XXI
~ Love ~
It was late afternoon in the late year for a high school football match, a home game, the final seasonal game on the William McKinley pitch. No longer was there sun to illuminate, to sizzle away with heat that had belonged in the summer. Instead the four floodlights situated on each corner of the pitch had been switched on, the artificial counterparts of the sun recreating 'day' at night, bathing the length of the pitch with a light so bright it burned the irises, reddening and swelling them, like the old fashioned Klieg lights of Golden Age Hollywood, blinding those in the bleachers, blinding the players themselves through their helmets as they battled for the winning touchdown, to get that ball, to run with it and to slam it down to the ground.
The McKinley Titans were not making out to be diplomatic. Shielded monsters they were, padded predators on the field. They had run onto their pitch, onto their territory with eyes that had been as red as their crimson uniforms and were handling the football as if it were a ball of flame, as if they could wield it with a vengeance in their stained fingerless gloves. Their bleacher fans and supporters were racketing on their feet, roaring for a McKinley win, one so desperately needed, and even though it was noticed by some that there were fewer of them, with so many benches left unoccupied, left cold, the significant decrease in attendance signaling a lack of belief that even the notion of a Titan win was unlikely, it had them roaring that much louder.
At the foot of the bleachers full of waving foam fingers, badly written banners and shirtless boys with 'McKinley Rules!' written on their chests, were the Cheerios, McKinley's cheerleading champions, their moral boosting chants and beckoning pelvises proving almost too sweeter eye candy for those around. Yet only limited edition flavors danced before them, an elite sub-group of the original cheerleading squad, comprised of ten members all handpicked by Sylvester, the best and the most experienced for only the most physically demanding of routines, ball busting choreography that went well beyond mere Liberty stunts, prep doubles and the showy use of confetti canons. It was Sylvester at her best, her most prized possession.
Kurt had not made the cut. Many of the remaining Cheerios hadn't, though unlike them, he didn't care. He was not bothered that the male lifters had been prioritized over him or that he was Sylvester's very own 'gay little pom-pom' for the main squad only. He freely admitted that he was not ready for the sub-group's intense ace like level, even when Quinn and Brittany had protested, both of them having been chosen themselves, yet it now afforded him time to rest his worn out body, to bathe in bathtubs full of blanched almonds, pine nuts, linseed, lemon peel, rose petals, marshmallow and lily bulbs, and to let himself unwind, as if Sylvester had allowed him time off, to purify himself, to beautify, just like his mother had done to him as a child.
However, if this was the case, what was the reason behind why Kurt was sitting in the bleachers, his body hunched against the cold with his feet up on the empty metal bench in front of him? His face wasn't exposed to steam from a searing hot bath, opening his pores, ridding him of his toxins and improving circulation that would leave his skin warmy hot to the touch with a healthy pink flush, but a light breeze down to a temperature that only dried it, made to crack his lips until they bled, to render him miserable. He had been a fool to be dragged out here. A dope! Guilt tripped, peer pressure, oh how it they were a set of heartless bitches to someone with a trusting looking face as his, one of youth and naivety with lips that only ever said, 'yes'.
Tina had brought him out here tonight, had been considerate enough to seat him down a couple of rows above the crowd on the bleachers and was cheering the Titans on with thorough zest, though Kurt was aware her eyes were fixed solely on one player, Mike Chang. There had been a long standing belief that the two were lovers, a voracious pair of wild sex, though how Jacob Ben Israel had managed to acquire such information, jump starting the rumor treadmill once again as only he could, Kurt didn't know, though he wouldn't put it past the result of Israel's harassing form of journalism and paparazzi like assault, that yes, brought drivel to his trashy blog like junk food to a hungry family, but only had him the next day as dumpster trash.
However, with 'woop!' like choruses, and breathy moans that had Kurt shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, it was evident Tina was not out to prove these rumors wrong. With every score the Titans would lay down against the opposing team, the pressure on her lips by her teeth would increase as Mike would untuck his jersey from his pants and lift it up like a winning soccer player would, revealing a torso with abs that were unmistakably defined, the skin glistening with rivulets of sweat, every single muscle highlighted in the wake of the harsh floodlights. For Tina, there would only be one Magic Mike, Mike Chang, waving up at her as she too would wave back, her hand shy with a nervous arm so weak it barely had it in the air.
With the blowing of the whistle, half-time was announced. The first half of the game had ended on its twenty-four minute run and the break had everyone sitting back down, conversation abound but low in volume as vocal cords recovered from forceful use. Kurt had been sat all this time, arms tightly wound around himself, legs together, though shivering, with his body having stored enough heat within itself to almost send him into a chilly sheltering muck of dreamless sleep, his plush panda hat now drooping lopsidedly to one side as he'd begun to lean perilously forward, his body falling slowly at an odd angle before his consciousness had been brought back to the game, a player-less pitch with now only cheerleaders upon its green pastures.
"Wow, we're doing well aren't we," smiled Tina, her gloved hands rubbing furiously together, blowing into them as if her lips were a pair of bellows stoking a fire. The winter cold had struck Lima rather unexpectedly with hooded jackets, woolly gloves and hats now the sensible fashion choices. For most it was unwelcome, whilst for others like Tina, it was a chance to bust out the cute winter wardrobe, fluffy bright colors that heavily contrasted the dismal backdrop of Lima's now withering weather.
"Mmm..." nodded Kurt, straightening himself up with fair hands now tinged pink, blood red around his fingertips, almost numb to the touch as if dying or dead, that now pulled his panda hat even further down his head, the long paws on either side now acting as a scarf as well as ear muffs as he wrapped them both around his exposed neck. He must have looked ridiculous although to Tina, it served to render him all the cuter, just a baby face poking out through white faux fur. "What's the score?"
"Fifteen us, five them. I think this may be the game we win."
"Tina, you don't have to feign interest in any of this. I know you're here for Mike."
"That's not true, I care about the Titans... it's just a coincidence that Mike's on the team is all."
