock. Stole a beer from your fridge, actually. And don't give me shit about rules. I really don't give a fuck." The kicker just stood there, dumbfounded. His mind was whirling, more sluggish than usual because he just woke up.
Slowly, he began to understand. "You broke into my house. You broke into my house! I can't believe you broke into my house." He stared as Puck messily chugged a familiar brand of beer. "You're such a bastard. For all you know, Quinn could be dead, and yet, you're here, screwing around. You don't deserve her. Or the baby."
"I was just at the hospital, fag. Your dad said she and the baby were still in surgery and that she was giving my kid up for adoption. You know, if it survives. Funny, Mr. High-and-Mighty, I didn't see you there. Oh, right, you were busy sleeping. You have no right to judge me."
"For your information, I was there for hours. I was there when they started cutting into her stomach and when she was freaking out because she had at least two months until the end of her term but the baby was coming anyway. I was there, waiting for her asshole parents to show up. Or you. You know, the baby's father."
"How was I supposed to know that she went into labor?"
"She called you." He laughed bitterly. "Or maybe you were too busy knocking up some other girl to notice." He shook his head, dropping his empty can on the floor.
"Quinn never called me. No one called me until you woke me up, at one in the morning, screaming your head off about it and telling me I was worse then Hitler. Again." Kurt sat on the edge of his bed guiltily.
"So this may have been a little bit of a-" He stopped when he saw Puck run around the corner to his bathroom. Loud retching noises hit him from the other room. Kurt strode over, watching the mohawked head tremble over the toilet bowl. Puck heaved again, and the sight made him want to vomit himself. Spitting a few times, he flushed and leaned against the wall. That's when Kurt noticed that his hands and forehead were bleeding. Without a sound, he got out his handy first aid kit and a wet washcloth and knelt next to him.
"Don't worry. I'll have you looking like new in no time. This kit can take on anything," he said, set firmly in doctor-mode. Puck made a little growl, like a frightened animal, when Kurt dabbed at the cut on his forehead. He gently cleaned away the blood on first his head, then hands. "I'm pretty good at this, too. If you don't forget the neosporin, you shouldn't have a problem with infection or anything. And I'll make sure this nasty scrape on your forehead doesn't scar."
"What, are you a doctor or something?"
"No. I just don't want my dad to worry. I've gotten good at that." Puck inhaled sharply when he picked a small chip of something out of a cut on his knuckles with his trusty tweezers. Looked like he'd tried to punch something very solid.
"Does someone beat you up?" he asked quietly. Kurt looked up at him, eyes flat.
"Uh, yeah. Duh. I thought you sent them."
"Sent them? When? Who beats you up?" There was surprise on his face, something he didn't expect. Not in a million years.
"Like, half of the football team. Usually it's not more than a punch or two after practice or after school. But sometimes, those stupid jocks you hang out with get bored and gang up on me before or after school. Thank god they never ruined my nose." He wrapped a last band aid around one of Puck's fingers and unpeeled another, larger one for his head. "I always thought you told them to do it, but you were too much of an asshole to let yourself get caught. Actually, I'm pretty surprised you didn't know." He smoothed the edges of the band aid down neatly on his forehead. His cuts seemed to have stopped bleeding, so it didn't seem like the damage was too bad. The idiot would live another day.
Puck tried to defend himself. "I never actually hurt you. Not more than you could handle. A dumpster dive or shove in the hallway isn't that bad." Kurt stared at him.
"Bruises, cuts, scrapes...they heal in a week or two. But I can remember every time you sneered at me or called me a faggot or said something about hating me in general like it was a couple minutes ago. Actually, it was, but that's not the point. The point is, you've detested me for ridiculous, superficial reasons for as long as I have memories of you. You don't just physically injure me or my belongings, you humiliate me every chance you get. So, yes, as far as bullies are concerned, you'll always be at the top of my list." He stood and heaved the speechless jock to his feet. "Now, either wash up, since you look pretty terrible, or get the hell out of my house. Well, once you tell me how this happened."
