MADE FOR EACH OTHER
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GLEE. IT SOLELY BELONGS TO RYAN MURPHY. NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT WAS EVER INTENDED IN THE PROCESS OF WRITING THIS FANFIC.
A THOUSAND APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY OF THIS CHAPTER; A LOT OF TIME WAS NEEDED TO PLAN AND ARRANGE THE SEQUENCES TOGETHER.
THANKS A MILLION TO THOSE WHO REVIEWED CHAPTER NINE; YOU WILL ALWAYS HAVE MY EVERLASTING GRATITUDE. HERE IS A NEW CHAPTER FOR YOU.
DO NOTE THAT I HAVE RESUMED USING SLIGHT REPETITION OF ELEMENTS AND WORDS AS A MEANS OF FOREGROUNDING IN THIS CHAPTER TO HIGHLIGHT THE PUCKURT/PURT/PUMMEL ISSUE.
ANOTHER NOTE: THE MENTAL INSTITUTION OF DELPHOS, OHIO, THAT WAS BRIEFLY MENTIONED IN CHAPTER NINE IS A FICTIONAL PLACE. IT IS MERELY A FIGMENT OF MY OWN IMAGINATION, AND THEREFORE IT DOES NOT EXIST. HOWEVER, I MUST STATE THAT WHATEVER RESEMBLANCES IT BEARS TO ANY ACTUAL PLACE, PARTICULARLY AN EXISTING MENTAL INSTITUTION, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
THE SONGS FEATURED IN THIS CHAPTER ARE I'M WITH YOU BY AVRIL LAVIGNE. I DO NOT OWN THIS SONG EITHER, AND NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT WAS EVER INTENDED AS WELL.
Chapter Ten: The Thinkable Unthinkable Impulse of Falling in Love with Badass Noah "Puck" Puckerman alias Puckzilla also-known-as Puckersaurus
Kurt and Puck meet up again to solve the mystery that binds them together. Soon, the unthinkable happens. Enjoy! P.S: The following sequences marked with a triple "X" after Kurt's confrontation with his dad are all set back to the point when Kurt passes out, and no longer within the "an hour ago" timeframe. You will understand as you read on, but if you still have questions, please do not hesitate to ask.
It was Sunday again, and Puck could not believe how swiftly time had passed. He could hear his mother bustling about in the kitchen downstairs as she prepared breakfast. It was then that he remembered the previous day, a Saturday, was a county holiday whose name he could not recall in his current state of sleep-induced stupor, and his mother was on leave.
Usually, it was only on Monday mornings that he would hear the kitchen come to life. He knew all the sounds impeccably well, from the slightly shrill metallic slam when the kettle was placed on the stove to the incessant clatter created by a teaspoon at work in a mug of coffee, dissolving sugar and merging sweetness with bitterness. When he was much younger and his father was still at home, such sounds depressed him, especially on schooldays, for they served as an alarm clock of sorts to wake him up from a fitful night's sleep, forcefully propelling him through the rituals of preparing for school. He often wished for the time to come when those sounds would never interrupt his sleep. In fact, he got what he wanted, but unknowingly paid a heavy price for it: his father had walked out, and his mother had no other choice but to work at odd hours just to make ends meet, thereby ending the early morning wakeup calls from the kitchen. Now, although he still regarded school with the same animosity he harboured from his childhood days, he looked forward to hearing those irksome sounds every Monday morning. It was the only physical figment of his happier past that he could still cling onto.
However, today was Sunday, and Puck hated rising early on Sundays. It was only eight, and it was unusually chilly today, even though the sky was quite sunny. In spite of the day's dullness that would usually tempt him back to sleep, Puck kicked off his blankets and rose promptly, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face, shave off his week-old stubble and take a cursory bath. He was hungry.
Meanwhile, the chill outside had not yet subsided. Upon entering the kitchen, Puck was greeted by the aroma of margarine melting on freshly-baked butterscotch waffles and steaming hot coffee, causing his stomach to rumble at the slightest hint. How long ago had it been since his mother prepared such splendid breakfasts from scratch? He looked at his mother spooning batter into the waffle iron, and then at his sister munching away with a big smile plastered on her face. If his father was occupying the seat at the head of the dining table, sipping his morning coffee as he scanned through the papers, the kitchen would have been the background for a perfect family portrait, just like the ones on the instant waffle mix-instant canned soup-instant pasta-instant everything commercials on television, or the smiling mother-father-son-and-daughter pasted onto cartons of his mother's trusted brand of detergent.
Alas, he was not there. A tear threatened to slide down Puck's cheek as he thought of how much had he missed as a result of growing up without his father at home. Whether it was a tear of frustration, self-pity, rage or just plain sadness, even Puck could not decipher. Nevertheless, he fought it back and proceeded to grab the seat facing Sarah's. It was the seat he always occupied as a child.
"Noah, what are you doing sitting on my chair?" asked Mrs. Ilana Puckerman in mock annoyance. Puck struggled to find an answer, but after reading the look on his mother's face, he kept silent. It was as if she was trying to say, come on, Noah, how much longer do you want to fantasise over this perfect family mumbo-jumbo? He's never coming back, and you know it bloody well as much as I do. Now, will you please move over? You're the new man of the house. So, please sit where you belong.
