XXV

~ American Beauty ~

No one was to run in the library. Even power walking was discouraged. The tall bookcases, stacked with books so heavy the shelves they rested on bent in the middle, as if concaving to the point of snapping, were perilous to approach, as if one push could have them teetering only to fall against each other in a domino effect, book dust thick as soot in the air. Kurt made sure to slow himself down from his run before he entered, haphazardly brushing his hair back into place with a quick stroke of the hand as he opened the glass door, how it screeched on hinges set to disturb everyone, an unpleasant take on the bell chime of a cute little book store, yet ignored by the selection of stray students scattered about with not one single head raised.

A history textbook was to be returned, one covered in that protective plastic covering that stuck uncomfortably to the inside of one's palm, as if holding onto leather on a very hot day. Late it was, only by a day, but unacceptable library decorum according to McKinley's librarian, a middle-aged ethereal-looking gaunt-faced woman with fine plucked brows and eyes so akin to Greta Garbo's the resemblance was striking, very beautiful, though shaped slit like as Kurt neared the desk, returning the textbook that had not been taken out under his name, but under another name, a boy's, one that had the librarian's golden aged Hollywood eyes rolling as she recalled the trouble she'd gone through with that boy, with one Noah Puckerman.

The jock had never once stepped foot in the library. Made evident by the way he'd traipsed blindly around every bookcase for more than an hour, as if he'd entered a maze, a labyrinth, crouching and shuffling his way through it like a crab, his head titled to the side as he was made confused by the jumbled alphabetic order, searching for a history textbook, one to replace the one he'd 'lost' for World History. He'd not been willing to ask for help out of pride or even fear as the irritable librarian had glared him down impatiently. She'd wished him to leave and be done with his search, but he'd remained just as clueless as ever until she'd found the silly textbook for him, stamped it, before she'd sent him off on his way with a push to the back.

The sight of that occasional facial twitch and those peculiar shifting eyes had had Puck asking Kurt to return the textbook for him, with Kurt having agreed without question, or suspicion of the jock's unsettled nerves when around their librarian, for this had been the first little favor asked of him by his boyfriend, for he had a boyfriend now. One he'd kissed in the boy's locker room, had his legs wrapped around strong hips with football playing hands gripped at the globes of his ass as if gripping actual footballs. The lockers behind Kurt's back had shuddered upon his boyfriend's thrusts, bringing them both to orgasm through frottage. Moaning, whimpering out each other's names, obscenities and leaving them panting like slumped dogs.

The memory of those pants, so hot, and so fiery against the skin enough to burn were rekindled as Kurt, making his way out of the library, overheard the unmistakable sound of kissing, the sound of mock-resisting lips opened by a tongue pushing deep into a mouth, the sucking, the clutching. It was enough for him to follow it, for it was known that the most secluded area of the library lined with books nobody ever read was a popular hotspot for young couples and sure enough, poking his head around the corner were the perpetrators, both Asian, both Mike and Tina, their clothes half off with a button shining on the floor, perhaps ripped off amongst such spitfire like action that had Kurt giggling where he stood hidden, hand over mouth.

They were quick to spring apart upon sight of him, as if there'd been a bomb in between them, their spluttering mouths still thick with saliva, drizzling down their chins that had Tina now coughing violently enough to have the entire library's attention trained towards the back bookcases. Her eyes were watering, her hand was on her throat, with Mike patting and rubbing her back as he fetched them both their clothes with hasty, near shaking hands. Yet Kurt meant them no harm. It wasn't as if he was the librarian. Perhaps they'd projected her face onto his out of fear, those seconds after the sight, but still his lovely face with those even lovelier eyes meant no harm as he crouched down to crawl towards them, a guilty smile pulling at his full lips.

"Sorry guys, I didn't mean to sneak up on you," apologized Kurt, his voice now reduced to a mere whisper and no louder, no harsher than a softly spoken whisper. He sat himself next to Tina, up close where he could now see the swelling of her lips, slight redness around the mouth, even a hickey, though near her collarbone, easily concealed as she harshly pulled on her gothic waistcoat, asking alertly, "Is the librarian around? Is she coming?" But the fair boy shook his head, still smiling away.

"No, you're safe. She was still at her desk when I came to return a book just now," replied Kurt as he brought his knees to his chest, careful not to rest his back on these perilous bookcases that loomed over them ever more dangerously, set to bury them alive with those books, their insides, their guts. "Although kiss any louder and she'll be over here for sure. So you might want to reduce suction in the mouth, but keep your lips tight. It will reduce noise and keep saliva from dripping everywhere."

"Wait, how do you know this?" Asked Tina, the first moment in which she appeared genuinely calm with curiosity as both she and Mike eyed the fair boy beside them, how his eyes flittered between they're assessing gazes as if he'd been accused, either guilty of having spied on them longer than they'd realized or that his plump moist mouth had been getting some of its own action. The image of Kurt's red lips swollen from a kiss into pillows too puffy they might burst, the lucky boy, but who?

"Oh, it was just an observation, but if you like noisy, go for it," smiled Kurt, shrugging, with blue eyes shifting uneasily away as he shuffled into a new seated position, one that would alleviate the sudden dull ache numbing his buttocks. As if he was going to tell them how he truly knew of such things, pathetic to hear how he'd researched it online, undisclosable to reveal whom for. Instead, he pursued a query occurring right then, "Actually, how long has this been going on for? Are you guys..."

"We are," beamed Tina, locking her hands with Mike's as they reflected their smiles, both of them poised and so romantically entwined in their stares it was as if they were one of those idyllic couples enjoying a picnic of tangerines and shiny purple grapes on a hill, one with a view, one overlooking their little kingdom. "We've just been holding off telling anyone. They all have these racist assumptions that just because Mike and I are Asian and just because we're friends means we're an item."

"Well, you sure proved them wrong," joked Kurt, enough light sarcasm in his tone to have the couple blushing apart, yet with their hands very much still locked. "No, I'm happy for you guys, although I have to confess I did see it coming, and only cause Mike wouldn't stop staring at you in his first Glee practice and you Tina, the way you dragged me to that football game so that you wouldn't be all alone to catch sight of those abs from your Magic Mike here, which I have to say are very nice."

"Thanks," smiled Mike though fighting through a blush at the news of which his eyes had lingered on in that practice, had Tina smiling at him warmly as she watched it spread, each pigment rosening, though it was unusual to see on olive toned skin. It must have been a strong blush. Kurt let forth another guilty smile, one that froze in place however as Tina now turned to him saying, "But Kurt, you have to promise not to go telling anyone. We can't have Rachel finding out until I've talked to her."