"I got into a fight with a wall," he answered simply. Frowning, Puck looked down at his dirty, wrinkled, and bloody clothes. "Can I take a shower? I promise I'll be quick, I just feel really unclean right now." Kurt snorted, thinking about all the ways he was unclean. Morally.
"Yeah. Go ahead. If you want, I'll throw your clothes in the wash. Those stains are going to set if you don't treat them soon. Just put your clothes outside the door if you want me to wash them. And don't mess with your band aids." Kurt turned and left, hating himself in a lot of ways. He really hadn't meant to say anything about the bullying (though, at first, he liked rubbing it in Puck's face that he wasn't completely messed up by the other boys, but then he found out the truth), and, really, what was he doing? When your enemy breaks into your house in the middle of the night, drunk, you're not supposed to clean up their wounds and let them shower in your bathroom; you're supposed to kick their ass and send them packing! He wasn't particularly good at either of the latter two things, but the same mentality should have been present. But no, Kurt had to go and be nice. He really was an idiot. It wasn't like Puck'd do the same for him.
A minute later, he heard the bathroom door open and close. He took the messily folded clothes upstairs to the laundry room and tossed them in the washing machine (with some tough stain-fighting detergent). The machine was rumbling enthusiastically when he went downstairs. Which, of course, was when he realized that Puck would need clothes to put on when he was clean. He dug through his rarely-used dresser until he found a pair of way-too-big pajama pants and a nightshirt. There was a sense of uncertainty in his gut when he knocked on the bathroom door.
"If you want a change of clothes, cover yourself." For a second he wasn't sure if he'd been heard over the shower noise.
"Come in." Kurt pushed open the door and placed the clothes neatly on the sink counter. He noticed that Puck hadn't stopped the water and thrown a towel around himself (like a normal person), but had just used the shower steam that fogged up the curtain for cover. Kurt learned two things: the jock was either a stupid or friendly drunk (the former being more likely), and he really needed sleep. Being up at weird hours was making him think about things he didn't actually really think about. Like, for instance, that Puck had a really nice silhouette when he was naked. And, on a related note, a nice ass. But none of that was true and none of it mattered, though it still stuck in his mind, poking and prodding his brain matter. He needed to get away from the steam in the room and in his mind.
Trying not to think, Kurt laid on his bed. He wasn't actually going to sleep, just lay there in a half-asleep state until Puck was done with his shower so he could put his clothes in the dryer and make him go home. He most certainly was not thinking that it was almost nice that Puck didn't know that people sometimes beat him up after school and thought that he could handle all of the horrible things that he'd done to him since junior school. And he most certainly was not falling asleep.
When Kurt woke up, it seemed at first that it was for no reason at all, simply the end of his natural sleep cycle. Then he realized that one side of him was cold. Unsurprising, since he was backwards on his bed and therefore on top of his comforter. And, at around the same time, he realized that he really wasn't breathing all that deeply, since his face was pressed against something. Something warm. Something warm and moving slightly.
Fuck.
He knew, of course, that the only real option was that it was Puck. His dad smelled more like car engines and stale junk food, and less like some sort of smoky thing and something a little reminiscent of cinnamon-covered raspberries, which, really, was nothing short of a miracle since Puck had used his soap and was wearing his clothing. Of course, that brought to mind the question of why the hell Puck was in his bed and not at home. Kurt wasn't really one to be subtle, so he jabbed a finger into what he determined to be the other boy's ribcage. He jerked and fell onto the floor abruptly. Kurt peered over the edge of his bed, finding that, for some reason, Puck seemed to still be asleep.
"Puck," he whispered. "Hey! Puck." There was no response, so he poked him in the shoulder. Hard. Nothing. Kurt rolled his eyes and hopped over the large teen to his iPod and speakers. He turned up the volume as loud as it would go and started blasting "Rent". He always felt that the song had a way of perking him up in the morning. Apparently, Puck thought so too because he sat straight up with his hands clamped over his ears and eyes squeezed shut. Kurt took a moment to appreciate the image before pausing the song.