The reality of his father's absence sent a scathing pang of hurt down Puck's chest, and it slammed into him like a hard, ruthless iron fist. Yet he still moved over, his face downcast, to the place his father once occupied. Mrs. Ilana Puckerman was heaping waffles onto his plate, but the aroma no longer appealed to him. He had lost his appetite.
"Come, Noah, eat your waffles while they're still hot. I've heated the maple syrup, so you can keep warm throughout the day," said Mrs. Ilana Puckerman as she poured him a cup of coffee. Eat, please eat, damn you; I've made breakfast from scratch today, so the very least you can do is wolf down those godforsaken waffles and pretend you're enjoying every single bloody morsel even if you don't feel like eating. It's all you need to do to make me happy, just this once. Mrs. Ilana Puckerman did not have to say those words out loud; Puck knew her well enough to read her thoughts through the awkward stiffness of her movements.
As he watched his mother pour creamer into his coffee, he suddenly felt uncomfortable. There was something about her mannerisms that spoke of a subservient nature, like a devoted wife fawning over her supreme lord of a husband, and it sickened him considerably. Why was his mother treating him like this? Please, ma, I'm your son, not your deadbeat husband. Please treat me the way a mother should treat her son. Just because I'm helping to support the family, doesn't mean you have to slave over me the way you did over dad.
"There, just the way you like it," said Mrs. Ilana Puckerman, patting him fondly on the cheek before she tended to more waffles. His coffee somehow reminded him of vomit, and he refused to even look at it, let alone taste it, but when his mother turned around to smile at him, he guzzled it up, refusing to let her see his disgust towards his puke-coloured coffee. It dawned upon him that his mother was trying to re-enact the happy days she once had, before his father walked out, and he instantly felt sorry for her. I shouldn't be doing this, let alone thinking about it. Ma needs to be happy after working all week at that cramped office; the least I should do is enjoy breakfast as a family, just like old times. She needs it, and so do I, and so does Sarah. At the back of his head, a play was being plotted, waiting to be staged…
Puck gave his share of waffles a gluttonous look, smearing them with margarine before quartering the already quartered pancakes into neat squares, followed by an indulgent teaspoonful of maple syrup on top, each square crowned with a fat, juicy blueberry. As a child, that was how he enjoyed his waffles, presented in pieces and meticulously bedecked with condiments. He treated the whole preparation process like an elaborate Japanese tea ceremony, only that in his bygone child's imagination, he was probably creating a bizarre kind of hors d'oeuvre a gourmet chef would serve diplomat-style at a formal dinner. Plunging his fork into each little square, Puck allowed the flavours to culminate in his mouth, and his face mirrored a rivulet of pleasant sensations, just like those people in the television commercials tasting a sample of food made with whatever canned-soup-packaged pasta-bottled sauce that was being promoted, declaring it the superior brand of all canned soups-packaged pastas-bottled sauces with a contented smile to go with the eye-shut of ecstasy or just the usual "Yum, delicious!".
Meanwhile, Sarah had been witnessing his weird display of eating waffles, and she found it rather unpalatable. For her, waffles were meant to be gobbled up, crisp pancake, margarine, maple syrup, berries and all, as if they were some sort of poor man's Epicurean delight, designed to fill the guts with immense satisfaction, not to be treated daintily like it was the world's most expensive meal. How was she supposed to know? She was not even born yet when Puck was once a timid little boy who conducted rigid rites of dissecting, dressing and decorating his food during every waffle breakfast after learning from an unfortunate event of almost dying due to choking caused by impetuous glutting-of-waffles. What her seemingly wise gaze had scrutinised was purely a staged revival, but she was not old enough to see through the artifice behind it all. It was only natural that she immediately interpreted her brother's complicated eating habits to be a vulgar game that went against all the table manners she knew.
"Mommy, look at Noah. He's playing with his food," she squealed to a busy Mrs. Ilana Puckerman, but fell silent when Puck shot her his signature death-glare.
"Sarah, leave your brother alone; can't you see how hungry he is?" Mrs. Ilana Puckerman chided gently. Truth be told, Sarah could not care less, for she was anxious to return to walloping her own waffles. The instruction was simple and clear-cut, but its underlying Oedipal overtones were enough to make Puck uncomfortable all over again.
The remainder of breakfast consisted largely of Mrs. Ilana Puckerman telling the children what she thought of making for dinner as she ate her waffles, her long-untouched Betty Crocker cookbook by her side. First, it was Kung Pau chicken (no, it won't do; Sarah's too young for spicy food, don't you think so, Noah?), followed by shepherd's pie (with extra grated cheese on top, just the way you love it, Noah) and finally, everyone (Puck included, though passively) agreed on tuna quiche when Mrs. Ilana Puckerman realised that they had run out of minced beef, and the nearest delicatessen was closed on Sundays.
