A/N: I probably won't comment on every chapter but I just wanted to relate that the chapter sizes will vary. Some will be shorter, maybe painfully so, then others (this being an example). Otherwise same warnings from before apply, and again, I owns nothin'.
It had been a week. One week since the kid's arrival, and Puck had yet to beat his face in.
He attributed this fact of course to Dr. Schuester's warning, the threat of jail draining the normal urge to pummel the mouthy little fudge packer.
That was the easy explanation anyway.
But why did it feel like it was teetering on an excuse? Was it really only the promise of painful restriction and harship behind bars that was keeping him from beating Blue Eyes into a bloody mess of shit?
Hell, who knew. But one thing Puck was certain of was that he was indeed holding back.
Not that he was holding back on the endless slander and mockery. Oh, no. He came with hard, unrelenting taunts that would easily stab at an individual's heart until it bled dry. Even outward verbal threats, promises of some sort of physical pain seemed to only make the bastard's grin widen. Shurking off the words like an irksome fly buzzing too closely, or even worse: like a Mother being amused by her infant's wobbly, uncoordinated first steps.
It was supposed to be infuriating.
But it wasn't...
It just made him want to try harder.
Good prey was hard to come by these days. He had had his fill with most of these shit sacks for just over six months now. He was entitled to a new challenge.
Yeah, he was. This being his final thought as he swung his large slippered feet onto the boy's plate of beads, sending some scattering on the floor.
Puck relaxed into his chair, his smile mocking, his hands laced together to support his head as he eyed the kid for a reaction.
He wasn't surprised when he got nothing. Just hoping, but not surprised. The little fruit barely glanced up as he continued to string together some multicolored disaster of a bracelet in silence.
"Lady." Puck greeted, his feet un-moving.
"Noah."
Said with such ease. Almost a familiarity. Puck had a nasty habit of hating that name. He learned to accept it however coming from that mouth. It had an airy, lilt that didn't make it sound so horrible.
Arts and fucking crafts. What the hell was the point?
"What the fuck is the point of this anyway?" Puck couldn't help but ask aloud. There was an honesty to the question that failed concealment, and for a moment, he didn't care. Just truthfully curious.
"Truly?"
"Yeah Boy George, truly. I don't get the appeal of stickin' some thread through some shitty dollar store beads and pretending that you're making jewelry for the Queen. Though I guess I can see how you can like it. If you're pretendin' the string is a line of dick and the beads are a representation of your ass."
His blue eyes narrow, but his grin doesn't abade. He simply grabs a piece of extra string and pushes the nearly empty container of beads forward.
"Try it."
Again, Puck is rendered speechless. But only for a second. The reality of what is being requested suddenly hits him like a bottle to his skull.
"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me faggy. I don't do beadwork or any other Martha Stewart approved hobby."
This did nothing to deter the pale skinned boy as he gestured again for Puck to retrieve the string from his hand.
"You asked."
And they stay like that. Puck staring with wide eyes, his lazy posture contradicting the traffic now running madly through his brain. And Kurt, an easy smile, hand outstretched with a single line of string trailing from it without a care.
Puck rolls his eyes dramatically and plucks the string away from the noticeably soft palm. His dark eyes avoiding blue, knowing that they were probably shining again with that triumphant fucking gleam that churns his stomach. Puck roughly rummages through what's left of the cheap, plastic trinkets spaced out in the clear container, and pulls a few out.
"Now thread it through."
God, the dude actually sounds encouraging. Like he's nothing short of full on fucking delighted at this turn of events. Puck hates himself as he moves to thread his first bead. It's a struggle, his eyes squinting in concentration, his teeth gnawing his bottom lip, but he gets it. Then he tries another. And then another. By his tenth bead, he forgets how gay it is. He forgets that he shouldn't even be sitting here, trying to strike up conversation with some lily footed fag kid.
"So how long you been doin' shit like this?"
Kurt looks thoughtful, his brow lifting slightly though his eyes remain on his work. Puck notes how clumsy he probably looks compared to the other boy's swift, expedient movements.
"I don't know. I guess since I was around four. I used to do stuff like this with my Mo-"
A pause. "Mother."
Puck feels it. It's cold, the way that last word is spit out; like venom. The normally calm exterior frosting over. The hesitation is the first time Puck can recall any sign of distress: an actual chink in this kid's armor. He doesn't comment on it though.
"You didn't have much of a chance did you?"
"Hm?" Kurt had gone somewhere else. He shook his head, refocusing his eyes on his hands in order to resume.
"Being a fudger. I mean, if you were doin' this kind of crap as a kid. It was only a matter of time before you started tuggin' on actual dicks instead a makin' em' from play do."
The blue eyes seem thoughtful for a moment, or maybe jilted. Puck can't be sure.
"Maybe."
Puck is again surprised. He had been expecting some snippy remark. Not that: some half assed omission.
"Maybe?"
"But I can't imagine why anybody would choose this for themselves-"
"Yeah, cause it's fuckin' gross."
"No. Because it's horribly, irrevocably painful."
"Well, I imagine takin' it up the ass can be."
Crystal with untainted sadness just underlying the surface like a frozen lake. Puck can see it now. Maybe that's why those eyes are so hauntingly blue: they're witholding too much in their depths.
The kid's eyes don't match the quirked lips, turning up in one of those feigned grin's Puck is used to observing now with him. A hollow chuckle escapes between the pink flesh of his mouth before he proceeds.
"It can be. Very. But I think you'll be able to judge for yourself, what, when you end up going to Fairview. And I heard they like to break the one's who think they're the baddest first. Bent, buckled, and swallowing."
The blue color seemed to darken. The snide, guarded exterior returning just that quickly.
"Good luck with finding lube though. Your best bet would probably be to sneak some butter from the cafeteria. I recommend that over spit anyway."
Puck is glaring at him now. He doesn't like this one - this version of Kurt. He realizes it in that very moment. He's too soft for the iciness of his statements. It doesn't suit someone who... Who what? Should be happy?
Puck misses the laugh he heard in group the other day. He hates what he sees sitting in front of him...
"Don't. Ever. Accuse me of bein' some faggot." He didn't even realize he was doing it until he registers the sincerely aghast expression on the kid's face. Puck's hand had shot out and grabbed the thin wrists, pinning them together like a vice.
"Let go of me!"
Puck's hand is shaking with rage. For just a few obscured seconds they stare at each other: Puck furious, dominating. Kurt, vulnerable, frightened.
"Ever." He reiterates with a hiss. Then he pushes the soft hands away, knocks the container off the table causing the remaining beads to spill obnoxiously over the floor, and stalks out of the room leaving the remaining residents and staff staring after him.
Kurt winces at the sound of the door slamming shut; his hand spread protectively over his chest willing his heart to slow its pace.
Some of the patients have already returned to their work. Kurt notes a few who are still staring: an overweight black girl with large, sad eyes, and an Asian girl wearing a beenie and too much eye make up.
He looks down at the table, if anything just to avoid their sympathetic stares. And then he sees it...
It's simple. No real decorative or creative quality about it. But still perfect. Kurt gingerly picks it up, his eyes inexplicably swelling with moisture.
A bracelet spelling out one word: Lady.
Why this incites this sort of reaction from him, he definitely has no clue. But he can't help but place it gingerly on his wrist; the purple, blue, and silver standing out against his pale skin, and tuck his hand away under the table.