"Now that I have your attention," he quipped. "You have some explaining to do. Like, for example, why you were in my bed a minute ago and not at home."
"Well, I didn't know where my clothes were and my mom would notice if I came home in clothes that weren't mine."
"And you didn't sleep on Quinn's bed because...?"
"There's something on it. It looks sketchy." Kurt grimaced guiltily. That would be the nasty stuff from Q's uterus.
"Yeah. Quinn's water may have broken on there. Sorta forgot about that. Anyways. The couch? A delightful alternative."
He frowned, getting defensive. "I was tired. And it's not like I was trying to get into your pants. Ew. No. I'm the opposite of gay, so not on your life."
"You do realize that if my dad came down here and saw us in my bed, you would be dead in less than a minute, right? And that the opposite of gay would be unhappy? Just saying." It was true, in more ways than one. When one wasn't busy being the angsty, gay kid with a crush on a straight boy. Other than that, it was pretty happy.
"Shut up." He stared into space. "Do you have any aspirin? I've got a bitch of a headache."
"Yeah," he sighed. "You're pitiful, you know that?"
"I'm not pitiful; I'm a stud. You're just jealous and a little turned on by that." Kurt gagged, taking a bottle of aspirin from his medicine cabinet.
"Don't make me vomit. For that, you're going to have to swallow these dry." Puck snorted, obviously finding something pervertedly humorous about his statement. "That doesn't even make sense out of context." He handed him the bottle and flopped onto his bed.
"Thanks." He looked down at his hands for a minute. "Actually, look, I'm just going to come right out and say this. Um, do you think we can call a truce or something? I just...I feel sorta guilty." Kurt stared at him in disbelief.
"A truce? How can we call a truce if you hate me on principle? You're more of a Neanderthal than I thought."
"I don't hate you. I just...don't know what to do with you. There's a difference. Look, I promise I won't throw you in the dumpsters anymore or push you or send Karofsky love letters with your name on them."
Kurt gaped. "You did what? No wonder he freaked out at me last week! I can't believe that was you. You're a jerk, a real jerk, you know that? And I don't want your pity." Puck stared at him, his eyes going wide as if he couldn't believe that someone would reject his offer.
"Come on, I haven't even called your dad's work in months." Kurt stared at him, trying to comprehend how a person could hate another as much as he hated Puck at that moment. The fear he'd seen in his dad's eyes, the anger, when he'd gotten those phone calls...he never wanted to see his dad like that again.
"That's not even remotely forgivable. Messing with my dad is a step too far. I don't care if you stopped. You don't know what that did to him." He really wanted to claw Puck's skin off.
"Won't you just give me another chance?" His low, usually-confident voice took on a pleading tone, and his eyes conveyed thousands of apologies. But he couldn't just forgive him like that.
"You've had hundreds of chances, every single time you injure, humiliate, or inconvenience me. I'd say that's more than enough chances."
The sorry look dissolved. "Well, fuck that. Yeah, I can be a bit of an asshole to you, but now I'm trying to make it right. At least let me do that. Kurt." Kurt gave him a look.
"We are in no way on first name basis. You've done nothing for me that would warrant that sort of familiarity."
"Well? What's it gonna take? Because I'm no good at public humiliation; people just think I'm being studly and hilarious." Beneath the machismo, there was sincerity. Kurt broke.
"Then tell me something. Information that would be embarrassing. You owe me at least that." Puck stared at him for a second, then dug through the back pocket of the pajama pants. He settled a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"There. There you go. I, Noah Puckerman, wear glasses. Contacts usually, but I lost one yesterday, so, yeah. I'm a geek." Kurt thought about it for a moment. Sure, glasses weren't exactly as humiliating or degrading as pee balloons, but, considering Puck's aversion to anything remotely nerdy, he considered it to be a step. One of many that he would have to climb before they were on good terms. Think Eiffel-Tower many. Sighing, Kurt ran and picked up his now-dented phone and sat in front of Puck. He snapped a quick picture of him sort-of glaring through his glasses. If anything, it would serve as a cheap sort of blackmail.
