XXVI

~ Art ~

The American Beauties were not dead. His babies were not dead. Every few seconds Kurt's eyes would flicker over to them whilst at his vanity like a mother flushed with stress as if they were about to topple off the bedside table with a smash, breaking the glass carved vase of his grandmother with its contents strewn, rose flavored water drenching into his carpet. It delayed his morning routine by minutes he could not afford from a late get up, ruining it even as his Vaseline slick finger missed his lips only to skim across his cheek, removing the tinted moisturizer he had yet to powder on to leave a greasy streak, its thick consistency too heavy for his pores, easily clogged and acne prone, despite his previous round of Accutane.

On the coffee table, his laptop, once host to a treacherous old document long deleted. It hadn't been updated in months, not since the start of October with the sole purpose of its creation having been for personal solace, relief, typed up by vengeful fingers that had gone about fading the letters on each key. With each death listed, he'd executed their leader, their tyrant king, all gruesome imaginings he'd so longed for in bouts of wishful thinking, enough to kneel by the side of his bed and pray for. Just the way he had been treated by him, treated by them all and meant to run away like a frightened animal with its tail tucked quiveringly in between its little hind legs from abuse bolstered by shoulders so broad, and their words, their words...

Puck hadn't spoken to him in seven days. From morning homeroom until the bell that had him in his roaring truck home, he and Kurt had not neared. Though anger coursed not through Puck's athletic body so much as sorrow, how it had all the girls eying him with subtle looks of disgust, disgusted even at themselves for ever having found him attractive. Poor posture, even baggier clothes with his eyes always so bloodshot, a striking resemblance to his mother in the staircase photographs, red rimmed with so many of his capillaries burst he could no longer wear his contacts, but his glasses, cutting him from the football team and catching the attention of all, their rumors of drug abuse fucking up his eyesight a popular thread of gossip.

Kurt walked down McKinley's halls free from suspicion, unlinked to Puck's depressive state, but wishing to be so, wishing to grab him and kiss away his tears, to tell him that that list was of an old age view, but he hadn't. One look his way and Puck would flounder. Those exhausted hazel eyes were not yet strong enough to have him in their sights, like looking at the sun, to take in how white-skinned as a geisha Kurt was, as if he was a scared little kid, washed out under a hovering spotlight, or overexposed in a photo with too harsh a flash, it would have painfully jarred the jock's eyes to the point of stumbling, not that he wasn't doing it already. Puck was a wreck and there Kurt was to look on with his own eyes glassy as ever before.

They said he smelled incredible, but he hadn't perfumed himself for days. The top notes of his fragrances were overpowered by those of his roses, swamping his room with a hazy parfum Kurt thought would have turned to fungicide in light of what had had happened, cleaning it out of all oxygen to leave him suffocating. Yet he stood before them now, refilling the vase amidst rearrangement, talking to them as he did, even whispering his apologies to Puck through them in hopes that they would understand. He had looked after them well and they cooed happily as his fair fingers cupped their bulbed heads, with a kiss soon planted on their petals as a "goodbye my babies, I'll sort this out. I promise," was uttered. And Kurt was gone.

Nauseating flashes of scenery through a whirlwind of minutes had Kurt's engine dying in the McKinley parking lot, though the driver had no wish to move. His eyes were closed, barely open to see students walking past in chatting groups, in posse like cliques, with some alone, one even in the form of Puck himself. Yet it only had Kurt shutting his eyes completely, enough to hurt. The way he had had to shut his car door twice for not closing it properly, hurt. Even walking in itself was a chore to his legs as he entered the school, with just about enough energy to avoid being dragged into a current of bustling students, there to open a locker with a door mirror that had him thinking he'd never been prettier in all his life, and it disgusted him.

Again, the flash of a Mohawk in the glass, out of the corner of his eye. Kurt was quick to turn around, but Puck wasn't near, instead, further on down the hall at his own locker. He looked better, though still the human product of poor sleep, who now punched his locker as with a slip of the hand, a number of books fell out. He would glimpse over at Kurt occasionally, his eyes hardened at the edges but soft in the middle, and as he made his way past, Kurt could feel his breath on his neck, that heavy breath that escaped dry, almost cracked lips that so longed to kiss him, whip him around and kiss him, yet with his own locker now closed, all who stood before him was Brittany, smiling at him animatedly as Kurt looked down the hall. Puck was gone.