"Don't worry, I won't," assured Kurt as he recalled the day Rachel had advised everyone against forming romantic or sexual relationships within the club. Such relationships could allegedly create difficulties for those involved and given the level of trust and sensitivity needed to practice, including the intimacy of the work, romantic relationships could be problematic if ended on bad terms, creating an adverse effect on number selection as well as having a negative impact on the whole group.

"Thanks, I was going to tell you but now you know, which is funny really because we didn't even plan on doing this, I just came in to help Mike find a book and we kind of wound up here," replied Tina, both she and Mike nodding as Kurt was quick to dismiss it with a quietened laugh, "Uh huh, that's what they all say." Yet Tina was indignant. She looked at him with wide eyes that protested profusely, though Kurt knew that the longer she stuck to that construct, the more convincing a lie it was.

"No seriously, we were talking about who we thought was the hottest in our year, to who was in the hottest relationship in our year to- come on Mike, tell Kurt about the discussion all the boys were having in the locking rooms the other day about their girlfriends," encouraged Tina as she lightly nudged her shoulder against that of her boyfriend's, though Mike appeared reluctant, as if now ashamed that he'd let her in on private bro talk, and how he'd let it all out just for the promise of a kiss.

"It's okay Mike, you don't have to tell me. I'll just wait until they boast it out."

"Yeah see, they're going to boast it out anyway, so you might as well tell him."

"Tina, you should be admiring your boyfriend's loyalty, not trying to break it."

"I already know of it, but I want him to tell you. Please Mikey, pretty please."

"Most of them are dating girls from outside school, so they don't count," dismissed Mike, relenting into his girlfriend's pleas, so adorable the sight appeared to juxtapose the 'kawaii' cute look on her face to the rather sinister Victorian like nature of her gothic Lolita attire. It most certainly caught the eye. "All I can really remember is that Donovan Kane is now dating Samira Romy, Shawn Tyler is dating Tea Diserée and Puckerman... he's um... he's dating someone new from inside school as well."

"But we don't know who do we," mumbled Tina, brows drawn down as she bit on the inside of her mouth, chewing with eyes of concentration as if she were solving a maths equation, one she couldn't solve as Mike shrugged on, "Nope, he wouldn't say anything, only that he's quit sleeping around, that he's proper serious about this girl and that he wants to take it slow cause he thinks what he has with her is real, and I don't think he was lying either, it all sounded pretty genuine to me."

"Did he say anything else?" Asked Kurt quietly, almost timidly, as if like a child wishing to say something with the fear of being scolded for doing so, though Tina encouraged the question with a "yeah," looking once again over at Mike as he vaguely went on. "I remember the guys thinking he was whipped, one of them even said he was in love, I mean, they were all joking around, taking the piss, but in their defense, he did look it. It was in his eyes when he spoke of her, you could just tell."

"How did he speak of her? Maybe what he said could help us guess who this girl is," proposed Tina enthusiastically, yet Mike shook his head, his shoulders once again shrugging. "Well, that's the thing, he didn't say how she looked at all, only that she's a sweet and soft kinda girl who he's had a crush on for several weeks, or several months I forget, and that she's prettier and hotter than all the girls he's dated combined, and that includes Santana, so this girl must be something."

"Oh, I am so glad he broke things off with her," confessed Tina, relieved as a frightened child would be after watching a gory slasher movie as punishment. "She really made him into a total asshole, and I know that's harsh to say cause she's in hospital and everything, but I'm telling you, when she gets out, she's either going to have the coordination of Finn Hudson, or she's going to find Puck's new squeeze and rake her throat open with those acyclic claws of hers. It's not going to be pretty."

"Are you kidding? If she lays even a finger on that girl, Puck's gonna land her back in the emergency room, even kill her, I don't know," replied Mike, his last words, the word 'kill' ringing oddly in the air, like damaged wind chimes on the verge of snapping loose, almost as if he believed what he'd said himself, that word, despite how extreme it sounded. "Seriously, you do not know how taken with this girl he looked when he talked about her. I'm starting to think he really is crazy in love."

"Or maybe he's just crazy," snorted Kurt, rising to his feet, though stumbling on the ascent as he shook his left leg awake from sleep. "I don't know. If he is in love, good for him. It'll be nice to see him thinking with his heart instead of his dick, and if that turns out well, then I just hope whoever this girl is doesn't take it and grind it into a million pathetic little pieces because if she does... well... I hear some can't be mended once they've been broken. They stay that way for the rest of their lives."

"You better not break my heart," warned Tina lightheartedly as she brandished her finger over at Mike, moreover wagging it in front of his smiling face as he brought her in for a reassuring hug that swayed so perilously close to the bookcases Kurt feared a collision, a crash, yet it was overcome with the fear of his own words, how like Mike's, they withheld an air of truth about them, the ugly truth. So tragic to roll off the tongue it hadn't tasted nice. I better not break Puck's heart. He better not.

"Well, I better get going. The bell for homeroom goes off in fifteen minutes and I've still got an assignment to hand in or I get a fail," began Kurt, his eyes rolling like loose marbles as he patted his Cheerio uniform free from dust. Freshly laundered it was. Had to be. Semen stains had littered the crotch, looking as if someone had sneezed badly on it, the work of a jock, though it was his own semen that had had to be removed, and quite a lot of it. Those thrusts, so rushed, so relentless.

He and Puck had an understanding; that their relationship remain closeted for the present time. It was a condition Kurt had agreed upon, and with so much ease, for he'd predicted this, even the gratitude that had flooded Puck's eyes, yet the guilt swimming amongst it all like black dye in water had surprised him. His hands, his fingers slender enough to snap like the stiff joints of a doll as they'd been taken into those of such size and warmth had been the precursor to a speech of promises. They were words similar to those of a man who'd nothing to give a woman but his heart, for Puck had nothing to offer Kurt as far as holding hands in public was concerned, but alternatives, streams of them, a list that had had the fair boy smiling.

Their bedrooms would become their pillowed kingdoms as if like children building fortresses out of soft bedding. To watch their own movies with their fingers sticky with butter popcorn, licked off by the other with no one to thump the back of their seats from behind if Kurt were to suck Puck's finger like a lollipop. Dinners of spaghetti and cherry cobbler, readings and reenactments of Puck's letters, sharing family photo albums, sensual dances, fetishes fed, talking, laughing, playing all the while. And at night, pomegranate plum candles would flicker as whispered secrets would fly under a single transparent sheet, naked in their youth with hands that would trail over each other, learning of each other, kissing each other, making love.