"Yeah right. By the way he's always lifting his jersey up like that it's like a strip tease to you."
"Well he has the body to pull it off don't you think?" Smirked Tina rather boastfully, her eyes trained on Mike amongst all the other Titan players down below with their helmets removed, their limbs resting, and water free flowing from their bottles into their parched mouths, squeezing the containers, the clear liquid jetting down their throats. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I know you would have preferred staying home, but I didn't want to come out here all by self and none of the others would come with me."
"It's alright," sighed Kurt, surprised that Tina had managed to tear her eyes away from her crush to grant him that gift that was the apologetic look, one so irritating when not genuine. Then again a part of him felt as though he was doing the right time by being here, that even though he wasn't cheerleading, he'd had the spirit to come to support his school, even if a glum face with heavy eyelids that had wedged themselves shut with the cold had been the extent of this so called 'support'.
"Just think about it this way, Kurt. Now that you're not cheerleading, you're free to check out all the hot players, except Mike, he's my eye candy," smiled Tina, wagging her finger playfully, non threateningly, but with a hint of something in her dark eyes construed perhaps as a warning in all seriousness, one that had Kurt rethinking a dismissive move that was the classic eye roll. He wished to know what the deal was with these two, but he refrained from asking. He knew it was a matter of time.
"Oh you needn't worry about me, I'm too preoccupied with keeping myself warm than eying any player up," replied Kurt, now waving the comment off as he returned to snuggle himself, his feet shuffling in front of him yet with a wince now pinching the skin around his eyes. A headache was coming along, born from the cold. The lining inside his plush hat wasn't providing enough warmth. He needed something quick. "I'm going to get myself some water. All this cold air is making my mouth dry."
"Oh, could you get me some too. I'm a little thirsty," said Tina, watching as Kurt rose groggily onto his feet, a weak support of a body with limbs that seemed to creak, the boy doll with joints too cold they'd snap if forced, its arm almost pulled from its socket as Tina latched on. "Kurt wait, if this turns out as an excuse to bail on me, I swear I will come at you with a needle and paralyze your face with juices fresh from the jaws of the Anaconda... that or I just won't talk to you for couple days."
"Don't worry, I'll come back. I would have suggested you come with so that we stay in the school until half-time ends, but then I remembered it's not that much warmer in there than it is here so... yeah... can I go now?" Asked Kurt as Tina loosened her tight grasp on his arm. With him now upright, he could feel the blood rushing around his body, as if it had been lying still in his veins all this time, frozen in internal tubes, resembling those in a cryogenic laboratory, cold, always cold. "I'll be back."
Shuffling along the isle with feet near to tripping, Kurt joined the stairs and began to make his way down. From such a high vantage point, nothing on the pitch was invisible, one could see everything and the further he descended, the less luxurious was the sight, no longer in the seat with a view, the loge box of an opera house, but in the stalls where everything was now on ground level, the craning of the neck the only tool for elevated vision. Yet it wasn't as if Kurt was looking for anyone in particular, stepping off the bleachers and onto the firm ground below where his eyes were quick to betray him, flicking over to the sitting Titans a few meters away, how concentrated they looked, even with the Cheerios right in front of them, dancing.
Mutants these dancers appeared to be. Mutant strains of a Cheerio, more powerful and more agile than the original, with the head cheerleader leading them on. Everyone of these girls as well as the boys were out to impress, to flirt with someone, as if Sylvester had put them up for sale, with the head cheerleader again tempting the highest bidder. Santana had already chosen who would take her home, who would slip her out of her uniform and pile drive her into oblivion. It could be seen in her eyes, her pupils, slit like, pinpointed to the face - the jock she wanted, wished for. Yet even in the midst of the dance, her over-exertion, her forced moves, only hinted at desperation, at unrequital. Whoever this boy was, he did not want her back.
Or perhaps he did. Kurt would not blame him if he did, for personality aside; Santana was without a doubt a breathtaking beauty. She was in great form; boasted flawless caramel colored skin, had the smoldering sexuality of a crouched Bengal tiger and was renowned for her rich variety of sweet moves in the bedroom as if she was the fiery jewel of Mumbai. For many, she was the sexiest girl in the school. Boys never looked at anyone else if they could look at her, for she was the center of attention wherever she went, the center of attention even when she wasn't around, kept alive and very much present behind the bedroom doors of teenage boys, her figure dancing in their minds as they jacked off, jacked off and jacked off.
Kurt would forever be envious of such beauty. The exotic look of olive, the smell of the tropics, tanned skin itself. Forever had he withheld such a fair complexion, skin so akin to alabaster, it had been asked in the past if he even had pores, like the Malibu doll he'd been to his mother as a child, an androgynous child, the love child of Hermaphroditus and the naiad Salmacis. A voice of high pitch, eyes of the water, with a soft-sculpted body, feminine, features in a male only ever ridiculed by others, compliments nonexistent, yet he could remember his first, one that hadn't come from his parents, but from his Kindergarden teacher, olive skinned, black hair with a pursed smile, "you're beautiful, Kurt," she'd said, as he had smiled, "and I hate you."
The jock that now sat right in line with Santana, his helmet off, his muscled shoulders padded and his handsome face sleek with perspiration, had dated her once before. It had not ended well. Tumultuous. Kurt had been there. Yet here danced the Latina, parading herself as if she was the finest piece of meat on the bloody rack, freshly cut and ready to be eaten. It was sickening. She had no self respect. A slut. A fucking slut. One that would do anything to get the jock back in her arms, to grab him, start pounding on his chest, hitting his arms, scratching his face. 'You're mine!' She would scream, 'you bastard!' She'd hurt him if she had to. Fuck 'boosting moral' and fuck the Cheerios. She'd dominate this jock until there was nothing left.