When it was finally over, Sarah had volunteered to help with the dishes, while Puck, unable to continue with his self-staged act for a minute longer, dashed out of the kitchen for a whiff of fresh air in the living room, the garden, in fact anywhere but the very place where the family sat down to their three meals of the day. Mrs. Ilana Puckerman gave him a strange look, wondering what the cause for his abrupt move was, but Puck had no time for exchanging looks. The flooding in of memories was too much for him to bear. Although he felt terribly guilty for leaving his mother alone in the kitchen with Sarah and no-one to relive the happy perfect family days of the past, he simply needed to be alone. He was afraid of losing his cool and ruining the nostalgic atmosphere that his mother had painstakingly reconstructed. He was not that selfish.
Yet could it be deduced that Puck's refusal to continue with his brand of theatricality was the reason why he had to get out of the house? Mrs. Ilana Puckerman might have gathered the signs; she could have been fully aware that her son was pretending to be appreciative for her sake and that he had ad-libbed his own exit when he had run out of dialogues, gestures or perhaps guts, but what she did not notice was his sighting of that accursed old photo album she had yet to return to her peevish mother, shoved a bit too unceremoniously (for a family relic, that is) but mostly accidentally into a pile of her husband's abandoned college textbooks, waiting silently (and perhaps grudgingly) in their cardboard box for an uncertain future in the hands of new, more deserving owners, who would (as owners-to-be) throng to have a second look at them for their unbelievably low second-hand prices at the next neighbourhood yard sale. Was it a sigh of relief they were heaving when the new man of the house (no, no, the old one is never coming back; you heard the lady just now, which is why we're all here) had spotted and subsequently unearthed the oddball among them? After all, they had nothing in common with the latest addition to their refugee-family-in-a-cardboard-box, treasuries of the wonders of carpentry, masonry and the ilk that they were. The only thing that bonded them all was the fact that they had no place in this house, but still, a 70-year old ravaged-by-silverfish photo album for sale? Picture it, a near-wordless journal of family history standing stupidly proud, trying to make an obvious (but ridiculous, sadly) difference in a sea of guides to polytechnic academia. As though he understood its plight, Puck felt a stab of pity for that mould-coloured cloth-bound album with its rusted gold-coloured metal edging, picking it up hastily before his mother caught him dabbling with their family's disturbing past.
Alone now in his room, Puck welcomed the autumn chill that had already filled every nook and corner of his room. Opening the album, he took a close look at the face that was so identical to his. Go and find him, the smiling countenance of Nehemiah Wexler seemed to tell him, but who, he did not disclose, and yet Puck already knew the answer: find Karl, but Puck dismissed the idea immediately. Just a week ago, he and Kurt had narrowly avoided bumping into Burt during their unexpected discovery, and he doubted if Kurt would want to take that risk again. He certainly did not want to take a peek at Karl without Kurt or without his permission for fear of offending the male diva. Kurt was a sensitive person, after all. However, he could still hear Nehemiah's gentle pestering (he was sure it was him; no other inner voice, not even his conscience had bothered him so intensely before) echoing in the eerie silence of his room as the first autumn winds blew. If you find him, I might find my peace, and you might find some answers of your own, too. Was it true? Did Puck really have questions that needed answering? He already knew why his father had walked out (Sarah was too big an added responsibility), why Lauren had to break up with him (her mother disapproved of him) and why he could not raise Beth as her rightful father (still a student with no regular income, and a troublesome one at that). What else did he have to ask?
The moment he snapped the album shut, he heard his mother calling him from downstairs. There was someone at the door, asking for him? Who could it be?
Rushing down the stairs, he stopped in his tracks to find a glum-looking Kurt, wearing a pair of shades to conceal his eyes. "Take those shades off, Hummel. You're inside a house; the sun's not going to get to your eyes from here," joked Puck, but this time, there was no bitchy retort or arrogant huff, only a sniffle and what looked like a finger wiping a teardrop away from the surface of an unblemished yet flustered cheek. "Kurt, you okay, man?" he asked quickly, thinking that his joke was particularly upsetting to the male diva.
It was only a question, voiced out of purely genuine concern, but for Kurt, it was akin to the opening of an emotional floodgate, an invitation into the warm comfort a person was ready to provide. It did not occur to Kurt that in his current state, that of utmost vulnerability, he was misinterpreting simple gestures of friendly goodwill as a deeper, more complicated version of what they were supposed to be. It was then and there that Kurt felt a strange numbness overcome his body, making his legs go weak and the insides of his guts churn like a cauldron of boiling molten metal. Slowly, he began to lose his footing as his head swam and his vision blurred. What was happening to him? In those briefest of moments before everything around him was shrouded in perpetual darkness, the only thing that he was able to absorb was Puck's increasingly alarmed voice. Yes, Puck, ex-thorn-in-his-side Puck, Puck the dumpster thrower, Puck the screw-up, Puck the rotten, Puck the badass, Puck the sex shark, current-confidante-linked-by-a-family-secret Puck was calling out to him. As his equilibrium gradually lost control, he expected to land on the floor with a dull, almost-metallic thud, but he did not feel any sharp pain bursting into his skull. It was as though he had defied the laws of gravity when he felt he was being lifted gently by someone big and strong enough to handle his weight. Kurt thought he was dead.
XXX
An hour earlier
He did not expect things to spiral out of control like that, but he just could not help it. Whose fault was it anyway? Was it his, for being too blunt with his choice of words? Or was it his father's, for betraying him so cruelly? The exchange of words between him and Burt not too long ago at the breakfast table resonated clearly in his head, what more when there was nobody to be seen on the streets today.