Kurt would never appear on a mobile snapshot, exhibiting his body like a high price whore for the jock's friends to gawk over, just like all the other girls before him, like all the other mothers. Their hair would always tumble sensually across the pillow, eyes sleepy with the tips of their tongues showing between swollen lips, like a clit showing between lips of the vagina, erect nipples and naked, all post coitus, and all for the that impressed look on his friends' faces, as if Puck had done it all for them. Yet every snapshot had been deleted right after, with times Puck had wished to burn the very phone he'd used to take them with. And now, with no snapshots had signaled a change in him to his friends. That this 'girl' was his to look at, and his alone.

To most misogynistic men, women were jokes. The female body was a joke. All this fecundity. All this beauty. The aim was to drive men wild to copulate and reproduce the species. Kurt's own body was a slim casing of lean muscle in a soft slender physique, resemblance to a fit prepubescent boy that at his age would only be labeled as 'underdeveloped', 'scrawny', even 'gaunt'. The gender neutrality of it was androgynous to some, believing a high dosage of estrogen and he'd have bouncing breasts that wouldn't be disproportionate to his frame. Though Kurt was male. Proudly so, and though upon sight a pang of lust would rise within Puck, he'd respect Kurt and his body like any other boy's, treat it more delicately, but never as a joke.

Spoken with such sincerity, a Shakespeare-esque intensity that professors at the The Actor's Studio would nod impressively at, Puck had let it be known that he'd never raise a hand to him, never believe him to be less than his equal, even at Kurt's most vulnerable, naked to the bare soles of his feet, wishing to be dominated, his very beauty suggesting pathos, Puck would always treat him well, and Kurt believed him. For those muscles, those 'guns' would bulge in anger only to protect him from danger, to hold him safely when running into a deep hug, and to aesthetically please him to arousal, to have fun with, having fun with Puck. No worries, no regrets, just good old fashioned, eager to please, do what I tell you to, Eagle Scout fun.

.

Glee

.

It was evening, and it was in Kurt's bedroom that had a comforter slightly disheveled with deep creases and pits where feet had dug themselves forcefully into, the toes curling. Towards the foot of the bed lay a laptop, a picture of a good looking muscular boy on its screen set so bright it rendered the pale skin of the boy in front of it luminescent, giving the suggestion of being hot, catching the beads of perspiration at the ruffled hairline, his uncanny eyes of the translucent blue of a churned winter ocean slivering ice accompanying a languid somnambulist set of movements that spoke of something certainly sexual in nature, something this boy had done just now without shame, and without regret. That face, so satisfied. His body spent.

Stroking his nipples and palming himself to the thought of Puck had been his idea of bedroom pleasure for several weeks now. They would be long drawn out sensual affairs that would have him circling and caressing himself, a hand against the pit of his belly, his groin, hands so soft Brittany had always known them to be ideal for self-pleasure, as if Kurt wore gloves full of Vaseline, not only for himself but for happy times of others. With an image his boyfriend had privately gifted him in all his tan naked glory, as if Puck had been watching him, as if Kurt had been soiling himself in front of those hazel eyes, like a child might do, or an animal rubbing itself, those soft hands had only to pump him until muffled screams had deafened his pillow.

His flagrant body, the way he'd flaunted his sexuality had left him thirsty, almost parched, yet the glass he'd drained prior to pleasure, once filled with chocolate milk was empty, nothing but a light brown film that coated the inside, the remnants drizzling somewhat. The sight had him all the thirstier. He was somewhat cool now with his skin no longer adhesive to the touch yet the bed itself remained warm from body heat, a difference from the way it had scorched underneath his skin at the peak of pleasure. He'd since cleaned and gussied himself up, though he still looked as if he'd been with a man, ravished and lazy, as he swiped his glass from the bedside table and headed for the stairs, only to halt at the sound of a faint tapping.

The room was dark with little illumination except for Kurt's laptop and the moonlight streaming in through the window. It was out of preference, offering the fair boy a greater sense of privacy, as if darkness was the teasing veil to his boudoir though at this present moment, it only made it all the more difficult to determine the origin of these incessant faint tappings, sounding in short episodes, though coming out strong, coming out stronger, too strong to come from the beak of a pecking bird, but more from a hand, a set of knuckles, until Kurt caught sight of a silhouette suddenly appearing at the window, blocking out the moon's neon rays and eclipsing the room into darkness, now too opaque a veil that buried Kurt, drowning his heart in fear.

The glass in his hand was quivering, whitening his fingertips from the pressure he was exuding to such an extent, even if he were to break it, no single shard would embed themselves deep enough into his palm to seep blood. Who knows if he would even scream. All attention remained on the shapeless silhouette beyond the window, how it wavered somewhat, stumbling, until it was gone. The moonlight's rays were quickly restored, but the sounds of foliage rustling kept Kurt unsettled. That silhouette had had weight to it, broad in width and tall, too big for a woodland creature, almost anthropomorphized to the point it was human, with real knuckles, a real hand, the fear rushing Kurt over to the stairs, climbing until his sight went black.

Crash! The glass in his hand smashed to the floor with its shards flying all over the now stained step in front, scattering droplets of chocolate milk amongst broken pieces of glass that glinted like lethal diamonds in the moon light now near nonexistent. For the silhouette had returned, closer this time to the window, enough to see the breath coating the glass, like a rabid dog hungry and out for Kurt's blood. He'd now flattened himself against the wall with eyes closed, breathing hard. He whimpered upon the sounds of that strong knocking, fearing the cobwebbed slightly dust ridden glass would shatter, for it was merely a small basement window, many years old with a weakening frame, ever weakening from those growing knocks.

Kurt's body was now only a little form in the corner of the staircase, curled up like a child with knees to his chest, encased in his arms, a sight uncanny to children chained to a basement pipeline, starving and left to die in filth upon an insect infested mattress. He was rocking himself on legs that clenched together, not about to let forth warm yellow liquid, but wishing for the knocks to stop, the knocks of a thief perhaps, an arsonist, a murderer. He wished for help, but the light was poor and glass was everywhere. He so wished for whoever this person was to leave him be, yet upon the lightening of the knocks, as if the tips of a finger, the nail was tapping the glass with a light clink, Kurt's eyes opened to hear a voice emanating from beyond.