A couple of meters away stood the fair boy, rooted to the spot and watching the interaction as if he were watching someone's downfall, one so accelerated it had him near to weeping. Both Quinn and Brittany had noticed him from their positions on the field and were smiling at him, now dancing for him, their boy, their Kurt, though left unnoticed. Kurt's mouth had gotten drier through every passing minute, his eyes themselves drier from not blinking, yet as he made to turn, he was captured in hazel eyes. The jock was looking at him and could see everything. He would see his heart beating against his breastbone, life vibrating inside, on the brink of breaking out. He would swear the fair boy's skin was translucent. Kurt. Baby.
Turning the bleacher's hazardous metal corner, Kurt made his way into the school, its halls somewhat more constricting with walls that appeared to close in on him with only its safety lights on, providing little illumination as a guide. Yet it was enough to return outside with two slushies, both acquired from the darkened cafeteria, no water bottles on sight, no cups either, just beverages that had the risk of brain freezing, ice cold drinks sure to render him even colder in the midst of such a chill. A bad choice, but Kurt was so thirsty, flavored Cherry syrup so cold! So sweet and soft on the tongue, one that didn't manage beyond the second suck, for on his way back to the bleachers, he was yanked under them, his throat too cold to scream.
"Let go of me!" Gasped Kurt, the hands on his hips now encircling his waist, almost lifting him off the ground, his legs flailing as if they were floppy and boneless, his feet in desperate search of the dusty earth underneath, now stained with the splattered juices of his two slushies, the cherry like blood, gushing. He was so scared. It was so dark and metal support beams of the bleachers were everywhere, coming out at him like razor sharp swords swinging to behead. "Let me go! Let g-"
"Kurt, it's only me... it's me," whispered his man handler, shifting himself in direction with a floodlight beam poking through the bleachers until his face was revealed, a profile with shadows scarring his appearance. It was the jock, the knight in football armor, Kurt's 'Dark Prince', holding onto a fair boy with a hand over his heart. Those blown blue eyes had pupils so wide like an animal's in fear, it was a clear sign not to touch him, but the jock was touching him, holding him. Kurt.
"Puck, you have got to stop jumping on me like this. It scares me, you could have been anyone," whispered Kurt harshly, anger coursing through him as Puck apologized with a weak 'sorry', yet energy for its maintenance did not last long. The sudden shock had drained him and with his slushy bleeding on the floor, his mouth still dry and his body fighting for warmth, all he could do was sigh. "Just say my name or something and I'll come, alright. It's... it's not like I don't like talking to you."
"I like talking to you too," smiled Puck tenderly, his muscled arms making quick work of bringing Kurt into him, the heat of the game in his clothes, warming the fair boy up to a point where he had now snuggled right into the jock, ignoring the tackle dented shoulder pads and fitted armor, he was like a pale cub to hot fur, now safe. "I like holding you like this, in my arms, real close... like this. Just makes me think everything I write in my letters could happen... you're still getting my letters right?"
"Yes. I keep every single one in my bedside drawer. Even the envelopes."
"And have you um... have you had to time to um... think of the last one? You know... our meeting?"
"... I have... but Puck I think it's too soon to-"
"Please Kurt, I don't know how much longer I write these letters. They mock me with the things I can't have."
"Oh... well if they're doing that to you, then I'm not going to ask to do this anymore. It wouldn't be fair on you to draw this out," muttered Kurt apologetically. These letters were supposed to be to some extent, cathartic for Puck. They were to provide psychological relief through the open expression of his strong emotions, causing the cathartic release, but maybe this wasn't relief anymore, perhaps it was only emotional torture, the idiom of the carrot and stick approach now coming to mind.
"No, no, it's okay Kurt, I'll keep writing them. I know you're into all this romance stuff and if it makes you happy then I guess it's a good way of letting you know of my feelings to you," insisted Puck, hands tightening around Kurt, his hands almost scrunching into a clump the boy's knitted jumper at the small of his back, so small above a spine so strong. "I just thought us alone together, not here like this, but alone somewhere away from everyone would let you know that much further."
"And by alone together you'd mean..." began Kurt, trailing away on a question with an answer so obvious. Sex. Puck meant sex. Inner or outer course, it didn't matter. The jock only asked for just one great night, or as many nights as Kurt would allow. In a bedroom, in a bed, naked where his pale form would lay spent with his loose limbs entwined in sheets tussled from lovemaking. Kurt would be Natalia's Summer's successor, the same fuck, but with feelings. How would that be like?
"Yeah baby... yeah," nodded Puck, a firm nod with a firm thrust, as if supporting such a clear confirmation with his hips would leave Kurt without a doubt in the knowing, though the jock was aware the boy had had an idea in the first place. Such naivety could not exist at such an age at McKinley, no matter how cute Puck suspected Kurt's innards to be, just a boy filled with jelly. "We could go as far as you like, but far enough for it to be a step forward. Come on Kurt, what do you say?"
"Whilst I appreciate the offer Puck, I'm not ready for... that, especially with someone I don't know how I feel about yet. It wouldn't be fair on either of us," replied Kurt, guilty that he wasn't rewarding Puck with anything after all the boy had written him. "The letters are good for now, and... if you think about it, its foreplay, just a romantic take on it, and you know how I love romance, and... if the time comes and we find ourselves alone then... it could happen, but not now. Just... not now."
"Okay..." replied Puck solemnly, his head lowering, his chin almost coming to slump on his protruding chest, one armored to the bone but shrinking from under, as if it were losing faith, until it was restored with a fair finger. It came up to trace his stubbled jawline, raising his chin, his lips now cushioned with a sweet kiss, wholesome, that gave him all the breath he needed to leave his lungs shuddering, his mouth agape with stuttered words. "Whoa... w-what was... what was that for?"
"Something to keep you going."
"Does this mean we can kiss now? Even if you're not ready for... other stuff?"
"Well I wanted to kiss your helmet for luck, but since you don't have it with you I had to make do with your lips."
"So... we can't kiss now?"