He was sitting down to his morning cuppa when it happened. Perhaps it was his entire fault; he should not have avoided looking at his father in the eye. He should have thought of something more innovative so as not to rouse his father's suspicions, yet that was exactly what he failed to do. He kept his eyes fixed on his steaming cup of tea even when Burt greeted him "Good morning". Therefore, it was little wonder that Burt felt his son was particularly cold and distant today, and being the loving father that he was, immediately got himself overwhelmed by a strong concern for Kurt.
"Hey, you okay, buddy?" he asked gently, but Kurt only lowered his eyes and broke crumbs out of his toast, remaining aloof as ever. "Look, I know something's bothering you, and I need to know what it is. Is it about some guy you're having a crush on?" he interrogated, only to have Kurt glare menacingly at him. "Fine, if you don't want to talk about it, then I'll just drop it, but you do know I'll find out sooner or later," he said before rising to leave. It was only then that a tiny sob escaped Kurt's lips, forcing him to open his mouth. He would not let his father get away with this. This is fourteen years of lies and deceit we're talking about, my dear. Kurt felt the need to at least confront his father, if not punish him. It was hugely impossible for Burt to leave out by accident Karl Hummel's current whereabouts or even the fact that he was still alive because Burt was not that old to experience such a severe bout of forgetfulness, but more importantly, it was essentially an integral part of Karl Hummel's story that should not be left out in the first place, unless deliberately so. Besides, why did Burt have to be so secretive about it? Kurt was aware that the jigsaw puzzle was not complete yet; Burt's story of Karl and his discovery at Findlay were merely two pieces put together. There were still more to come, more that needed putting together so the real picture can finally be seen. Kurt realised that it was about high time Burt spilled the beans, which was what prompted him to release that tiny sob. Of course, for a son disillusioned and bewildered by his father's betrayal, the sob was merely allegorical; it was a cry of a week-long suppressed hurt, rage and confusion combined together. If he could not bear to punish Burt by means of words, he would do so through his clever display of suffering. Years of watching musical films and Broadway shows had, apart from helping him to hone his vocal chords, also taught him a good thing or two about complex histrionics.
"How could you do this to me, dad?" he whispered soon after delivering his allegorical sob. Judy Garland would be so proud of me, he thought sarcastically.
"Eh?" a bewildered Burt wondered aloud.
"You lied to me when you said you had to go out fishing every fall; wait, it's not just me you've been lying to; first, it was mom, and now, Carole. Why, dad, why?" he pleaded. It was a good thing Carole had left the house early for the weekend farmers' market. He did not want her to see him in a heated argument with his father. It was bad enough that he was involving her name in this. Anything more could mean trouble to his father's marriage, and he would never stoop that low even when he was clearly unhappy with what Burt had done.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Why don't you finish your breakfast? I'm going to watch something on TV," Burt said dismissively.
"I followed you last week, dad, to your little getaway. I know you've been visiting Karl," said Kurt directly as he sipped his tea with such an eerie serenity that even Burt was starting to feel afraid of him now, but a teardrop was cascading down his cheek.
"Look, Kurt, it's not what it looks like. I was only trying to protect you," Burt explained.
"By protecting me, you mean hiding the family fag so I don't follow in his footsteps, isn't that right?" Kurt challenged.
"Hey, I told you never to use that word on yourself!" Burt yelled, so loudly that Kurt had jumped and spilled his tea all over the dining table, but he remained composed in spite of the shock.
"I'm sorry I disappointed you by not living up to your expectations. I'm sorry I didn't turn out like Finn," he sobbed openly now as he cleaned up the mess he just made.
"We're not going down that road again. I've told you before, I'll always love you, no matter what, and I meant every word I said," retorted Burt, only to have Kurt ignore him as he brought his unfinished cup of tea to the sink. "What do you want me to do? I've told you everything I know about him. Isn't that enough?" he reasoned, and it was only then that Kurt spoke up.
"You missed a very crucial point," corrected Kurt, "You didn't tell me he's still alive."
"And it was for a good reason," replied Burt sternly.
"Oh, do tell," Kurt mumbled sardonically.
"I don't want you getting all obsessed with him. Carole and I want to see you and Finn achieve so many great things; I just didn't want you to end up neglecting your studies just for the sake of figuring out some old family secret. I'm sure you don't want your mother seeing you like that. So I had to convince you that he's dead even after I've told you everything about him. It was for your own good, trust me," said Burt earnestly.
"I trust you, dad," replied Kurt, "but you do know that I'd find out sooner or later, don't you? It's sad that I had to find out for myself," he continued, having calmed down considerably, lacing his last sentence with a generous pinch of bitterness.
"Now that you know, I hope you're satisfied," said Burt.
"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Kurt.
"I forbid you to visit him. Karl has very little time left. I don't want you asking him all sorts of silly questions. Let him have some peace," replied Burt, but Kurt would have none of it.
"No, even if you shift him three states away, I'll still visit him, because I have questions that need answers, dad," said Kurt as he turned his back, "What you've been doing may be for my own good, but its definition remains the same. It's called betrayal, dad, because all my life, I believed you'd never hide anything from me, not even something like this. Now, I have second thoughts," he hissed coldly at Burt, sending him a hard glare before storming out of the kitchen. He sensed his father trying to stop him, but gave up, knowing that it was hard to reason with someone as resolute as him.