His body rose on legs riddled with pins and needles, feet burning with a tingling sensation with every step, but kept quiet as he listened out for that soft voice, so soft it hardly carried to where he was hiding, yet like the knocking it grew louder, and deeper with greater assurance. He no longer had to strain to hear those muffled panic toned words, as if they themselves were being pursued, he could hear them, how they furrowed his brows, "Kurt?" "Kurt, baby are you in there?" "Babe, it's me. Open up." The utterances were made clearer as he neared, his posture poised defensively and on guard with the intruder's silhouette now lightening, that voice now recognizable, his fear dissipating as with a last round of baby steps, Kurt gasped.

Looking anxiously down at him through the blurred glass was Puck, his boyfriend, now grinning nervously with frostbitten cheeks and nose, those hazel eyes rich as he waved a "hey," one Kurt just as nervously returned, though he was deeply relieved with such solace dousing the fear in his heart. He scurried up to the window and clambered onto his vanity, careful not to knock over any of his products that trembled from the minor shudders and jolts by his knees, until the window was opened, until he'd retreated a few steps back to allow Puck room to skillfully maneuver his way through the frame with little difficulty, jumping down safely as Kurt closed the window after him, the cold breeze from outside pinching his fair cheeks.

All that crawling in the shrubbery had left the jock's jeans soiled at the knee with his shins skimmed with grass stains. The soles of his converses were also dirtied, leaving behind footprints on the carpet whilst dust, pieces of flint and dead leaves were quick to rain down with a swipe of a hand that retreated behind Puck's back to the sound of a crackle, Kurt's ears now pricking, the crackle of gift-wrap. There was something secretive in the air, akin to redolence. Puck had both hands behind his back, only ever had at least one hidden as he'd brushed himself off yet Kurt hadn't been paying attention, realizing his own boyfriend had snuck into his bedroom at night like they did in the movies. He now had one of those boyfriends. He had Puck.

Now Puck had him, for in no time at all, the jock strode over in two short strides and kissed him ardently, had Kurt stumbling back from the force but kept still and upright as a strong arm wound its way tightly around his slender waist, had their bodies coming together so close in an embrace, as if Puck had just come back from war. The jock's facial skin was cool to the touch, wind kissed and pinkish at the cheeks with his lips dry, though they were quickly moistened as Kurt wetted them down with his own, his heated tongue warming them up, warming Puck up as that toasty little water bottle he was before pulling away to catch sight of those happy hazel eyes gracing his luminous lotioned skin, smiling so happily at him as Kurt smiled back.

"Sorry for scaring you like that, baby," murmured Puck as he dove his face into the fair boy's neck, a little noise akin to a hum vibrating up Kurt's throat as he too sank into the jock's embrace that had him on the tips of his toes, as if he was ready to be lifted and spun around in circles, and only with one arm, one so muscular, that relieved some space between them to now have their foreheads coming together. "I know we didn't have anything planned, I should have called, but I had to see you."

"Did you walk all the way here?"

"Had to. I couldn't sneak out in the truck, it makes too much noise."

"So your mom doesn't know you're-"

"No, I'm good till early morning... I have something for you."

"You do?" Asked Kurt, a smile bringing about a little something to his words as only a smile could, yet as he made to bring that smile to Puck's lips, the jock pulled away, those first few seconds Kurt believing him to be like an impatient little child preferring to be alone, no longer wishing to stand the touch of a restrictive parent. He was of course wrong. For with Puck's brief retreat brought about the retraction of a hidden arm, and a hand holding such beauty it had Kurt smiling once more.

It was a luxurious rose bouquet of fifty petalled blossoms, of American Beauties, a patriotic hybrid perpetual rose known for its cup shaped head, rich color and flagrant scent. Numerous sparkling diamante pins had been closely interspersed across the bouquet, with the bouquet itself well gift wrapped in glossy cherry red paper and tied neatly with a matching gauze bow, that now strained, threatening to loosen there were so many roses! A well assembled cluster, every head close nit as if they were all competing for the top spot, to have the pleasure of gifting Kurt with their own overwhelming fragrances. Raspberry, redcurrant, geranium, bergamot. Sumptuous subtle aromas, all fresh and all delicious as fair eyelids fluttered in their wake.

The story of the bouquet had begun at Lima's seasonal farmers market, where after school that day Puck had met up with his family to catch an extensive kosher friendly shopping list in his mother's hand; of organic brown bread and eggs as well as a wide assortment of roasted vinegar meats, fish and vegetables that would stock their pantry up for days. All the better to feed her babies with, though which had taken the best part of an hour to buy, much to Puck's boredom. He did not share his mother and sister's interest in markets. They were loud booth circuits that had his hands cramming his pockets every time, feet kicking the ground that yet now only lead him astray to a booth that had had them shuffling nervously, his face blushing.

It was a flower stand, secluded somewhat from the rest of the market and only small, though charming in nature, with cake like tiers of the most beautiful bouquets surrounding the booth itself, predominately of roses, displays cascading with petals strewn on the ground, engulfing it as if overgrown like a miniature flower garden of Babylon, with the insides of the stand like a sepulcher of flowers. Behind the desk had been an elderly man in the midst of arranging a red rose bouquet, bringing it to life with Puck overlooking attentively as if watching a birth of a child. The roses positioned and the stems cut, the diamante pins embedded, and the bouquet wrapped as wrapping a child in a blanket, this child, this bouquet to give to Kurt. His baby.

The fair boy was stunned, overwhelmed with what he now cradled in his arms. His eyes stung with tears and he felt a swirl of nausea as he dove his nose into such strong parfum, the power of fifty roses weighing down his arms, but kept supported, even as he discovered a heart-shaped card tucked amongst the flowers at the rim, printed in that gold ink a message, 'Kurt, I will love you for as long as life endures. Your boyfriend, Puck'. The message was whispered with no voice, the fair boy's lips mouthing each word as if praying at an alter. He wished not to cry on his roses with silly sentimental tears that would fall on their petals like rain, but it was hard as he squeezed his eyes shut, now opening them once again, so glassy and so blue.

Puck had not drawn a single breath from the moment he'd given Kurt the bouquet, his eyes never blinking at the fear of missing a flicker of emotion that danced across that fair face, those lips that shamed his roses, now mouthing a "thank you", with an intention to dunk the bouquet into a vase of fresh water. Yet before said deed could be done, the jock watched as his emotions overruled him. He brought Kurt back into him by his waist and nuzzled his nose against the boy's ear, cooing happily but with a whispered voice that broke upon the words, "I love you Kurt, so much," sharing a kiss with those red lips, passionate, made him whimper with need and desire, before letting Kurt go, off to vase his American Beauties. His babies.