"Puck that kiss was only meant to hold you over for the rest of the game, and maybe your letters, but I guess exceptions can be made for now-" Kurt's words were now muffled. He couldn't speak for Puck had brought him in for his own kiss, one of passion, so less haste like than Kurt's had been. Open mouth, tongue, French, with muscled arms all over him, strong hands all over him, ending in doggy pants that had the jock reeling with a smile. "Now go win that match you big strong Titan you."
The whistle for the second-half sounded and in the next moment, Kurt was left alone under the bleachers with a small smile, one that hurt to give even to himself upon lips now so puffy, the shade of red lipstick badly wiped off, work of the jock, who'd escaped to his pitch, his ground, his territory, also with a smile on his face. Kurt liked Puck, and he'd had to let him know, just like his father had said, for 'encouragement'. A kiss before a kickoff had been his way of showing it, his personal take on 'boosting moral', tying the ribbon, his 'favor', around the Dark Prince's lance before going in for the Joust. Such a comparison had Kurt shivering with delight, but not from the cold. The cold could go fuck itself. He was warm now, as warm as could be.
Turning around, Kurt made his way through the maze of metal support beams, careful not to trip, until he was out. The carcasses of his strewn slushies were dead, amongst trash that others had left behind. Candy wrappers, a WMHS foam finger with the pointing index finger missing, ripped off judging by the teeth marks present and used condoms, broken and leaking. There was no point salvaging his beverages form such a graveyard. Half of their contents were already poisoning the ugly brown blackened grass underneath with its high sugar content, yet it was with these drinks he'd been meaning to return with. Tina was going to ask questions if he were to return empty handed, but then again, he wasn't thirsty anymore.
Kurt re-entered the pitch and looked around, eyes keen for the differences in view. The Cheerios had since ended their impressive performance, with them now resting where the Titans had been, whilst the Titans themselves now grouped on the other side of the pitch, huddled together in what appeared to be a pep talk, their Coach, Shannon Beiste, wearing an expression of war. "Let's beat the living shit out of these mother fuckers!" Kurt could hear her shouting, loudly, her fists pounding into her coarse palms as if she were laying into thick dough, "Let's win this thing!" "Yeah!" was how her team replied, their helmets nodding so profusely, it was as if they had spring for necks, a team of bobble heads, fleshly shaken, smacked.
Now they disbanded, now they were scattering out across the field, assuming their positions, hunched, with the studs in their shoes denting the cold hard ground below. Yet one player was slow to uptake his own post on the field when the sight of a familiar panda hat came into view. By the bleacher stairs, fair hands clasped in front, blue eyes wide. The sight had memories of the day Kurt had fallen during the Cheerios routine, injured with a bloody nose and aided to his feat only to see Puck staring at him on the pitch, staring at him now, halted in his tracks. His teammates looked on, fearing they'd lost him again to distraction, to a girl, but it wasn't a girl, it was a boy, one in a panda hat so damned cute, Puck could hardly stand it.
The leer of Santana's teeth shone from afar. Kurt could feel them on his neck, cutting into his fair skin, drawing blood. They resembled piercing fangs of venom in the harsh bask of the floodlight than actual human dentures. She was looking on like a leper, her dark bottomless eyes narrowed, now wincing as her crimson acrylic nails came to dig deep into her palm, drawing her own blood. This was now the second time. Kurt was here and Puck had his eyes on him like he'd had before, like he'd always had. She couldn't stand it. Walking up to the fair boy and landing him a blow would do nothing. The blood would not distract and it would not repulse. Puck would always look him, always like that, like 'LOVE', but her, look at her like 'WHORE'.
The panda hat atop Kurt's head now slid off, only by the work of a light tug. There he shook his hair free from its flattened state, allowing it to fall around his face, no longer static or disheveled but now boasting its Chamoisee shade, rendered even lighter in the overpowering floodlights. It had his eyes even younger looking, but sexy, with lips puckered into a pout, put on or perhaps still puffy from an earlier smooch, it couldn't have been determined, but it didn't matter. From such a face was born the most delightful smile Puck had ever seen. It was heavenly, one that had been fashioned for this very moment. A smile upon the cutest skin, reaching those oceanic eyes that twinkled, mistaken for welling, as if Kurt were weeping for joy.
Backing up and making his way up the stairs, Kurt extended that smile for a few more collective seconds, before turning his head and making his way back up to his seat, his panda hat hanging loosely from his hands with the ears dangling to the floor, trailing along the dusty ridden metal, like a child returning indoors after playtime. Up and up those stairs he climbed, nauseatingly high on those bleachers and rejoining Tina on one of the highest tiers. 'Yet it was as if he didn't want to be up there, trudging away like that. He knew Puck was still watching him, pleading, 'don't go,' 'come back', begging with hazel eyes hidden behind a visor for that smile again, that smile, 'smile for me', to which Kurt turned around and looked at him.
In this moment, something changed. Both of them knew it, and were aware of it. Very much so. Kurt, now looking at Puck, could see one of his teammates marching up behind him, dust rising from their stomping feet, grabbing him harshly by the shoulders and shoving him into position, shouting and cursing at him, hitting his chest, his helmet, wanting to hurt him, to get his head in the game. This match could not be lost! The Titans had to win! McKinley had to win! Throughout the light assault, Puck stumbled, almost lost his balance and fell, but he recovered to a point of standing, coming to return his gaze to that fair boy on the bleachers, even with the whistle now shrill in the air, the game beginning with a motionless player, still and silent.
Boom! Boom! BOOM! Puck's heart felt like it was almost trying to beat itself out from his chest, from its restraints and tear through his rib cage. It was getting larger and larger and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. He was slumping, now doubling over with his hand shooting to his heart so out of control, his fingers gripping into his jersey. Oh fuck, this hurt! It physically and emotionally hurt. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see people shooting him looks of worry and concern, some pointing at him, whispering, 'what's wrong with him?' 'Is he having a heart attack or something?' 'Why is he holding his heart like that?' They didn't understand. His heart was the one muscle in him changing, now evolving by the work of a smile.