"Kurt?" Asked Brittany worriedly, veering her head into his line of sight, one of such potent staring that even with her there his blue eyes only seemed to focus on her after several seconds, as if they had resembled the glossy looking eyes of her stuffed animals at home, teddies, animals, dolls, eyes all lifeless looking but so pretty you wished to stare at them for as long as it took to bring them to life, to have them talking, the true dream she'd had since childhood. "Kurtie? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, sorry," replied Kurt with a slight upturn of the lip, the baby steps of a smile in place as he was quick to shut his locker and with it, his reflection, though with a little too much force from the sound of the mirror inside falling with a little clink, hardly heard. It wasn't enough to smash, for it was only a small oval mirror, but perhaps it would have had Kurt feeling better at the thought of physical strength still running abound in his body, at least an ounce, now turning to Brittany, "I was just thinking."

"Oh so you've heard the news too?" Asked Brittany as with a hand to his arm, she promptly lead him down the hall, her keen sense of direction making good work of weaving them both in and out of the McKinley throng, going so far as to direct him herself as he asked breathily, "What news?" To which she answered, a smile on her lips. "Mr. Onira has been fired, which means we have Ms. Sosa as our official gym teacher for the rest of the year! Isn't that cool! We can Yoga all the time now."

"Oh... yeah," muttered Kurt with brows frowning to the news that had in fact broken itself for the first time to his ears on Brittany's tongue. He supposed he would have voiced an opinion, a witty one, that Ms. Sosa's unoriginal lesson cover plans would still take precedence over the actual curriculum, an option many of the more wilful teachers at McKinley were known to employ, just as long as what they taught was at least vaguely relevant to the subject at hand. "That's too bad for Mr. Onira."

"Yeah, but we get Ms Sosa. Don't you like her? She doesn't make us run as many laps and she smells better," smiled Brittany with Kurt nodding his head to a rather minor victory. Granted it was known Mr. Onira could sweat through his clothes to leave behind that vile odor of perspiration, enough to permanently shrink the nostrils, Ms. Sosa's trashy celebrity perfume that had her smelling of a baby prostitute was enough to nauseate a whole gym worth of students into fits of continuous vomiting.

"Yes, I must admit I prefer Ms. Sosa," agreed Kurt with a grin, one pulled widely just for Brittany as if she were a small child showing him a picture she'd drawn proudly in class, one an adult had to praise despite no matter how badly drawn it was, and though seen as patronizing, Brittany basked in the attention, how it was extra warm, made her feel precious even with Kurt's slender arm now around her shoulders as they entered the gym together to shouts and bouts of shrieking laughter.

Girls were running wild, with boys right behind them, a sight of playground silliness, even light soft core foreplay with heavy anasyrma undertones playing through as no Cheerio skirt was deemed safe from the preying hands of the odd Titan, the way they threw themselves after each other in play, with no teacher supervision to stop this naughty charade. Kurt and Brittany watched with amused eyes as their gym class was reduced to nothing but a troop of monkeys in heat, tag for teenagers in reality but it was more fun to name it otherwise. Brittany herself looked enthusiastic to join with the girls playing, shouting out her name, "Brittany!", but she stayed with Kurt as they made their way over to the bleachers, an act he appreciated.

His Cheerio outfit strained upon sitting, the result of too harsh a run in the dryer last night, and Kurt took it slow as if he feared one sudden jolt could have the sensitive seams bursting to reveal his nakedness, to have everyone gasping at his baby ass, as if it wasn't already flattered by his tight pants, an ass so well formed Brittany had praised it, and to catch the attention of the boy on the bleachers across from them, changed into a wife beater and sweatpants, ignored by his peers but longed for by Kurt. Those sexy muscular arms, bare, those sexy feet, bare. His boyfriend was so sexy, though with that title in jeopardy had Kurt looking away, wishing everyone would just stop messing around, stop running, shouting, "Stop!"

The word of thought was the one word shouted by Ms. Sosa herself as with a clacking of stilettos with a tone high enough to give the impression she'd sharpened them into spikes, all of those running were brought to an immediate stop, their cheeks ballooning with suppressed giggles. The temptation to puncture them with said spikes was high, it was noted in Ms. Sosa's eyes, yet instructions were barked for mats to be placed on the floor instead, evenly spaced and done in silence less they wished for detention. Kurt scurried away with everyone else, yet even walking at such a pace had him feeling restricted in his own uniform, as if he should have been scuttling on little baby steps, enough to trip up on as he was handed his own mat.