With the room now empty, Puck removed his mud-stained shoes and tucked them beside the foot of the bed, wincing at the unsightly footprints he'd trekked in upon entrance, knowing better than to attempt to fade them with the rubbing of his foot. His Letterman Jacket was casually shrugged off onto the comforter to reveal a black tee underneath, form fitted to strain as he flexed his biceps, warming them up, the idea of Kurt lathering his lips over contracted muscle fuelling his need to shower the boy with some very much-needed Puck love upon his return. Yet as he made to climb the bed, to settle down comfortably, he caught sight of himself on the bright laptop screen, the picture he'd sent of himself to Kurt, the picture of him in the nude.

The bed retained traces of heat, the comforter was oddly shaped and by the laptop was a tissue box with a tissue pertruding jaggedly out of the slit, as if the one prior had been pulled out harshly, quickly to stem something. Lowering his nose, Puck sniffed the sheet; perfume and perspiration, the linen lightly briny with the faded traces of Kurt's sweat. The jock knew this scent. Many a teen boy did, with Kurt's easily traceable, even the odor of his juices skin to sugared batter, cookie dough even brought about from Kurt's sweet tooth. Puck was lying in a big bed of his boyfriend's post-sexual gratification, the aftermath of an orgasm brought alive from the soft-core picture of himself, one sent for this purpose, but made all the more real now.

The picture itself had been positioned, timed and taken right after masturbation, with the remnants of Puck's sperm still glistening all over his torso as if he'd been spritzed with droplets of melted down pearls. His penis had awkwardly fallen limp after ejaculation and it been hard to stoke himself hard again before his juices congealed on his skin, but he'd managed it, recounting the fantasy he'd used of Kurt as a Victoria Secrets angel, sashaying down a runway in only a silver Laurel wreath, white lace briefs, roman sandals and wings, winking and blowing his only spectator, Puck, a kiss before coming to stop before him, straddling him, sheathing himself on his boyfriend's erect manhood and riding, flying their bodies higher and higher and-

In this time of deep arousal, the recollection of that fantasy, of Kurt pleasuring himself to him, of Kurt himself, Puck knew he need only rub his trembling palm against the bucking demands of his bulging jeans before he too would shoot, drenching the denim to leave an embarrassing stain at his crotch, but he didn't. Upon hearing Kurt's return, he quickly minimized the picture and lay back against the headboard, there to shuffle into an unconvincing non chalant pose and willing his erection to deflate, but it stayed rock hard as Kurt, having deposited the vase on the bedside table, came to lie beside him, rising a fair hand up under his fitted tee, fingers tracing the jock's defined torso to his nipples, the nubs erect, his dick erect and bursting to come.

Kurt was saying something, thanking him for the bouquet, almost profusely with his deft hands practiced as a pianist running his fingers over the keyboard, laying scales, but Puck did not hear above his erratic breaths, his rising chest, his bucking hips, his entire body like a boat on wild waters with the waves crashing up against the hull now gasping, "B-aby, stop! I'm g-onna! I-I'm gonna!" His hands flew to his jeans and undid them, his cock springing free angry and swollen until as he wrenched his tee up to his chin, he came with a roar, "FUCK!" His now white wetted torso convulsing, jarring sharply as he breathed in through his nose, nostrils flared as a bull's, letting out strangled masculine grunts before flopping back down, panting hard.

"L-let me clean you up," stuttered Kurt breathlessly, retracting his fingers from Puck's nipple, not realizing he'd been tugging it from the reddish hue now painting the nub. He emptied the tissue box of its remaining four to five tissues and wiped the jock down from all semen, dabbing and blotting away at the heavily rising and falling torso before throwing them all into the trash can, three of them missing from shaking hands as he now made to lower Puck's tee, only to be stopped by the wrist.

"I guess that makes two of us tonight, huh babe," chuckled Puck breathlessly, his voice guttural and hoarse amidst dying pants, now smirking as Kurt frowned confusedly back at him. It only took a few movements to have the jock clicking open the nude picture of him on the screen and upon sight, the fair boy gasped, as if he'd never seen such explicit content before. His eyes were quick to dart over to Puck who had since leaned back against the headboard, that smirk alive, that smirk growing.

"How did you... never mind," sighed Kurt amusedly as he closed the picture down with the screen following suit, now joining the lazy satisfied looking jock on his bed, torso still bare, cock still out. It had since fallen flaccid amidst the frieze of Puck's groin hair, though even in its limp state its girth retained an impressive width with its length long, moisture still seeping from the slit like a leaking faucet improperly turned off. "Oh in case you didn't hear it, thanks again for the bouquet. It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

"Yes, but it's really beautiful. How much was it?"

"Let me worry about the money. I just want my baby to have nice things."

"You didn't go to a luxury florist did you? I've heard American Beauties are pricy."

"Kurt, its fine. I got them at the farmers market flower stand today, twenty dollars down from forty. I was the guy's first costumer of the day," reassured Puck as he lowered his tee and fastened up his jeans, careful not to catch his sleeping manhood on the zipper as he tucked it soundly back inside. With a look of surprise, Kurt asked almost in disbelief, "Really? The farmers market?" An answering nod from his boyfriend leaving him to eye his rose bouquet with an impressed smile.

"So, how long as it been since you've gotten cosy with my picture?" Asked Puck as he shuffled onto his side, head propped up by his hand, brows wriggling, that smirk, and all having Kurt snorting in amusement. Such cheek from this boy. The picture itself had been taken weeks ago, when the jock had been going through an alleged time of extreme sexual charge over thoughts of him, masturbating six to nine times each day, with snapshot proof of such virility sent only yesterday after school.

"Noah, I've only had it for a little over twenty-four hours, and up until tonight, all I've been doing is admiring your body," admitted Kurt, smiling shyly. "I know why you sent me the picture and I know it's meant to arouse me, which it does. For the first time tonight it brought me a lot of satisfaction, but it's also of my boyfriend, of whom I have feelings for and sometimes I just don't want to objectify you because of those feelings. Sometimes I just want to look at that picture and think of you."

"I think of you too Kurt, all the time, but you know I also think of you naked, and your boyfriend likes it when you think of him the same way. Just the idea of you getting off to me turns me on so much I can't even... I mean when I caught on to what you'd been doing just now with my picture I just had to," replied Puck unapologetically, his hand coming to rest on Kurt's hip, tracing calloused fingers along white briefs, ruffling the hem of that soft pajama top. "Remember Kurt, sex can be romantic."