He shifted himself to look at those bleachers, up all those rows of metal benches to see Kurt... to see no one. The boy was pelting down the stairs, his panda hat long left to fall on the descent. His fair features that had once harbored that smile were now painfully contorted into a look of distress, of fear. He was running to him, the football game all around them, but still running, now slowing as Puck's face broke out into a smile, for the pain was receding, letting forth a pleasurable feeling akin to a potent drug rush, one of adrenaline, dopamine, the chemicals permeating through his body, his bloodstream alive with it. Now he knew, as his aggrandized beating melted down into the most praised and celebrated emotion in the world.
He was in love.
.
Glee
.
The Titans won. They had won! With a gloved hand that had swiftly brought the ball down beyond that white line in the form of a violent body slam, the McKinley Titans had scored the winning touchdown to thunderous cheers and applause, so thunderous the bleachers had swayed slightly, creaking, almost screeching in protest, veering itself from left to right with those having perched themselves at the top holding onto their seats with white hands. Helmets had been in the air like battered graduation caps, the players themselves had had a case of jumping feet, and the happy hour had been upon them all, especially on their star scorer, the boy of the hour, the boy everybody had wished to touch with fisted 'fuck yeah!' hands.
That had been a week ago, or close to a week, Kurt didn't really know. The days had felt as if they had been fitted together in a seamless blur, a swift blur that had had him in the center with his attentions elsewhere, thoughts of Puck having consumed him, for Puck was the boy of the hour, acclaimed for lifting McKinley out of its losing streak and into a champagne spraying victory that everyone had celebrated with Spring Break energy. All eyes were on him, in admiration and lust, the works. People were always around him. Boys wanted to be him, girls wanted to be with him, the name Noah Puckerman was the favorite tasting name on everyone's tongues, engraved on a silver trophy shield. Mmm, 'Noah Puckerman', our winner.
However, despite the careening haze of celebratory parties warmed by quality beer and creamy breasts, a buoyant landscape of alcohol and music glimpsed from, for instance, a roller coaster, no one knew what Puck knew, of a good luck kiss born from the womb of the bleachers, or how his heart had thumped, boomed him to realization, the latter having given him unexplainable energy to win the game, a secret not even sweet Kurt was aware of. Yet Kurt was aware of nothing and never had their social circles following their win appear so far set. Even in Cheerio status, the fair boy was estranged from Puck in every way, except one - his love letters, that never failed to reach him, never half-hearted letters, but always from the heart.
As it was, Kurt was at Quinn's, a sleepover with Brittany. All of them were pajama clad and snug, with the numerous lamps in the room giving off a golden hazy glow, as if like miniature fires that only gave off wasted heated energy. This was one of the many sleepovers that the blonde had invited him to. Truth or Dare, eating raw cookie dough and harmless experimentation with lesbianism were ripe activities that they would often engage in, no matter how stereotypical it was, yet what was brought before Kurt tonight was a thick photo album, an intricate scrapbook lookalike detailing through a photographic montage both Quinn and Brittany's freshman year at McKinley, a cute patchwork like timeline from their first day to their last.
With the turning of each page, each one weighed down and creaky at the spine as if they hadn't been turned for some time, a running commentary from both blondes helped add context to each photo. Every single one had been taken with either a disposable camera, a fisheye camera, or a Polaroid, all vintage and all taken by analogue, with no digital film seen at all, just what Quinn prefered, being the Lomography fan that she was. It was an expensive hobby seeing as every one of the candy colored cameras she owned (five in total) hadn't been priced below forty pounds, not including the rolls of film itself, but she'd loosened her purse strings on a family visit to Carnaby Street in Lomo-crazy London and had gone crazy herself. Very crazy.
A keen smile on Kurt's lips appeared on mention of the fights Quinn would have with her parents when she'd run out of film. She'd wear them down with talk of how the cameras she'd bought would go to waste, that they'd just stand there collecting dust on a high shelf with no film inside them to bring them to life. It was all very amusing until with the turn of a page, photos that held within their grainy, flare filled depths emerged the face of a boy - Puck. Tanned, with a little mohawk sprouting atop the head of a hooligan, Kurt took note of how young the jock looked, the rascal like smile, mischief in the eyes, a teacher's nightmare with considerably less muscle mass than today but still built broadly for a sixteen yeah old, then a baby man child.
At this, the audio commentary seemed to pick up with freshly fueled energy, both Quinn and Brittany high on enthusiastic charge and now taking it in turns to recount stories of Freshman misbehavior, pranks of a Puckerman style, a list deemed never to end. Yet Kurt, ever the good listener (a trait girls had always favored him for), sat neatly on the quilted bed with legs crossed and a smile atop his beaming lips, occasional O like shapes forming at the sound of antics that were not hard to believe, and what with the photo album providing somewhat of a visual aid, that handsome yet no good face, with that sexy lopsided smile, almost goofy looking at times, always there in the odd snap, never had a bedtime story been so impelling.
"Britt, do you remember the time when he poured sand in Ms. MacDonald's sandwich? Oh! Or that one time when he replaced all the water in the fish tank with coffee to see if they would get high off of it and swim faster?" Smiled Quinn, wincing when only now recalling how upset Brittany had been over the latter, for of course they hadn't lived on. Both goldfishes had been nothing but bobbing carrot shaded corpses upon a tank of too stronger coffee by the time of their discovery. Poor things.
"That was just mean. What he did to Mr. & Mrs. Yum-Yum was really cruel. They were on their honeymoon!" Moaned Brittany morosely, her body deflating into a slump, the palm of Kurt's hand gently working along her spine as she straightened up once more, yet only to reveal a face fully marred with grief. "I married them. Do you remember, Q? And I bought them that fish tank castle so both of them could live happily ever after and have lots and lots of baby Yum-Yum's and Yum-Yum juniors."
"I know, Britt, I know. What Puck did, it was bad."
"Their wedding was so beautiful. Do you remember it?"
"Britt, you made me dress as a bridesmaid, so yeah, I remember it."
"Well it had to be real. They weren't going to get hitched Vegas style."