Upon return, his movements stilled to catch sight of Ms. Sosa with Puck, talking to him with a face of authority pulled tightly, now pointing at Kurt himself as he lay his mat down on the ground. Unknown to him, she had not been as blind as believed. On both occasions she'd seen Puck kissing him with a strict order for it to cease, "You can kiss as much as you want outside the classroom, but when we're in session, you will do best keeping your tongue in your own throat Mr. Puckerman," and with that he was dismissed to look over at Kurt, the first look shared in seven days. Yet Ms. Sosa's words had been unnecessary. Never again would Puck kiss Kurt, especially in here, for it was only with a kiss that he'd fall in love with him all over again.

No partners. Just working alone. Kurt was by himself on the mat, following instructions by Ms. Sosa herself, clad from her usual Californian bimbo appearance, to one of pink form fitting spandex, a European fitness instructor that had all the boys lagging in their movements, tightness in their sweatpants, staring, one staring at him, he could feel it. Just a few mats away, was Puck, both of them separated from a firm demand to have at least one person between them. Yet the jock had chosen to ignore, to defy, had chosen to torture himself with moving sleekly from one mat to the next, those he passed unaware of his movements until he'd set foot on the one behind Kurt, warding off the occupant and taking up position, eyes always on him.

The Big Toe Pose, the Chair Pose, the Dolphin Pose, the Downward Facing Dog. It was a myriad of poses set to dance music too loud Ms. Sosa could hardly be heard up on the stage, her voice drowned but with eyes overseeing her flock of students, now frowning, sending warning glares to one who dared to disobey. "Puckerman!" Was her cry, one muffled by the music. "Puckerman, get back into your place now!" Again, her voice was stolen and she wished not to strain it, or disturb her class's progress, even as one of the jock's had lowered his hands to palm his tent shaped bulge through his sweatpants at the sight of her, even as she caught three girls talking amongst themselves, she could see Puckerman getting closer and closer and-

Kurt whipped around and caught him in mid approach, the jock now frozen in stance. It was as if they were playing their own playground game of What time is it, Mr. Fox, with Puck having had to complete numerous yoga positions before he'd be free to catch his little fox, but strategy had deceived him. He was so close, but he'd not been fast enough. Kurt was looking at him not as if he was about to eat him for 'dinner time', but with eyes that conveyed an apology, though the boy remained silent. Both of them remained silent, unmoving amidst their exercising classmates, until with sudden energy, Puck grabbed onto Kurt's arms and clenched down hard, pulling him in as he stared malevolently down at those frightened, wincing blue eyes.

"Why did you do it, Kurt," Asked Puck, his voice an angry heartbroken murmur, verging on a hiss, but with enough of a human voice to it that brought about an air of desperation. With emotion as strong as it was, he was not about shaking an answer from Kurt's mouth as the boy lay his hands on his chest, fisting his wife beater in an action that wished to push and pull at the same time. He knew his hands were whitening, cutting off circulation in those slim arms, but he asked again, "... W-why?"

"Puck please, you're h-hurting me," breathed Kurt, now squirming in vain and without victory as he felt his arms start to numb with enough force applied to snap his bones within. Looking up at Puck, he now saw up close the impact that night had had with a reddened nose, his jaw and chin left completely unshaven to have stubble maturing his rugged looks and his contacts were back in eyes darkened with black bags with tear ducts beyond inflamed as if one more tear would have Puck screaming.

"You wanted to hurt me, Kurt. You wanted me dead," replied Puck emotionally, emphasizing his piercing words through gritted grinding teeth with Kurt's winces as pronounced and clear to his naked bloodshot eyes as the rest of him. "I mean, how much did you fucking hate me? Huh? How much did you have it in for me to..." The jock's words were quick to die as his head hung down, closing his eyes and bringing Kurt closer into him that much further as his voice broke. "I never stood a chance did I."

"Yes, you did," whispered Kurt with enough reassurance in his strengthening voice to shake the jock himself, to make him see, and now with proximity closing, he moved into Puck, those large hands like metal clasps on his arms finally letting him go to fall to his waist, holding them tightly. "I wrote that list but only when you made my life hell, and you can't start believing I still think of you the way I did back then, because I don't. Alright Noah. I don't hate you. You mean so much more to me now."

"As what? What am I to you, Kurt?"

"You're my boyfriend, Noah. I care about you."