"Has it ever been for you?"

"... no."

"Then how do you-"

"Because it will be romantic with us, Kurt. It will be!"

"Noah, it's okay, shhh," reassured Kurt with an expression pulled to calm. Puck's large hand had pressured on his hip, had pulled him closer in his air of frustration, post tantrum like breathing hitting his fair face, but he'd remained there rubbing his boyfriend's tense bicep, snuggling into him, said boyfriend having almost lost it with the thought of sleeping with Kurt the way he'd slept with all the others, treating him as nothing but an empty hole to fill, to thrust blindly into, robotically. Like a robot.

"I just want our first time to be special," murmured Puck into Kurt's glass woven hair, almost a whimper, like that of a kicked dog. "With all the love letters I sent you, its like I've been building up for great romantic sex, promising you something I've never had, but I can guess what it would be like, cause when I'm with you Kurt, when we kiss, when we frot fuck, they're the most intimate experiences of my life, and I don't want to ever have sex the way I used to. I just can't go back do doing that."

"How did you endure it? How did you... how did you even get hard?" Asked Kurt quietly, now looking down at Puck's crotch with eyes that saw right through the denim. It had been put through so much. Suffocated with condoms as tight as sausage skin, only to be rammed into crevices, sometimes the wrong one, the one that hurt. Times it would lose blood in action, times it had been faked, just like they had been doing, a joint performance at the price of sore genitalia with regret their hangover.

"I closed my eyes, Kurt. That's all I ever did. I closed my eyes and thought of things I liked instead of them," replied Puck recounting how many necks he'd dived his face into with eyes closed, creating his fantasies, ones often interrupted by those whimpering mouths that he'd clamp his hand over, telling them to be quiet or he'd fuck them harder, to not 'ruin it'. "Soft fem twinks were my substitutions and I made it work for me. It wasn't always easy, but whenever I'd think of 'em, it did the job."

"Oh..." muttered Kurt. So now Puck had been getting off to the thought of men, though Kurt suspected the jock would assure himself it wouldn't count, seeing as he'd be in girls as he would think of these 'twinks', canceling it out. With this excuse, it would explain why Puck had rarely manually masturbated. Ironically, having sex with girls, using them as his hand, had been the only way he'd allowed himself to explore his homosexuality, through 'substitution', another reason for his promiscuity.

"And then I met you, baby," smiled Puck. "Like I said before, not only were you the first openly gay guy I'd ever met, but the first that was my type, and with that, I started thinking of you every time I'd have sex, and it was easy cause I knew you, you were real, not just a fantasy. Sex felt good when I'd think of you, I even made it good for the chicks I was with, but after a time it wasn't enough. I had to have you, with me, under me, where I wouldn't have to close my eyes, cause you'd be there."

"So how long was it after we first met before you started fantasizing about me?" Asked Kurt curiously. His hand had been lightly caressing Puck's tee since the jock's little outburst a few minutes ago, the fibers of which had been sending tingles to tickle his fingertips like a harmless electric current, almost numbing them, yet they were quick to slow upon the question, shaping concentric circles on Puck's pectoral, near his nipple, his sensitive nipple, with that sensitive nub, feeling it harden.

"It was a couple of days after the semester started, so since September," admitted Puck. "Even though I knew you hated my guts I still thought of you, and even when you ripped on my family, or my cut dick, or me, I always had you in mind, cause you worked like a charm every time, baby," Puck smirking as he leaned in. "And get this, I was still with Santana back then, but I thought of you whenever I'd fuck her brains out. That's right, I fucked the hottest chick in school, and I was thinking of you."

It was in an instant Kurt's lips were on his with a wet smack of a moist mouth, jarring Puck's own lips into a puckered state as those once docile fingers now grabbed his tee, pulling him closer, pulling him on top, with fair hands that now almost kneaded at his muscular chest, like playing with dough, like a kitten baking. His tee was ripped off impatiently just to have those hands on his naked flesh, there to fondle his large tanned nipples so thick and full it was if Puck was pleading Kurt to rub, twist or even squeeze them free from milk set to burst, and all the while kissing in a frenzy, tongues deep in moaning throats with no care for the minor kicks to Kurt's laptop or the way the sheet loosened at the sides to reveal the white mattress underneath.

The scene was a scenario from Puck's fantasy collection, a vast collection that had itself scattered across his love letters to Kurt, though upon learning these fantasies were not solely literary imaginings of beauty, but flesh and blood fantasies as raw to Puck as they came, Kurt had been surprised. Tastes of exhibitionism, voyeurism and striptease to join the jock's fetish for domination and effeminacy. He'd expected sexual acts he wouldn't even be able to fathom, acts befitting of a bad boy, a sex shark, and though Puck had indeed come across such acts in the past, they had never been personal preferences of his, with taste buds far hungrier for vanilla sex, dark vanilla, caramelized and spicy hot with romance, now that he was super in love.

It had been story time, and it had continued under Kurt's voice as if he'd been holding a torch under his chin, harsh shadows on his face as he'd let Puck in on his own sex fantasies through stumbled words and hesitation, a thick air of embarrassment about him. The idea of making out on the bowling alley foul line, to engage in sensual sex with silk blindfolds, to have his well groomed hair messed about and tugged as Puck would fuck him from behind, and to have his boyfriend dip kiss him in the middle of a crowded street, his very own V-J Day in Times Square. All spoken from shy lips adjoining blushing cheeks but unashamed in stance with blue eyes sexy and confident as he'd end to admit to share a fantasy from Puck's own collection...

The jock would lift Kurt into his muscled arms like Popeye as Kurt would squeal in panicked anticipation, as if for a split second he'd forget who this two hundred pound lusty boy was. Puck would carry him into the bedroom, Kurt's arms tight around his neck like a drowning boy's so the jock's breath came quick and audible as a stallion's. Laughing, with a shout of triumph he'd pin Kurt by his shoulders to the bed, peeling up his top, nuzzling his soft bare, beautiful chest with pinkish-brown nipples and rounded little tummy covered in a fine pale fuzz always so warm. Like a true stallion, Puck would become hard within minutes, blood rushing into the Puckster as if a hot-water faucet had been turned on and there to make love to his fair boy, only love.