"No, you only fed them Ben & Jerry's Fish Food as a stand in for their wedding cake following a ceremony you conducted in Hindu because you couldn't find a picture of any other deity in the shape of a fish except for the Matsya avatar of the God Vishnu to hang above the tank," explained Quinn matter of factly, now facing Kurt and smiling at his eruption of melodious giggles. "We kinda ignored that she wasn't licensed to do this because, well you know, she was marrying two gold fishes."
"Well there is quite a significant difference between getting married married and sixth grade married. It's all fun and laughs, but it's never seriou- I'm sorry, I'm sorry Britt, I didn't mean that," hurried Kurt as the blonde eyed him with irises flurry with irritation, about to protest, for the sanctity of marriage to Brittany was for anyone and everyone, just as long as true love was there in the mix. "I'm sure the marriage you conducted was legitimate in the eyes of the great... Hindu man fish God."
"You should have seen the funeral. It was just as ridiculous," whispered Quinn to Kurt as she went in search for her bottled water. "Because the marriage was conducted in Hindu, Britt wanted to do the same for the funeral, you know, for continuity reasons. So we had plans to cremate both 'Mr. & Mrs. Yum-Yum' on a pyre made from twigs in the backyard, but when it came to actually burning them, Lord Tubbington had already ripped open the plastic bag we were keeping them in and ate them."
"Yeah, I grounded him for a very long time," confirmed Brittany, letting loose an out of control round of nods as Kurt listened on. "But I cared more about Mr. & Mrs. Yum-Yum. I know that both their souls were in Lord Tubbington, but when they came out, I was always scared they'd never enter goldfish heaven because they would smell bad, like really bad, since like, Lord Tubbington wasn't eating well at the time. Just gone off melted cheese and crunchy crouton left overs from Fondue for Two."
"What's Fondue for Two?"
"Oh, it's my internet talk show with melted cheese. You should totally guest sometime!"
"Okay, um, what would we talk about?"
"I don't know yet, but maybe gossip, guilty pleasures or... tastes in boys."
"And a word of warning Kurt, don't eat the cheese dip. Believe me it's just as bad fresh as it is gone off," voiced Quinn from the foot of the bed, her sentence thrown away amidst the rustling of her bag, the light jingling of loose coins, the thump of a heavy text book, all muffled kerfuffle that had both Kurt and Brittany peering at the top of her golden head before she shot up in frustration only to knock Kurt's own school bag from its perch on the bed. "Oh! Oops, sorry... hey, what are these?"
Quinn rose from crouched knees, her bottled water falling to the ground with a thump, the water swishing inside, now with colored items in her hands, pretty from afar. Yet Kurt was quick to recognize such prettiness - red envelopes, golden seals, his name written on every single one as if ratting him out, all of them fanned out in Quinn's hand, now brought in for a closer look, one of scrutinized inspection. Such curiosity, such deep perusal had Kurt frozen, but with a body that wished to lurch forward and snatch back what rightly belonged to him, hidden in the depths of his own privacy. Even the ruby red envelopes themselves had only ever had his fingerprints as well as Puck's on their quality surfaces. Now third party oils had landed.
Almost wrestling to gather control of his limbs, to force them into action, Kurt slid off the bed and made his way over to Quinn, making quick work of taking the letters out of her hands with as must politeness as possible, a '"they're nothing, just some letters" offering both blondes little explanation, but peaking their interests at the sight of his flustered state, the wringing of his hands, the eyes too shy to meet and hold. He was hiding something, yet Kurt had very good reason to. He would never divulge. He could never betray Puck's trust. He respected Puck. It had him returning the letters into his bag, yet his wrist was caught in a clamp like hold that loosened his grip, allowing some letters to fall to the ground, their corners now dented, blunt.
Quinn retracted her hand guiltily, muttering a soft "sorry", before crouching down once again to retrieve the dropped letters. The fair hand outstretched in front of her was quick to indicate their swift return, for Kurt wanted it back, yet the blonde couldn't help but keep on to one, the last one. It was so beautiful. Her weakness for beautiful things was strong, like an addiction, holding this envelope with its golden calligraphy and seal was feeding this addiction. The need to capture its beauty by analogue photography was palpitating. This was a delicacy of a letter, a kind not often seen on days that did not belong to St. Valentine's. Oh God, she could sense it now. Inside this envelope was a delirium of passion, crazed yearning.
"Are these... love letters, Kurt?" Asked Quinn quietly, her words spoken so slowly it was as if she was speaking english for the first time, afraid to voice any grammatical mistakes, yet for Kurt, such a question now left him no choice but to confirm with a nodding 'yes', that had both Quinn and Brittany letting out a round of gasps, light feminine squeals of delight with eyes that twinkled to learn of this hidden development, one juicy as fuck secret. "Oh my God, who's been writing you these?"
"I um... I don't know. He just goes by 'The Dark Prince'."
"Mmm, sexy for a pen name. How long has this 'Dark Prince' of yours been writing to you?"
"It's been nearly a month, and he just leaves them in my way so I can't catch him."
"And what does he write to you about?"
"Well, you know, just normal love letter stuff, his feelings for me, things like that, but he'll alternate between writing me letters and poems depending on how he feels I guess," replied Kurt, shrugging, both Quinn and Brittany's faces appearing to soften like melting wax. The sheer romance in the word 'poem' and in this context. Oh how charming was this 'Dark Prince'. "It's sort of flattering really. The first person who's got a crush on me that I'm aware of and they're writing me love letters."
"Would you mind if Britt and I took a look at them? We swear we'll be careful with them, won't we Britt," assured Quinn, fixing Brittany with a pointed look, a cross my heart, hope to die soon etching itself across the ditzy blonde's chest as her words of promise, a promise from a child of two or three years, soon had Kurt handing over his letters, five in total. The rest were at home, these were recent ones, all from this week and all signed by the 'Dark Prince'. "Does anybody else know about these?"