"There. I've not yet agreed to the truce, but you may address me by my first name. If you wear your glasses until you leave. Actually..." He checked his phone for the time. It was almost ten. Not only were they missing school, but they had a hospital to get to. His dad really should have called him. "Come on." He marched upstairs, aiming to grab some sort of breakfast and put Puck's clothes in the dryer. Instead, he found his father on the couch, waking up at the sound of their footsteps.
"Oh, hey, Kurt," he said groggily, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He looked up at him. "Oh. Hi, Noah. You're, uh, here. Did you sleep over?" Kurt heard the slight warning beneath his sleepy voice.
"Oh, yeah. I just got caught up in the baby drama and I needed someone to talk to. Kurt said I could come over for a little while and I sorta fell asleep on accident." Burt looked at him carefully. "Yeah, and my clothes were really dirty because I tripped outside, so Kurt washed them. So he gave me his clothes. So I wouldn't be naked...yeah..." It was perhaps not the best response, but Kurt was thankful that his dad seemed to not think too much of it.
"Alright. By the way, nice glasses." It almost made him giggle at how embarrassed Puck looked. It wasn't quite a blush, but it was getting there.
"They're for reading. And driving. And seeing things. And I have to go. Over there." He started walking away, and Kurt actually smiled, edging him to the laundry room. He tossed the clothes in the dryer and hopped on top of it. Puck gave him a look.
"Don't hate on the man who's doing your laundry."
"Yeah, there's only one man in this room, and that's me. So I'm free to hate whoever I want."
"Jerk. Although I guess I can't be too mad since you didn't try to get me to wash your underwear." Puck shifted uneasily.
"About that...I don't really believe in underwear. I was - and am - sort of going commando. Sorry. Should've warned you, but real studs don't wear underwear. You should know that."
Kurt choked. "Gag me with a spoon. You'll be keeping those pants, or I'm going to have to burn them."
"I don't know. Maybe you should keep them so my manliness can rub off on you. Then maybe you won't be so much of a girl."
"I am not rubbing myself on the pants you wore without underwear. Dream on."
"That's definitely not something I dream about. Ever. So don't get your hopes up." Kurt rolled his eyes.
"Fine. You can deal with your own laundry. I have to go change; I'm wearing yesterday's clothes. That is so gross. And I didn't exfoliate last night. If I break out, it's your fault." He did his best to push thoughts of Quinn from his mind. They would go see her as soon as Puck's clothes were dry. Truth be told, he felt guilty for not having been thinking about her and the baby, and only them, since he got home. To be fair, Puck was quite a distraction, with his injuries and general stupidity.
Kurt had just reached his stairs when he heard his dad's voice call him from the living room. "Kurt? That you?" Kurt pranced into the other room.
"Yes, it's me. Just going to get dressed. You need anything?"
"Nah. Just making sure you're okay. Are things alright with Noah?"
"Yeah. He's...annoying, but fine. We've called a truce. Well, not quite, but it's getting there. And he's straight as a board. So. Not to worry." He skipped downstairs and found the outfit he'd planned for that day, a meticulously planned ensemble that continued his long tradition of fierce, ultra-fashionable somewhat-expensive clothing: a dark, lush turtleneck, a very posh scarf, and one of his best (and tightest) pairs of skinnies. Luckily, his skin hadn't suffered too much from the recent stress, but he could see some light pattern dryness beginning between his eyebrows and around his mouth. Some moisturizer and a few deft strokes with a fine-toothed comb later, and he was fabulous, as usual.