Now, with a thousand dollar laptop teetering over the edge of the bed, with greater expanses of the mattress showing, greater expanses of their own skin showing with nothing on but their underwear, Kurt's bare thighs had been pushed apart as if he was about to be entered, Puck's hips nestled in between. The tempo had since slowed to accommodate a teasing pace, with a large hand creeping up a thigh until briefs were met, stretched only to ping back to fair flesh with a smack! Kurt squealing like a piglet would after it's curly tail had been pulled straight, a squeal Puck had always imagined the boy to sound when he'd get fucked, his big dick making him squeal. Oh how it had him pulling on those briefs enough to rip them right off.

"I came so hard when I touched myself to you," breathed Kurt as he took the opportunity to speak on the rare occasions where Puck's lips were not on his, but rather on his neck, kissing, tonguing, sucking, now pulling away with a smirking, "yeah?" The line opened up for something good, with attention caught with 'come,' a word so alien, yet so naughty sounding on the polite lips of a well spoken boy, it was punishable by spanking. "To your biceps, so big and so powerful, your guns..."

"Kiss 'em, kiss my guns. I wanna feel those lips of yours on my muscle," said Puck huskily with a tone akin to an order, one of impatience as he balanced himself on one supported arm, bringing his other into the air and flexed, enlarging that bulge, one so big that Kurt now kissed with those sumptuous lips, lathering them over his guns, praising them, worshipping them as Puck looked on. Never had he felt more like a man. "Fuck that's hot... fuck... go on babe, keep talking, keep going... please..."

"You want to hear more?"

"Yeah."

"You want to know how I touched myself to you all alone in this bed?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Like this..." Since kissing Puck's bicep, Kurt had kept himself up, whispering against the jock's ear, his lips, pecking them, some with a harder pressure, but now, against Puck's shuddering breath akin to breath of a freshman boy's first time, trying to hold off his orgasm to impress the girl with stamina he didn't have, Kurt swiped his fingers against his protruding tongue and lowered them down south, under the elastic of his briefs, upon his erection wet with thin moisture, now gasping, now-

Puck's mouth was on his so hard their lips were crushed, almost punctured from the force with teeth banging away, vibrating over battling tongues, though Kurt's harsh fall to the bed was softened with the very bicep he'd kissed wound tightly under the arch of his back, lowering him like a sleeping baby into a crib with no harm knocking the wind right out of him. Underwear had been ripped clean off, there to be thrown beside the now crushed tissue box with their lengths in contact, pubic hair now bristling with the hot friction of siege like thrusts that were failing to hit Kurt's sweet spot, with Puck noticing his discomforted, near wincing face as hips were shifted and thrusted. Nothing. Shifted by another fraction of an inch and thrust! Still nothing.

Such frustration. Such madness. A reminder of the sex the jock used to have, how he'd used to quickly fumble with a wilted-looking condom before he'd go soft, the latex the same sticky consistency in his hand as the thick mucus of a slug's slime trail, which he'd drop to the ground and curse, "God damn," his face swollen red like a child's balloon blown near to bursting. He would be embarrassed and the girl too would be embarrassed to help him, fearing he'd lash out at her if she tried. Yet now here with Kurt, struggling amidst frightening growls of frustration, Puck refused to re-experience such embarrassment, his hips continuing to shift petty millimeters, to thrust blindly, nudging Kurt with his manhood, until he hit it, until Kurt screamed.

The bed was rocking now. The bed was rocking wildly with the headboard knocking up against the wall, the near naked, teasingly stripped mattress starting to list and skid dangerously to one side, almost far enough to knock over the bedside lamp with a crash, and all stimulated by Puck's thrusts that now had Kurt writhing underneath him as if he was possessed in mid exorcism, his eyes rolling white in his sockets with his fingers clinging to Puck's biceps so hard it hurt, but the jock didn't care. He watched as the boy lost his worn breath over his cries of, "Jesus! Jesus! Je-sus! F-uck!" with Puck whimpering as he kissed his fair neck, lapping up every bead of sweat, his grunts thick with want, "yeah baby, take my cock, take- o-oh, Kurt!"

The control was slipping to join the jiggling bed, their bodies clumsy, skin-smacking and sweaty, but still the edacious thrusts drove in by the pound, so powerful, near to chafing both their thighs from such urgent lovemaking. Until with a crescendo of macho like groans, Puck's balls tightening, his once strong arms shaking, threatening to give way, he reared up like a horse shot in mid gallop and came uncontrollably, as if there was too much semen spewing out, too much pressure in his penis, with his cry a guttural choke like cry layered by a soft scream of pleasure underneath him. His hips were quick to enter a trance of spasmodic pumps, hardened thrusts that contracted repeatedly, quivering like a fever, before they softened, slowing to stop.

The fair boy had a look of passed out bliss as if those insatiable thrusts had knocked him unconscious, with the orgasm itself having been as potent as a class A drug set at too higher dosage for his small body, almost life threatening. His eyes were closed, his mouth was agape with heavy breaths and his glistening chest was a splattered mess of white juices, and so much juice! The quantity of a small water bottle, with traces of which reached as far as his hickey decorated neck, even his chin, with a little puddle in the caving of his cute stomach, now dripping down the sides of his torso from the heave like rising and falling of his chest, there to stain the sheet damp with sweat. It was the most arousing post coital sight Puck had ever seen.

The temptation to slump was high with the bed looking so inviting despite its trampled looking state. Kurt's laptop was now on the ground, the bedside lamp too, there to shine upside down with the bulb luckily neither broken nor bust. They're bodies were catching their breaths with air so humid they had to breathe in twice as hard with barely audible sweet profanities escaping the jock's lips, Kurt's name amongst them, that name leaving his mouth like a prayer that had the boy now turning to look at him. Kurt's forehead was glistening with sweat. Whether it was his own or that of Puck's that had dripped on him, he didn't care. It was that closed smile, as if fresh from giving birth to their child, there for the jock to lean down and kiss.

"Fuck... that was amazing," moaned Puck, swallowing down on his lingering orgasm that felt to stretch expansively, feeling it running through his very veins. His breathy words brushed up against Kurt's lips as they kissed sweetly, again and again, each kiss slow that had him coming to lie beside the fair boy, careful not to slump himself down with force, to make the mattress wobble. They were both in delicate condition with bodies weak, but happy as Puck whispered, "God damn... baby."

"Y-yeah... Santana can eat her heart out."

"That's right, Kurt. You're better in bed that she ever was."

"Really? Better than the 'hottest chick in school'?"

"By a fuck ton, babe. You can wear my come like a God."