"Fine, have it your way," growled Burt, "but don't come running back to me when the truth gets too ugly for you," he added darkly.
Kurt had no idea how long or how far had he been walking just to cool his temper. His father's last words were particularly haunting. Did he really mean it? Maybe I did make a mess this time, thought Kurt as he kept walking. If I hadn't, dad wouldn't have threatened me like that. However, all those years of his father hiding the true truth about Karl Hummel from him began to sink in once again, and anger regained its position in his heart, prompting him to walk further. Telling his story was completely different from the true truth, after all, for the true truth involved more tangible details that answered questions like "where is he now?" or "is he still alive?". Clearly, Burt had taken an advantage of sorts that morning when he told Kurt about Karl. Kurt imagined Burt heaving a secret sigh of relief when he did not ask any questions pertaining to the true truth, and it served as the fodder to fuel his anger even more. Then, along came disillusionment and hurt, causing tears to well in his eyes. Sensing that he was being watched, he fished out his shades from a pocket of his trench coat, putting them on hastily to deflect whatever stares that were aimed at his grieving form.
He kept on walking, unaware that he had ended up in another neighbourhood. When he finally stopped, he realised he had lost his way, for he did not recognise the houses around him. Panic flooded into him instantly; how far away was he from home? He remembered not taking his cell with him, and that meant he had to rack his brains a little to find his way back before his father, Carole and Finn got worried.
There was a parched dryness in his throat from all the crying, causing him to suddenly yearn for a thirst-quenching drink. All he had was a small sip of tea, and he was starting to feel dehydrated. He looked at the never-before-seen houses around him, and his eyes chanced upon a dented letterbox that read "Puckerman" in chipped paint. Could this be Puck's house? He desperately needed to find someplace to rest before finding his way home. He knew it would be awkward, perhaps even rude, to just knock at some stranger's door. After all, Puckerman was not an uncommon surname, at least in such a huge country, but could the same be applied to a ghost town like Lima, Ohio? Kurt clung earnestly to logic, convinced that it was not Puck's house, but necessity came over him as he could no longer handle his thirst. Years later, he would secretly congratulate himself for merging two very opposite spectrums of execution together, culminating into a lifesaving decision that would further change his life.
So it was that Kurt Hummel, thirsty, depressed and to an extent, physically and mentally exhausted entered the residence of his ex-bully, tormentor and desecrator of fashion and everything lovely all rolled into one, Noah Puckerman alias Puck, also known as Puckzilla or Puckersaurus by means of three weary knocks. A lady in a lilac caftan answered the door, bearing a look as though it was her eyes and not her senses that had jumped in surprise. There was something about her eyes (the crow's feet that adorned them, the puffy bags that supported them) that suggested a never-ending story of strife, of what sort Kurt was not sure, though. Obviously, she was not expecting any company today. Shame pounded in Kurt's head like a stubborn hammer, chastising him, sending surges of hot blood to tinge his porcelain cheeks crimson. It was Mrs. Ilana Puckerman, but Kurt did not know who she was. Although he was deeply embarrassed, he asked for Puck nonetheless. "Does Noah Puckerman live here?"
"Yes, he does. I'm his mother. How do you know my son?" she asked, flaunting her curiosity openly, although her face remained drawn and contorted. What did a dandy like this boy have to do with her son? Kurt noticed her eyes darting up and down at his clothes, and he felt annoyed.
"It's Alexander McQueen," he informed Mrs. Ilana Puckerman (to which she nodded disinterestedly); "I'm Kurt Hummel, by the way. I used to be Noah's schoolmate, but we still keep in touch," he added painstakingly. His thirst was overwhelming him, but he chose to keep his peace over the matter in an attempt to be polite.
"Oh, I see," replied Mrs. Ilana Puckerman, "Just a minute," she promised, and with that, she summoned Puck downstairs.