"Apart from my dad, no, and he didn't have to ask what they were to know what they were," smiled Kurt, Quinn raising her eyes to offer him one of her own as both she and Brittany spent around a minute awing down at the each envelope, tracing their fingers on the pattern of the golden seals several times, three to four, Kurt did not know for sure. "I've just been sure to keep them all at home and I was going to put these ones away with the rest but I haven't had time to organize my bag."
"Oh but Kurtie, this is just too cute," giggled Brittany, her fingers teasing the flap of the envelope, as if drawing out the opening process, now torturing Kurt into a desperate decision. He'd merely handed the letters over so that the pretty packaging could be admired but delving deep into its bowls, that was where Kurt drew the line, one that appeared to fade when both his friends were so eager. "Wow, people just don't do this anymore. You have to show us the rest sometime."
"I don't know, Britt. I'm already being bad enough as it is for showing you two these."
"Why? Doesn't your 'Dark Prince' want anybody else to see what he's written?"
"I would have thought so, yes. Love letters are just that much more personal."
"Oh... I guess we shouldn't read them then. Would do you think, Q?"
"Kurt's right, we shouldn't read them," agreed Quinn, nodding, piling all five letters in her hands and stroking them free from any loose bits that were on them, but nothing was on them. They were pristine as the day they'd been sent, as rich in red as the shade of nail polish on the blonde's well manicured nails. She didn't want to let them go, for no doubt the prettiness on the inside would be just as pretty as the outside. "Then again, what 'The Dark Prince' doesn't know won't hurt him, will it."
"Quinn," began Kurt warningly, rounding the bed post and nearing her position on the comforter only to find her shuffling closer to Brittany, both of them pouting their fleshy pink bottom lips in a juvenile way, an image that suited them both, puppy inspired, cute as bonbons but yet he remained adamant to see that what Puck had written remained unseen by anyone else but him. Would they even understand or handle the Dark Prince's emotions? Would they tease Kurt for it? "Q, I really don't-"
"Oh come on, Kurt. You have to share this with us, we're you're girlfriends. This is big," encouraged Quinn as Kurt frowned. "You're the only out boy at McKinley which makes it that much harder for you to find someone, and on top of that, you've said that even if there was someone, they wouldn't go for you because they would find too 'girly'. Well here's the proof that there is someone, and that he doesn't care that you're feminine. It probably turns him on, who knows. Please let us have a look."
It was a number of seconds before Kurt let out a sigh, one that neither indicated permission or a rejection, before a breathy 'fine' was uttered into the air. He lay there at the foot of the bed in semi supine, his hands on his chest, with his ears pricked with the rustle of paper, how each letter was gently removed from their envelopes and made to unfold in front of eager eyes. He wasn't proud of himself for doing this, for giving into peer pressure, but the way Quinn's eyes would skim across each line, the way Brittany would mouth the words like a child learning to read, and the way both of them would mutter aloud words of, "my God, this is beautiful", "Q, you have to see what he's written here", it had him reassured. It had him smiling in pleasure.
.
Heaven's Bassinet
Baby's breath floated down, soft and pure,
It hit the bed, porcelain white,
White, so white, it reminded me of you
You always were the innocent angel…
.
Seventh Paradise
He has written his heart down on these pages,
now he craves to devote his body to his sweet
He writes with a trembling hand full of loyalty and faithfulness
that he aspires with the hope that his bed shall soon be warm…
.
My Bed Babe
Your body is blonde all over, as if you powdered it on
Simple, yet self-displaying as a peacock in the wake of the great noontide
there are no words, just dreamy kisses on sticky sheets, the taste of honey
and your lovelorn woebegone eyes heat mine own. Such beauty, an endless rapture.
For you came to be loved hard, I go deeper, you came to be fucked hard, I go faster
you came, you came for me, my bubba, Kurt Hummel, my sweetest high…
.
The content of these letters and poems had deepened. Kurt was very much aware of it. No longer was it light fluff talk, but talk that appeared more mature, that stirred Kurt's soft belly with its language, how it manipulated crass words like 'fucking' into literary beauties. The rhythm of the poems were also all over the place, like the skipping beat of the heart, the signaling of a feeling, for ever since the Titan win, Puck had gone wild in his letters. No tedious stream of drafts were written for this latest batch. Kurt could feel it. The jock had penned down what he'd had to say onto paper as if time were of the essence, with pressure hard enough on the pen to make it snap, to almost burst its gooey golden ink and drown out his words.
Looking over at his two friends, Kurt was quick to note their expressions. Whilst Brittany retained an 'aww' like look, a look a child might pull when observing a baby koala nibbling on a eucalyptus branch, Quinn's facial muscles had twisted into a frown. Her eyes never once strayed from the letters, but her brow only deepened, a look of examination, puzzlement, and study bringing her features closer together. She couldn't help but take in this writing. The Dark Prince wrote as if he knew Kurt's body, in and out, as if the prince had seen his cheerleader naked. Such a clear picture of Kurt he had written, almost painted, the words were of a masterpiece, conjuring Kurt's beauty as a work of Botticelli in her head. This was more than a crush...
"Kurt, what do you think whoever's writing these letters feels for you?" Asked Quinn, her voice serious, austere even in tone that had Kurt almost shrinking back as if he were a child too over its own head to understand what had been written for them. "Look here, in this letter here, he implies you are his Adonis, his God of beauty and desire. In this letter, he claims he is 'left to the touch of his hand' for thoughts of you, and in this one here, he writes he'll 'sacrifice' his heart to you. His heart."
"I know what they say Q, I've already read them all," dismissed Kurt, now unappreciative that they were now analyzing and discussing these letters, these knotty little poems. To him the lines opened up another, and then another, it was like a fairy-tale riddle leading him in, a revelation, for poetry was just compression, the soul's shorthand. Morse code in a way, dipped in romance and sex. "I just don't know what you're trying to say. You're being almost as cryptic as Pu... 'The Dark Prince'.