"Just as long as I cared more about you that's all you needed."

"What? Noah, I-"

"All you wanted was to get back at me, didn't you," muttered Puck, his head rising to see Kurt's hands pawing up his chest, "No Noah, no," on his lips, that beautiful face now upset as the jock spoke again, "This was how you wanted to hurt me, wasn't it." Again Kurt shook his head, pressing up against him like a child would pleading for something, crying even. "I love you, Kurt," Puck choked, tears now blurring his vision as Kurt's lips neared his own, "I thought one day you'd love me back."

"Noah, please stop talking as if it's not going to happen, it can happen, it will," assured Kurt with his little fair hands grabbing onto the Puck's wife beater again, insisting and insisting as if begging him for his life at the feet of one entity who could save him. He was losing Puck. Those hazel eyes appeared almost scratched within the iris, the little patterns like gaping trenches, swipes, yet Kurt continued to speak, his words now hurried, his body pressing, "I don't hate you, I never strung you along, I-

"LIAR!" Shouted Puck under a growl so thunderous, releasing his hold on Kurt and pushing him away with enough force to knock the wind right out of his chest. Stumbling back, the boy tripped on his mat and fell to the ground, white pain shooting up his backside and into his spine as he stayed there in shock. For seconds he couldn't breathe. His eyes were wide as if this white pain were genuinely lethal, until it spread to his heart upon Puck's words, "Don't ever come near me again, Hummel."

"Noah, stop!" But his words merely came out as croaks, as if he hadn't used it for days, left to watch instead as Puck stormed his way through their yoga dancing class and out through the double doors, the sound of the metal banging hitting Kurt's sensitive eyes. How they now blinked, how they welled, and how tears now trickled on down his porcelain cheeks as he found his body in too shocked a state to get up, wishing Puck to return, but he never did. Those doors never again opened.

The lesson was soon to end with mats put away and water bottles drowned down parched throats with remaining droplets spritzed across sweating faces. The loud music had since left a ringing in everyone's ears with most too tired to talk anymore amongst themselves as they returned to the locker rooms. Kurt himself had sat the remaining minutes out on the bleachers. Whether he'd been told to or not he could not recall. Perhaps the way he'd stumbled with a back that wouldn't straighten properly, the perfect hunched angle to allow his tears to roam free down his cheeks and onto the wooden floor was all that was summoned to him as both Quinn and Brittany escorted him out of the gym with arms weaved around his delicate frame.

In truth, the two blondes including Ms. Sosa had seen what had happened between him and Puck, though words were not heard with body language the only language. They thought it best not to mention it, deciding instead to escort him to the nurse's office to lie down, and there the nurse, overweight with a pinkness to her chubby cheeks that gave the impression of friendly hospitality, was quick to take Kurt off their hands worriedly. Yet they stayed as long as they could by his bedside, looking at a boy as white as a fallen mannequin with red tear marks staining both cheeks as if they'd been carved jaggedly with a blade and his flopping fair hand placed on his belly, as if he were with child, but a child dying. Both of them dying.

.

Glee

.

It was in the mall that fashion emergencies were doused from their flames and successfully put out, with the bottom of many a wardrobe overflowing with ash that would have that smell as if the victim had died in their own grave soot of wool, acrylic polyester and rayon. Yet the victims were burnt free from their hideous clothes and made to run naked and scared, bare flesh burning black marks littering their skin, into the nearest clothing store and there to be hidden from view until they resembled the models in the posters, clones of their mannequins, even if the victims themselves were humans with imperfections and blemishes abound, who looked upon them with envy, their self-esteem destroyed in a single look, with most of them female.

From dull eyed women in their forties and fifties, not one beautiful, not one pretty who wore no makeup with hair unstyled and uncombed, pot-bellied, slack breasted with sinewy unshaven legs, faces with as many sharp angles and creases as a Halloween pumpkin, a sickly carroty sheen to their skin with course hairs sprouting beneath arms and at their crotches. Some even with scars, even lurid sickle scars on a thigh, reaching even eight inches long. To women in their twenties and little baby girl teens, squeezed into cheap looking dresses as tight as sausage skin like moderately high-priced hookers, their lipsticked duck faces so dark they looked like cock sucking tramps, their jelly tits and asses spilling out like whores, dignity long buried.