XXX
It was that same dream again. A city in ruins; whole families scurrying out of a building as soldiers bombarded it mercilessly; maimed and starving victims sprawled across the streets. Then, there he was. Nehemiah Wexler, the man who looked like Puck, with tears of joy streaming down his soot-stained cheeks as he brought Kurt's hands to his face. Suddenly, they were running away. A black swastika encased in a white circle, cast in a sea of red loomed above them. Unfortunately, it spelt their inevitable doom. Nehemiah was brought down on his knees and beaten to a bloody pulp before one of the soldiers shot him in the forehead, ending his cries for Karl, for good. The wide open eyes, now glassy and lifeless, the gaping mouth ushering a swarm of flies, the pool of blood gathering beside his battered corpse, the cuts from the blows; everything flashed before him like a slideshow. He no longer felt like being in his own dream. He was merely a spectator now, although he could feel himself being close to the corpse, blood, flies and all. It was unbearable. He had to get out, though he did not know why, but he just had to. He struggled to rise, but his legs were suddenly numb. He shut his eyes, thinking it a good way to escape his nightmare. He felt a slight loosening somewhere (was it his brain, or his eye-sockets?), and it gradually increased, but slowly, and slowly…
XXX
It was re-enacting itself in his sleep once more, against his free will. He was back inside, planted in the midst of those dirty, dimly-lit corridors. The screams of the patients were traumatising, if not deafening, as if each scream was a canvas of somebody's sorry descend into madness. The next moment, he was looking at Karl weeping over Nehemiah's framed photo. After that, there was Karl's frenzied cry for Nehemiah the moment he saw Puck through the window, followed by the burly doctor instructing his wardens-in-waiting to get hold of Karl. Then, the muffled screams wafted throughout the corridor, so shrill and agonising to the point that Puck was shedding bitter tears of anger for being unable to rescue Karl as they administered the dreaded shock therapy on him. The scenes flashed before him, quick as lightning, but clear enough for him to see Karl's slender frame bucking forcefully from the volts of electricity pumped into his brain. All of a sudden, the room was empty, save for Karl lying on the bed, stilled by restraints. Puck saw his vacant eyes slowly meeting his gaze, culminating into a high, eerie laugh that gave him goose-bumps. The hysterical laughter echoed with despair as it rang in Puck's ears, sending a crashing blackness into his equilibrium…
XXX
They opened their eyes at the same time, almost as if on cue, their bodies damp with cold sweat. Both had jumped in fright, having woken up from what seemed to be yet another repeat of their respective nightmares. With their eyes still half-shut, they surveyed their surroundings. All was calm and quiet. Kurt turned his head around to find Puck rubbing the remaining sleep from his eyes. He had been sleeping at the foot of the couch, perhaps keeping watch over him, Kurt could not tell, but here he was, his ex-bully and ex-tormentor, sleeping right beside him. They held each other's gazes for a long time. They did not have to say it out loud; their eyes were sufficient testimony to the dreams they just had, the dreams that mysteriously brought them together.
They continued to look at each other, until a lanky woman with shoulder-length hazel hair approached him and sat somewhere beside him. Kurt realised he was lying down on somebody's couch as he got up. The woman offered him a glass of iced lemonade, which he nearly grabbed from her (out of desperation), gulping down its contents ravenously to quench his torturous thirst. The woman's eyes glittered slightly at the sight of his poor display of table manners, the kind that suggested he was making a bad impression of himself.
"You fainted on my front door," the woman said frankly. It was only then that Kurt remembered she was Puck's mother. "Go slow on that; you might choke," she advised when Kurt was about to take another huge swig of lemonade. "Just as I thought, not enough water," she added, referring to Kurt's state of dehydration.
"Thank you, Mrs. Puckerman," said Kurt politely.
"How are you feeling?" she asked in a suddenly gentler tone.
"Much better," replied Kurt with a smile, which, to his surprise, was reciprocated by Puck's mother.
"If that's the case, I'll leave you two alone now," said Mrs. Ilana Puckerman as she rose to leave.
As though warned by instinct, they waited until Mrs. Ilana Puckerman was out of earshot. When she finally was, they began talking.
"I sort of had a fight with my dad," said Kurt, "And I went out for a stroll just to calm down, but I lost my way. I didn't know you live here," he continued.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Puck announced with a chuckle, and Kurt's lips curled into a light, amused smile.
"Thanks for not letting me fall flat on my face today," he said, lightening the silent atmosphere even more. The bad dreams were no longer on their minds; they were waiting, somewhere in a far, distant corner of the boys' minds, for the right time to strike the two again when they are least expected.
"No worries," replied Puck. "Look, I don't mean to pry, but what were you and your dad fighting about?" he asked, and Kurt lowered his gaze, as though he had just been severely reprimanded. "I'm sorry," he mumbled after looking at Kurt's reaction. The air around them was starting to change, for better or worse, they both could not tell.
"It was about Karl," Kurt uttered after what seemed like an awkwardly long pause. "I told my dad we've been spying on him last week. When I asked him why he had been keeping this from me all this time, he said he did it to protect me. Can you imagine that? I don't know what he was trying to protect me from, but things got so ugly after that. Maybe I shouldn't have talked back or even tell him that I now know what he has been doing instead of fishing every fall in the first place, but I felt so deceived," he explained, a disappointed tear sliding down his cheek as he spoke. "Tell me, Noah, do I have the right to be angry with my father? Would you react in the same way I did if you found out your mother was keeping a big secret like this from you when she's known to have never hidden anything from you?" he then asked.
"Maybe it's about time you wake up and smell the coffee," replied Puck in a manner so straightforward that it actually stung Kurt's heart. "Parents are like everybody else; they tell lies to cover things up, just like the rest of us," he explained.
"What do you mean?" demanded Kurt, still a little hurt.
"Don't get me wrong, Kurt, but you're not a child anymore. When you're a child, you tend to see only the good side of people. I used to be like that, at least before I found out why my dad walked out. Now, you're seventeen, you should know that everyone has a bad side apart from their good side," Puck continued.
"Forgive my ignorance," said Kurt bitterly.