"Oh, would you mind passing me the spare tissue box? It should be in the bedside draw," asked Kurt quietly, smiling amidst his exhaustion, but the jock wished to protest. Having the fair boy looking so ravished, so debauched drenched in sperm was enough to mentally snapshot him with yards of film, to click with a blink, a million blinks, but he did as he was told. He had to shift the mattress back into place to access the drawer but inside was the full tissue box, now brought hastily to Kurt's side.

"Here, let me," offered Puck gently, basking in Kurt's thankful appreciation as he set about cleaning them both up, emptying half the box by the end and leaving the wiped expanses of their skin sticky with the remnants, as if they'd been eating treacle off of each other. Yet Kurt still remained uncomfortable, now wanting a shower, wishing to do something practical about the tangled sheet that was so wet beneath them, but after the shower, both of them under that warm hissing spray.

It was said he'd only be a minute before Puck had pulled him into a passionate kiss, a declaration of love somewhere amidst it as Kurt had swayed into the bathroom, returning his laptop to the bed half open, now fully open by Puck's hand as the jock froze, cold shower water running, heating in the bathroom. There, set as the desktop background was a photo of both him and Kurt in Puck's bedroom the day he'd come out, with the jock sitting on the edge of his bed, Kurt sitting sidelong across his lap holding his phone up high above them, it's lens looking down upon a cuddling couple held tightly together with their arms around each other, as if never letting go, but both smiling, on the verge of laughing with cheeks pressed to each others.

It was one of many. Perhaps one of twenty or thirty. A playful little shoot after Kangeroo Dundee that had had them both in almost every shot, both on the verge of their prime, a prime of health and beauty and both hypnotized. Puck now himself was hypnotized, reflecting his own on screen smile as he leaned in closer to the screen. Kurt was so beautiful. As graceful in play as the sleek kitten he'd been in the bed, a luscious piece of candy he wanted to suck and suck, and with him they'd encased young love together in such high definition, surprising for a phone camera, capturing in detail every twinkle in their eyes, as if they were about to let loose tears of joy, such was their happiness, now cut short as a document flashed upon the screen.

It was an accident. He hadn't meant to do it. He was not used to macbooks, or most Apple products. Yet with too forceful a swipe of his finger across the sensitive touchpad in search for the folder with the remaining pictures of that day, he'd had the desktop background disappear behind a blindingly white Word document that had his eyes squinting, only to enlarge and only to read the bold underlined title typed in black Calabri size ten font - 'Die Noah Puckerman Die', with its body stretching for two pages, it's contents rough in draft, just like Puck's had been when planning his love letters, how it had been a womb for their births, with their creator, their father's condition now critical as he read on, these words, with death now imminent.

Yet death was the point. Death was what his sweet beautiful boyfriend had wished to see him in. Death that would slice his head right open by an engine fan. Death that would bisect him with a flying flaming car hood. Death that would suck his organs and intestines clean out by a pool drain. Death that would have him flying back from an explosion only to have his chest diced on a barbed wire fence, and death that would shoot him repeatedly through the face with a nail gun, with large nails puncturing his eyes, into his mouth and leaving him to drown in his own blood. There were so many, and not one had shown him mercy even if he'd begged for his life on his knees like a mutt. Death had not spared him. Kurt had not spared him.

So much wrath, 'mohawked piece of shit.' So much hatred, 'I'll never date a muscular douche bag like him'.It had been a well painted porcelain mask Kurt had been wearing all along, one that had never melted, a waltzing masquerade that had had him stabbing Puck with a bejeweled dagger to the heart. Or a roller coaster ride meant for two, him and Kurt, but nearing the end and the restraints had been unlocked, the wheels were flying from under, the track was breaking up, coming apart, Puck looking to his left with Kurt no longer beside him but on the boarding platform, laughing manically away at him as the carriage derailed, Puck flying through air, now falling through it to the ground below, his blood curdling screams silenced instantly.

It was the need, not so much the want that had Puck pulling his eyes away from the screen, as if the razor sharp text was burning into his retinas, like a laser blinding him until he couldn't see. For his sight had gone grey around the edges, now blurred at the bottom from an apparent on set of tears he had not realized had shot up through his ducts whilst reading. Yet even with his vision comprised, he was still able to make out his hands and how they quivered over the keyboard, too weak to clench as he felt the trickle down his cheek, the first tear to be released like a lone droplet warning of an overflowing bath, seeping in through the side of his mouth and crumpling his face with the taste of salt wincing his eyes, the dam now bursting.

Puck was stumbling about on staggering feet as he was quick to hit the floor as if he was drunk, collecting every one of his clothes and pulling them on with juddering hands that did not do him justice, unable to fasten his belt, unable to button his jeans. His nose was now clogged, he was sniffing through his movements with the only scent left to him as that of the roses, those so called American 'Beauties' that now produced a scent akin to nothing more than a miasma, every petal rotting, every one decaying with horrid putrescence as Puck made for the window like a refugee about to be gassed alive, hoisting himself out of the window with a foot on Kurt's vanity, products this time falling over as he clambered out onto the cold lawn outside.

His only welcome was the biting November air, hitting his tear streaked face and freezing each one to his skin, but he was too upset to care, too devastated with the realization that Kurt would never love him, would never forgive or forget. To know that he, Puck, deserved unrequited love, that the love of his life would never feel morally repugnant or guilty for rejecting, but would rather revel in it in a sociopathic like fit of sadistic pleasure. For oh how Kurt despised him. He was loathed, abhorred, wished dead, and like a kick to the back of his knees with the thought he fell into the road, there for the moon to shine down on his pathetic figure, his haggard clothes, his pained face, a wreck of a crying boy now howling into the pitiless night sky.

Whoever had been woken up by such deep distress could have only guessed what it was as they had rubbed at their tired eyes and shuffled to the window with the street lamps searing their irises. Profane shouts to be quiet would be thrown like a booing audience to a lousy actor, to let the late hour be known, that people were trying to sleep, but there wouldn't have been breath in their chests to shout, even croak, all breath caught in the throat at the sight of a lone figure on it's knees with arms outstretched, palms wide open and vulnerable, that sound unmistakable, almost chilling. For these howls were not of a fallen child or a baby, nor were they of a whimpering dog hit by a rogue car and dying, but of a young man's heart, breaking.

~ 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: I know most of you were expecting the angst to be over by now but the ending to this popped in my head and I had to include it.

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.

~ STAY TUNED FOR MORE BY FOLLOWING/FAVORITING ~