It was a vision Rachel Berry had feared for years and had abhorred in her fellow classmates. She'd kept herself safe under her knitted animal printed jumpers, plaid skirts and kindergarden-esque Mary Janes, an image of a badly assembled prep school student or a devout Christian with little flesh showing. An image made fun of by many, saying she smelled as bad as the farm beasts she wore upon her well developed bust, large jumpers for such a well formed big breasted girl, with some even having threatened to set it a light with matches pointed at her, saved once returning to the locker rooms after sports to find a group of girls trying to pry open her locker, the very same matches spilling from their hands and striking on the floor.

It was a commentary upon her lips she told Kurt Hummel upon their arrival at the Lima mall, there as her friend and personal shopper, his sexuality enough of a qualification in her books, and of her age, when compared to her two fathers. She was close to Kurt, comfortable enough sharing stories of when she'd been younger, how her junior high bathrooms had been packed full with girls, her pouting peers, applying lip gloss and blotting their scrubbed-shiny faces with loose fragrant peach-colored powder, and there she'd stood looking into her own cloudy compact mirror with her bright coral pink lipgloss, teased for rubbing the gunk off, how she hated how phony it all was, hating the taste, the hour lingering taste of fake gooey fruit.

With much discretion, as if this was the first time she'd revealed such personal information, with Kurt withholding a mature face, the talk of her first periods at around the same time. The curse, she'd called it. The blood curse. How she hadn't wished to be like her fellow tart like peers, because bleeding, for it was bleeding, would be it, and how in gym playing volleyball, her hesitance and clumsiness out of shyness would cease upon the feeling of something trickling, hot red liquid seeping into the crotch of her panties leaving her dazed and with a sudden headache. All white clothing, all white panties, and all new. Todays layers explained, the density of thickness also explained, judgeless animals her only friends after such traumatizing accounts.

Her Kurt was easy to talk to, a great listener, an introvert of some sorts, an observer by far and always with a head to nod at the right times, acknowledging her, making her feel as if her words were worth being said, that she herself was very much worth listening to. It was a friendship that had matured from bickering to this outing today, with evidence of the past proving odd behavior in Kurt's part. He was quiet, very quiet, with witty comments kept to minimal answers, even one word. He was still there with her in the eyes, never did they stray or have him stumbling on his feet or losing them in the mall itself as they journeyed to the store of choice, but there was turmoil in those eyes, anxiety, even anguish to set them with a sad sparkle.

She was clad in numerous items of apparel upon entering their first destination, Topshop, with her brown eyes wondering over to blouses worn by refined young girls from good families and hurrying away from those that screamed nothing but pinup sex pot. The challenge had been to find a balance, one not as extreme as to say call girl meets Park Avenue, but used as an example as Kurt had aided her in her search, her knowledge truly lacking as if she was just as knowing when it came to fashion as a masculine beer guzzling, dry hammering macho man with her arms ladled with classy yet sexy clothes that Kurt slung onto her, clothes she would be trying on herself in the changing rooms, and what he gave her, she would like... or not.

There was no bite to Kurt's words, no sassy spark with his tone that much softer. Kurt had always been softly spoken. Unless he lost his temper, it had always been a voice the likes used right before bed, snuggling under the comforter with a friend and telling each bedtime stories, or with a lover, cuddling those stories together into a sweet dreamed kiss. She wished to address it, but trips to makeup counters that had those powders of her childhood drying up her oils and emphasizing her fine lines, even the perfumery bringing back memories of those girls so cheap, it was the slight angle of Kurt's face, how it was pulled ever so discreetly with the light shining on it differently that made one double take on even a minor a look as a glance.

With an arm wrenching handful of bags dumped on a nearby bench outside their last store visit of the day, American Apparel, a visit short lived and near unsuccessful after the fashion chain's heavily sexist photo archive had been splayed over their walls to bear down on them both, pulling at the seams of disgust, Rachel sat Kurt down and faced him. Lingerings of his own disgust soon died to have those big blue eyes looking back at her expectedly, frowning as to why she wasn't checking her receipt as she always did, something she insisted and enforced upon herself after every purchase, why she was holding his hands in her own, why she was looking at him the way she was, as if she herself were breaking bad news. What was up?

"Kurt, tell me what is it, what's wrong," began Rachel as she ever so slightly forward, her neck exposed to reveal her pulse points lathered in a fragrance they'd bought her at the perfumery, one she'd been happy to wear. Notes of flower florals with very little of that sickening candy that curdled her belly, yet it still could not overcome Kurt's own, the scent of his roses at home, the boy now asking, "What?" To which she sighed, but did not relent. "You seem... off today. Is everything alright?"