"Look, I'm not asking you to hate your dad just because he suddenly turned out to be imperfect. What I'm saying is you can't expect him to be true to you all the time, because the truth isn't always beautiful. Your dad may have his reasons for hiding Karl Hummel for you, but the important thing for you to know is why he did it. We've all been taught that people who tell lies are bad and cannot be trusted, but it doesn't apply to every situation. Sometimes, you've just got to be bad to do something good. My ma has been keeping a lot from me even after my dad walked out, and naturally, I get mad at her for not telling me, but more often than not, I realise it's because she doesn't want me to get hurt; she did it out of love. It may not have worked out all the time because I had to find out those painful things from other people, but I didn't care, because in the end, all that matters is that she loves me. That's what makes parents special. They're willing to do anything, no matter how horrible, for their children. It's just something that urges them to do it, and I…" Puck came to a stop, unable to continue. A tear slid down his cheek as well, when his voice began to trail away. Kurt caught sight of it, and he knew what was in Puck's mind: he was missing Beth. Funny, how a single tear can describe a person's innermost thoughts. A tinge of sadness flooded his heart. In spite of his delinquency, his past tendency of resorting to bullying as an attempt to avoid being bullied and therefore administer his "superiority", Puck was capable of being a devoted father. He reached out his hand, and placed it gently on the taller boy's shoulder.
"You know what? If Beth is here, and if she's old enough to understand every word you just said, she'll be so proud of you," whispered Kurt softly, but in such a way that seemed to illuminate the darkness that was the void Beth left behind in Puck's heart, emanating massive comforting volumes in spite of its hushed tones.
Puck lifted his gaze to meet Kurt's, and when he saw the sincere warmth in them, he grabbed Kurt's slim frame, circling him with his strong arms in a heartfelt, thankful embrace. Kurt was shocked by this sudden gesture of gratitude; he was momentarily taken aback, a tiny but audible "oh" escaping his lips, but he slowly returned the hug, wrapping his own arms around Puck as well. His nose, sensitive as ever, caught Puck's salty-sweet, earthy scent of sweat mixed with soap (smells like Antabax, he thought) as he brought himself closer. His eyes captured the curve of the Jewish boy's ear, and he secretly found it a delicate (and fragile) beauty to behold. His hands lingered (perhaps a little too long) on Puck's back and he swore he could feel the hard muscles scalding under his touch. He heard Puck release a spasm; was he crying? "Are you alright?" he asked in a whisper. Puck must have sensed how strange Kurt was feeling, given their not-so-palatable history, and he loosened his hug instantly, releasing the smaller boy.
"Yeah, I'm cool. It's just that, I miss her," he confessed as he dried his eyes. Kurt knew it. He was right all along. How sad it must be, for a parent to be separated from his or her child, even if the parent in question was someone as reckless as Puck.
"I meant what I said. You'd make a wonderful father, Noah," he replied, and Puck smiled at him, his brown eyes a little glassy from the brief flow of tears not too long ago.
"Thanks, man, I…" but before he could continue, the cuckoo-clock in the living room began to emanate its singsong chant to indicate the time. It was already two in the afternoon. Kurt seemed to be well aware of it. He checked his wristwatch to confirm how late it was. Burt, Carole and Finn would be worried by now. Puck observed his mannerisms, and forgot about resuming his sentence.
"I think I should be heading home now. Tomorrow's a school day, and I need to start packing tonight," said Kurt as he rested a comforting hand on Puck's arm. Puck simply nodded, but as Kurt got up to leave, he suddenly remembered that the reason Kurt was in his house because he had lost his way, and it was impossible for him to relocate his house from here, given that he was unfamiliar with this part of town.
"Do you want a ride?" he piped, a little too unceremoniously, as he was still seated, while Kurt was already at the door.
Kurt gave him a look of surprise, but only for a moment, remembering the circumstances that brought him to Puck's house. His countenance softened as he smiled a smile of gratitude. "Yes, please."
The drive back to Kurt's house was, let it be said, uneventful, at least on the surface. Both boys did not know what topic to raise, afraid that it would be inappropriate and perhaps offensive to either of them. To liven up the autumn silence that presided over the road trip, Puck tuned the radio in his truck with his free hand as he drove, trying to find his favourite station. When he finally did, he heard Kurt gasp with excitement, albeit softly in his usual poised princess-style.
"I didn't know you're into Northwest FM," he commented, and Puck responded with a smirk that read "Hell, yeah."
However, the next song that was being played on the Back-to-Back Hits programme ironically silenced them both as they were prompted out of fondness for the particular ballad to follow the lyrics.
I'm standing on a bridge,
I'm waiting in the dark,
I thought that you'd be here by now.
There's nothing but the rain,
Like footsteps on the ground,
I'm listening, but there's no sound.
Isn't anyone trying to find me?
Won't somebody come take me home?
It's a damn cold night,
I'm trying to figure out this life;
Won't you take me by the hand?
Take me somewhere new;
I don't know who you are, but I…I'm with you…
I'm with you…
I'm looking for a place,
I'm searching for a face,
Is there anybody here I know?
Because nothing's going right,
And everything's a mess,
And no-one likes to be alone.
Isn't anyone trying to find me?
Won't somebody come take me home?
It's a damn cold night,
I'm trying to figure out this life;
Won't you take me by the hand?
Take me somewhere new;
I don't know who you are, but I…I'm with you…
I'm with you…yeah…
Oh, why is everything so confusing?