By the time he got back to the laundry room, Puck was dressed in his clothes (though his glasses were nowhere in sight), having changed in the little room. "Come on, Mohawk. Let's go see your baby mama," Kurt sighed. He noticed happily that the blood stains had disappeared, a testament to his laundry prowess. That cheery thought in mind, Kurt, of course, drove them to the hospital. After checking them in, they went to Quinn's hospital room. At first glance, she seemed to be asleep, but he noticed a little bit of movement and went inside. She sat up to greet them, looking haggard and dark, perhaps from a lack of makeup.
"Hey, Q," Kurt said gently, sitting on the edge of her bed. Puck stood in the doorway; she didn't look at him. "How're you holding up?"
"I'm better. They've got me on some stuff, so I'm pretty tired, but I'm basically alright."
"What about-"
"I signed the papers. I put her up for adoption. I didn't even name her." Kurt looked at her for a little while. All of the repercussions of that decision seemed to weigh her down, to press in on her from all sides, and she was cracking under the pressure. But there was a hard light in her eyes that showed that she believed it was the right decision. Considering her age and total lack of funds, it probably was.
"So that's it, then? I don't even have a choice in all this?" Puck asked quietly. She stared at him.
"You couldn't be a father and I didn't want you to be. I wasn't about to raise her on my own. That would have been bad for everyone. And it's my decision anyway. I don't really know what you're doing here right now," she snapped. She had the air of a wounded animal cornered by a predator, wild and desperate.
"You know what? You're right." Puck turned and left angrily. Quinn shrugged as if it meant nothing to her, but he could see that she was little more than a collection of fractures held together by her own will.
"Come on, Quinn. That's not fair. He was trying," Kurt said softly.
She sighed. "He couldn't handle parenthood. Neither could I. Besides, what's done is done." She looked down. "What were you doing here with him anyway?"
"He was a bit messed up about everything. Apparently, the mother of his child didn't call him when she went into labor." He gave her a pointed look, and she shook her head. He almost regretted saying it, but someone had to stand up for the father. Even if he was an idiot. "So he showed up at my place. I guess he didn't really have anywhere to go. He and Finn aren't really talking yet, Rachel's Rachel, and I don't think he's really doing anything with Santana anymore. I don't think he's not really in a good place right now, considering that he came to me for someone to talk to. Well, I suppose I was the one to tell him your were here. Pretty loudly, too. But the idiot's desperate."
"I don't regret what I did. He'll appreciate it later. It's not like he could deal with being a father anyway." A couple shards of her broken composure fell free.
"He would have tried, at least. That's better than a lot of people." He placed his hand over hers. "Is there anything you want me to bring for you? Do you know how long you'll be here?"
"The doctors said they wanted to keep me another night, and then I can't go back to school for another few days. I'm not supposed to 'exert myself' for two weeks or something like that. Good thing I don't have to worry about the Cheerios."
"Alright. Well, I'm going to take Noah home. I'll be back in a little bit."
"He's 'Noah' now?" she asked, giving him a curious look.
"I don't know. I'm letting him call me 'Kurt', so I figure I should probably call him by his name at least some of the time." She nodded as if she didn't agree or understand, and he hoped she wouldn't question him; he hadn't actually meant to call Puck by his first name. "I'll see you soon, 'kay?" She nodded and gave him a weary smile, invisible cracks spreading over her face from the stress. Aching, Kurt left her, hoping Puck wouldn't be too hard to find. In fact, he was in the waiting room, glaring at the linoleum. Kurt kicked his shoe lightly.
"Please tell me you're not okay with this," he murmured, seemingly lost in thought. There was a lot wrong with the situation, but he couldn't say. It wasn't his place, and this time, he cared.
"I don't know. It doesn't have anything to do with me, so I'm not in a good place to judge. Now come on. I'm taking to my house to get your car and then you're going home. You can't just hang out here; it's not good for you. So get off your ass." Surprisingly, Puck actually did what he was told. A couple minutes later, they were back at the Hummel residence. Kurt bid Puck good riddance and grabbed a few things for Quinn before heading back to the hospital, wishing he didn't have to face the broken girl, though he knew that he would have to see her in pieces before she came back together.