"Sure," replied Kurt innocently. Another one word answer that didn't give Rachel much, but accompanied by a mild shrug of the shoulders as if he himself wasn't sure if he was, both of them now questioning the validity of a word that was merely a dismissive lie, one she pursued, leaning in ever closer to him, "Are you? Are you sure?" Yet Kurt retained his posture, which he'd since corrected from a slight slouch to one almost rigid as he spoke, "Yes, I'm fine. It's just been a rough week is all."

"A rough week," Rachel repeated, as if the poor excuse tasted as bland on her tongue as McKinley's Mac and Cheese, the blandest food known to man. With her having shared personal stories of her own, she'd been hoping for Kurt to return the favor, but clearly she was addressing something too fresh in the mind. It would do Kurt more harm than good if he were to speak about it and so with that, she let it go, feigning belief with a nod as she smiled. "I have a little something for you."

"You do?" Asked Kurt, the warmth from his palms lost as Rachel turned around to rummage quickly through the many bags surrounding them as if like a child searching for chocolate. Her hands worked so fast, so greedily even, he feared she'd rip the delicate tissue papers in the bags, and the sound it all made, the rustling, the crackling! It drew attention of passersby, eying Rachel until with a breathy, "Here we are," she presented before him gifts that had his eye's lifting, bigger, even bluer.

"I wanted to get you something for your help today. What do you think? Cute, huh?" They were cute. A pair of white faux fur earmuffs with matching gloves that had Kurt whipping them on and toasting his skin upon impact, there to protect his ears and fingers from Lima's biting November breezes. Without having to check the label, he could detect the material as that of polyester, but he relented to comment as Rachel spoke on, "I knew they'd suit you. Just like that fluffy Panda hat you have."

"Thanks Rach," smiled Kurt, somehow the first genuine smile of the whole day as he trotted up to the nearest window of a defunct store, the lights inside extinguished to offer Kurt his reflection, there to tuck stray hairs back into place, making sure the earmuffs were correctly in position before funny faces broke out, his tongue out, the peace sign he'd seen many a time in Japanese Harajuku culture brought to his cheeks, everything kawaii or 'cute', his face cute as Rachel giggled from the bench.

Though the cute boy model was soon to sour, the reflection of the world behind him changing, almost twisting in the glass, with his friend's laughter descending in tone until it sounded so deep it resembled Satan's himself, the whole thing almost nightmare-esque as with this appeared a figure. It was on the other side of the mall, the opposite row of stores and walking along the level. The Dark Prince, so tall, dark and handsome, dressed in an outfit of pure shade except for the dark blue of his faded denim jeans and accompanied by two bubbly smaller figures in front, mere kids chatting away, with the Dark Prince smiling only slightly with lips closed, but enough to avoid questions, queries of why he looked so sad, why was he so sad.

The pane of glass in front seemed to quiver in its frame. With every loud thump of Kurt's heart it shook with blue eyes in fear that it would shatter, even explode with shards flying everywhere to crash to the floor, joining a fair dying boy impaled right through that same beating heart, Rachel's screams, a cacophony. In truth, the figure nearing the end of the reflection, the Dark Prince himself, walked hands deep in pockets with numerous puncture wounds in own heart, slices, cuts, chops, half the organ shredded away from viscous words that had gutted it from blood and tissue and left to beat twice as hard to survive, but to exhaust itself, to bust with the Dark Prince falling to the ground motionless, the screams of two little children, the end.

Murderer. Murderer! MURDERER! Kurt was a murderer. He'd murdered his prince, his own mohawked stallion and in his own bed, one he'd since stripped with new sheets clothing his naked mattress, but with a blood stain always there, blackened and sticky, though seeping as if still fresh with the prince's broken heart in the center, ripped at the middle and mutilated making him sick, making him tear up as with the disappearance of his broken handsome figure, out of frame and out of sight, the bustling sounds of the mall were quick to return with his dripping tears quick to be wiped away as he made his way back over to Rachel, the earmuffs off, the gloves off but his sniffling nose and pinkening eye line drawing her concerned attention.