Maybe I'm just out of my mind…yeah-yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah, yeah…oh!
It's a damn cold night,
I'm trying to figure out this life;
Won't you take me by the hand?
Take me somewhere new;
I don't know who you are, but I…I'm with you…
I'm with you…
Take me by the hand,
Take me somewhere new;
I don't know who you are, but I…I'm with you…
I'm with you…I'm with you…
Take me by the hand,
Take me somewhere new;
I don't know who you are, but I…I'm with you, oh…
I'm with you…I'm with you…
They both continued to remain silent even after the song was replaced by a more upbeat, raunchier and quicker tune. Avril's ballad was still ringing in their ears. Somehow the song seemed to perfectly illustrate and mirror their respective feelings. Kurt was going through a hard time trying to move on without Blaine even though he had convinced himself that it was good to be alone for a while, and so was Puck; he was still recovering from the pain that came with the gap Lauren had left in his heart. Such recent turns of events had left the two boys lonely and, to a certain extent, emotionally scarred and subsequently desperate, desperate for what, they were not sure themselves. Was it a new love they craved for, or was it just the assuring and comforting presence of a trusted friend? If truth be told, being together made them feel safe and protected from whatever harm the outside world chose to wreck upon their lives. The trouble is they did not realise it.
Neither did they both realise how fast time had flown when Puck pulled over at Kurt's driveway. In fact, it startled them that their journey seemed so short. Deep down, they both wished they could be in each other's company for just a little while longer.
"Thanks for everything," said Kurt slowly, uttering each word separately and not as a sentence, as if he needed time to deliberate on which one is best-suited. Then, in a gesture conducted purely out of friendship, he squeezed Puck's shoulder gently and smiled a grateful smile. Within split seconds, he felt a strange tingling riding up his senses. He did not know what it was, but it made him pull his hand away, not abruptly, but slowly, naturally, the way a friend should do.
Puck turned to look at him and nodded, a slight twitch curling about his lips. It was his no-worries smile. "Keep cool," he said, as the male diva got down from his truck.
"I will," said Kurt
XXX
Kurt entered the living room to find Burt, Carole and Finn fidgeting nervously as they talked to each other. He secretly hoped that their conversation was not centred on him, but when Burt landed his eyes on him, he got up instantly, relief flooding his face. Kurt swore he actually saw his father turn a shade younger.
"Where the Hell have you gone to? You just walked out without your phone. We were this close to calling the cops, and…!" Burt cascaded into a somewhat amusing tirade, his voice thick with worry, but Kurt shushed him gently.
"I'm so sorry, dad. I didn't mean to put you through that. It was really selfish of me to let my emotions govern over my instincts, and I'm deeply sorry, once again, not only for this, but also for what happened in the kitchen this morning," he said, thinking of what Puck had told him about parents earlier on. He felt a sob rising in his throat, prompting him to hug his father tightly. Burt, overcome with fatherly love, reciprocated readily.
"What happened in the kitchen?" asked a confused Finn, only to be reprimanded by Carole.
"What matters is, Kurt's home," she said.
"I promise I'll try my best to move on after this, dad," whispered Kurt.
"You deserved to know the truth. I shouldn't have hidden it from you," replied Burt.
"I can't promise you I'll stop thinking about it," said Kurt as he released himself from his father's hug.
"I understand," replied Burt. "I'll let you handle this in your own way, but if you ever need help, I'm always there," he declared, resulting in Kurt hugging him once more.
XXX
Alone in his dormitory, Kurt simply could not erase the strange reactions he felt when he was with Puck that afternoon. He tried to focus on finishing Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird", to no avail. Images of Puck's vulnerable stare when he related his own experiences growing up without entirely knowing the truth, of him drying his eyes at the thought of little Beth, of his various smiles, all flashed in his mind consistently. Then, there was the hug. Kurt remembered the warmth of Puck's body, the hardness of his muscles, the curve of his ears and his scent. He remembered hearing the faint sniffle coming from the boy as his body quivered with a spasm, and he wished he could have held on to him just a little bit longer. He remembered them all, and tried as he might, he could not help but yearn to experience those sensations again. Unbeknownst to him, the unthinkable was fast becoming thinkable: he was falling in love with Puck. As much as he struggled to deny it, he was looking forward to visit Puck again the following weekend. As the myriad of thoughts boggled his mind and conscience, Kurt had difficulty sleeping that night, but at least it was the lesser of the two evils compared to the nightmares.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Dearest darling readers, PLEASE let me know what you think of this chapter. Once again, I am terribly sorry for the delay of this chapter. As you can see, this is by far the longest chapter I have ever written in terms of word count and the time spent. To be honest, I was experimenting with a new writing style while completing this chapter. I am nonetheless pleased to announce that this chapter marks the start of the story's rising action. Personally, I strongly feel that this story is progressing well, but I still need all the support and encouragement I can get, because it is getting harder and harder to write. Yes, chapter eleven is very challenging, and I cannot confirm how long it will take to complete. However, PLEASE, by all means, feel free to send in your comments and reviews for this chapter. I sincerely hope to hear from all of you as soon as possible, because it is, once again, your kind support and loving encouragement, darling readers, which really keep me going.