"I'm saying that all these letters, and I'm pretty sure this goes for the rest back at home, couldn't have come about from some lame school boy crush," replied Quinn, brandishing the letter in her hand. "Seriously Kurt, puppy love couldn't have written this. The best they can do is go as far as torn up pieces of paper with a scribbled 'I like you' on the front that's almost always illegible. What you have here is a gold mine. You can't sit there and tell me you're not picking up on the obvious."
"Quinn, what are you getting at?"
"He's in love with you, stupid!"
"What?"
"Kurt, this boy, this 'Dark Prince' of yours, whoever he is, is in love with you."
"In love? He can't be, that's not possible," denied Kurt, snatching the letter out of Quinn's hand, almost paper cut inducing. He wasn't even going about being polite anymore; the need to reread the evidence overpowering him, for Puck just couldn't be in love with him. As if proposing marriage on the second date, it was too soon. Yet, there was the evidence in writing. Love. Despite Kurt's overruled objection. Guilty as charged. "He's in love with me... he's... oh my God, he's in love with me."
Allowing the letter to fall onto the patchwork quilt below, Kurt's body appeared to slump, a body that wished to fall and lie motionless amongst the embroidery of apple orchards and fruit below. He didn't know what to make of this. A part of him had anticipated it of course, they were love letters after all, and the verbal signs from Puck himself had not gone unheard, his first poem having been entitled 'LOVE' and what he'd said right afterwards, 'Relax Kurt, I'm not there yet', now taunting the many centers of his brain. It was almost as if the jock had planned to fall in love with him, as if now that he was in love, Kurt would have no choice but to accept him, or otherwise risk breaking a boy's heart with a knuckle-dusting fist thirsty for bleeding love.
Just the thought of being played this way angered Kurt. Oh how Puck had been clever. Stealing Kurt's control by placing himself as the lovesick victim, the writer who'd meant to seduce, falling into his own trap. Yet it had been Kurt who'd set him up for this. Love letter corresponding, it had been Kurt's idea. This wasn't of his manipulative handiwork was it? He'd believed Puck's feelings to be of minimal levels, at least in stable condition, set not to waver beyond a crush, but no doubt like when the jock was young at age eight, writing his Christmas list for Santa, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth with a childlike lack of self-consciousness, desire for what he'd wanted, what he asked for now, could not have been stronger.
What did Puck know about love? What did any of them know about the emotion, they were just kids! Naive minded and youthfully ignorant little runts with bodies that were still developing. Only a few years ago, girls in Kurt's year had begun 'filling out' their boyish flat chests, how every one of them had marveled at themselves in the mirror, how the nipples would get hard like brown fleshed goosebumps, whilst the boys had stared, flicked even played with their 'things', 'cocks', 'pricks' - ropy little sausages between their legs that would get hard, hot and moist. Love to them was like alcohol, illegal at their measly little ages, but still taken any way out of rebellion, and what a lightweight Puck had been under its influence. Pathetic.
Oh, but Kurt couldn't sit there as an ungrateful sad sack. Someone was allegedly in love with him. What a compliment. A good-looking boy of masculine demeanor with a Muscle Beach quality of a physique was attracted to the in's and out's of another boy, slender with skin soft as veal, who'd already given up at the age of thirteen of ever finding anyone of that caliber who'd be attracted to him in return. Like Quinn had said earlier, this was big, and despite the implications of revealing Puck's name, he'd come this far. They would forever question the identity of his admirer if a name was not given and the thought had Kurt sealing its fate with the opening of the mouth the letters often praised to be as beautiful as any moist cunt.
"Kurt, are you okay?" Came Quinn's voice, lulling him gently out of the cloud of his thoughts and back into reality. Puck's letters were strewn across the patchwork quilt, the envelopes a layer beneath them with their contents read and fully taken on board. It was best if they now returned into his school bag, yet he made no effort to do so. He merely sat there with an air about him that spoke of a translucent glass of water, unperturbed with a surface unblemished by ripples, flawless in state.
"Yeah, um... yeah, I'm fine. It's just... getting my head round it."
"Well, take as much time as you need."
"Thanks... wow, this feels weird... having someone in love with me."
"I wonder if he's that same mystery boy who kissed you in gym that one time."
"Oh yeah..." muttered Kurt, watching with unfocused eyes as Quinn began to return each letter into their appropriate envelopes, her fingers making slow but precise work and making sure no dents scarred their well pressed surfaces, yet it was the expression on Brittany's face, one of knowing, one giving away her realization that now had Kurt's face dead white and drained, yet with luscious lips still moving, eyes now trained on hers, glistening. "... well what if I told you it is the same boy."
"What do you mean? You know who kissed you?" Asked Quinn with Brittany beside her, daring him to say the name, to form the syllables on his tongue that now itched to reply. This love letter trail had ended. Love was the final stop, yet perhaps with love brought about a genuine essence to these letters if Puck were to continue bringing pen to paper, no longer pretending to be in love, but actually experiencing it. Oh how love was far more than Puck had imagined it to be. "Who was it? Who is-"
"Puck... its Puck," muttered Kurt, whisper like, but audible, barely. The room was made quiet and he shrank upon seeing Quinn's face with her cross-legged thighs now scissors with eyes of fire, her hair lifted in pale undulating tendrils, or so he imagined them. In truth, she remained beautiful, but with a face now lost. "Puck was the one who kissed me in gym class, and he's the one who's been writing to me all this time. He's my 'Dark Prince', Q... Noah Puckerman is in love with me."
~ PLEASE REVIEW ~
(But if you wish to criticize, may it be constructive. I'm not going to learn from my mistakes and improve if you vent.)
Author's Note: All poems were written by me with influences taken from here and there. Also the film American Beauty was one of my main sources of inspiration for this story so please check it out. I also listened to the soundtrack composed by Thomas Newman whilst writing as I feel it best encompasses the tale sonically.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the characters from Glee since I don't own the show. I'm not earning money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I mean only to please whoever stumbles upon my Love Story.
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