"Kurt, what's wrong?" She asked, as she pulled out of her bag a set of Kleenex tissues, her fumbling fingers fretting amidst the surprise. Though there were no longer any tears on his face, but on his hand, some having retained their droplet forms as they were quickly wiped away, his nose wiped, slightly red now from the harsh friction. Another tissue was offered but it was rejected. The one he already had since been scrunched up in his clenching palm, listening to Rachel's plea like questions.

"It's silly, it's nothing, it's just... God, I shouldn't be letting this get to me," sniffed Kurt, shaking his head, Rachel now asking, "What is getting to you, Kurt? Tell me," though his shaking head remained insistent, not wishing to bore, not wishing to dampen their afternoon with any more tears of an emotionally strong person with allegedly, according to Brittany, a good a heart as a silver bloodied unicorn, soft coated with a braided mane. "I'm sorry for... I'm sorry Rach, this isn't fair on you."

"Don't be silly Kurt, you've been more than fair with me. Just look at all these bags," smiled Rachel, with a hand gesturing out to her many well-packaged purchases around them, the other rubbing concentric circles on his back as Kurt sighed in amusement. How naive she was to think the amount they had on them was even close to the real deal in the fashion capitals, a mere baby compared to those of stiletto shopaholics. "Come on; let's treat ourselves to Starbucks before we go."

"Alright, but if they ask us if we have Instagram accounts we are out of here," murmured Kurt, recalling his last visit in which teen girls all around had had their phones out snapping away at their drinks and letting them go cold as they had spent their time all idly choosing a pretty digital filter to layer it in before uploading it to their mindless followers, a trend Kurt had always found irritating, Quinn even more, "Everyones a 'photographer' these days," she'd said shaking her head disapprovingly.

Each and every one of the bags were hoisted perilously into arms of no real muscle power, organized strategically with the smallest on top, largest at the bottom, and no sharp jarring as they walked, Rachel's orders. Dents were easily made to distort the logos and the colored tissue paper at times threatened to fly off into the air, even more susceptible to ripping at any moment, but kept safe from careful footing, even on the escalator, to squeeze into the narrow space with people eying them and their bags, all them belonging to the new Rachel, well-dressed Rachel, looking and feeling good, and all the work of her friend, pretty Kurt, who's magical hands she'd kissed, kissed his cheek as well before they'd left, leaving a smile to bloom.

The orders for a Caramel Brulée Latte and Hot Chocolate were soon set at the Starbucks counter, with many seats free in the food court, empty seats with only the few dotted around. It was now late afternoon, a minute until five thirty, half an hour until closure with brightly uniformed janitors even bringing out their equipment right in front of them, but they didn't mind in the midst of few words and comfortable silence. Rachel was sipping at her steaming hot latte, petrified of scolding her tongue whilst Kurt sat opposite, cradling his own, warming his hands with eyes that flickered over to the nearby wall hung clock, how the handle clicked ever closer to the next number with the need rising within him to find his Dark Prince before it was too late.

It was with an excuse of having to need to wash his hands with a promise of a quick return that had Kurt skidding onto the escalator, "Be quick! I can't carry all these bags by myself!" Rachel shouted, magnifying his guilt as he shot her an assuring smile from above and looking down at her little brunette figure amongst a candy colored cluster of bags before the level was reached. His legs were soon to lead him past home bound stragglers and closing stores to the costume shop tucked at the end of the mall, the only shop he could think of that would have him in luck, yet one set for closure within the next month or so due to poor business and to be replaced by a newer, better, and more revamped fancy dress store under a chain label.

It was dark times for his Dark Prince. Reality these days was painful enough for escapism to overcome him, possibly even devour his built body, a costume outlet to sink himself into, and Kurt knew this. With every costume he himself passed upon arrival, his heart beat all the wilder. That heavy smell of rubber from scary face masks, the burning heat of the lights above enough to melt any matte face paint down one's neck, even the faint residual fumes of Chinese or Taiwanese manufacturing factories that hit him just as strongly as it did when first setting foot in the McKinley boys' locker rooms after practice, was all to render him dizzy enough to topple into an elaborate display, until laughter rang out, children's, the sight his confirmation.

It was a scene of playful devastation, a mess of clothes, heaps of them rising resembling dirty unwashed laundry and in the center, two girls, both haphazardly dressed in Disney princess costumes as if they'd been thrown on with no care, but in a rush to try on as many as they could, every one over the creased and crumpled home clothes. Yet Kurt only recognized one. The first, Sarah, the Dark Prince's sister, recognized from their brief encounter in Sheets-N-Things and from photos from the Puckerman residence. The other, Kurt did not know. Likely a friend as they both sat before the changing rooms, shouting for the occupant to come out, "Come on, No-No! I want to see what it's like on you!" "Yeah, come on show us, Sarah's big bro!"

A fashion show it was. One of applause and screams, female, with the curtain finally thrown aside to reveal the dashing Dark Prince, clad as an actual prince in Early Tudor robes of royalty, trimmed in gold intricate stitching, the embroidery weaving its way through every stretch of the purple fabric. His doublet, his hose, his golden crown bedecked in countless faux rubies and sapphires, and a sheathed gleaming sword hanging from his waist as was the time for aristocratic men. It was to be noted in fact, that the outfit was very historically accurate by fancy dress standards, except for one major alteration, possibly a last minute call, definitely one decided by the smirking prince himself, for there he was in all his decadence and finery, shirtless.

The muscle, oh how the tan complimented the purple, the beginning of a fantasy, objectifying. Kurt was in a tunnel after dark with a flaming torch in hand, led to the secret entrance to the prince's royal bedchamber, and there by the windows would be his majesty himself in only an unfastened Tudor shirt and fur coat, wine in his hand and a crackling fireplace heating the fair boy's entrance, a mere beggar servant, bowing before royal blood. Yet his chin would be lifted by a single calloused finger, he would be carried to the bed and laid upon the rose covered quilt, stripped, kissed and held before the plunge of a big flesh scepter deep inside him, the king size canopy bed rocking, its drapes flying all round them, 'O-oh fuck me, f-fuck me! Puck!'

He wanted a slap to the cheek, one that would leave a mark, and enforced by his own hand as his blue eyes burst open and away from the fashion show scene before him. It was not the time for such explicit thoughts. Not in the wake of such a touching sight. The Dark Prince was spending time with his sister and her friend, entertaining them as the prince from their storybook fantasies, any young girl's fantasies with a charming act. Bowing, "My lady," on his lips, having those lips on the top of their hands, throwing them up into bridal holds, twirling and dipping them in mid dance, ballroom-esque, and having them knight him with his sword. The way he smiled for them, laughed with them. He was the Dark Prince of their dreams.

It would be like to run a paintbrush over a million-dollar masterpiece, to ruin it if Kurt were to step out from behind the aisle with time passing as he stood pathetically in hiding. His once hot chocolate would be cold, Rachel's latte would have been drunk and the mall's overhead sound system would inform of the fifteen minutes until closure, "Thank you for shopping at Lima Mall. We hope you have a safe trip home and look forward to seeing you again soon!" And there the woman's pre recorded voice sounded in the distance, Kurt now thinking fast, panicking, as he looked down at the shoulder bag he'd been wearing throughout and what lay hidden inside, the footsteps of the cashier, the Dark Prince now changing. There he stood...

Puck's voice was loud, "Alright, I want you both out of those dresses and before we leave I want every one of these outfits put back in their cases otherwise the sales lady is gonna bust my ass," Slightly vulgar wording, but authoritative so as to not be questioned, though the girls wouldn't put up much resistance. Sarah's stomach had grumbled for dinner a few seconds prior to the mall announcement with her friend having yawned three consecutive times in a row before he'd spoken. A minor rustle had been heard from a nearby aisle and he'd taken the movement as that of the sales lady herself, even though she'd yet to usher them out, prompting them him into action with the changing curtain now swiped across the railing, now closed.

It was lack of time that had him rushing. His fingers were near to ripping off the Tudor costume from his body, with memories of it being far easier to put on than it was to take off. Then came the folding, not doing it correctly, folding them too loosely so that the clothes came out too fat to fit into the plastic casing, doing it again, again too fat and then having to do it again and again and again. A tedious process he had yet to do to around twenty to thirty other costumes outside laying strewn across the floor, or not. The idea to leave them that way was tempting, a dressing room with hangers all over, body paint tubs, jars and tubes left uncapped and squirted to dry on the floor, even smudges on the mirror, smeared into a smiley face, 'Fuck U!'

His jeans were zipped and his hoodie was tugged on, turning to look into the mirror as he made minor adjustments, but they were flimsy pulls here and there, flattening out creases he didn't even care about. The overhead lighting in the ceiling had never meant to be flattering, with the shadows falling on his chiseled features so much harsher, as if they were cutting it. He looked older, mohawked washed but bristle dry and uncombed, eye bags deepened by tear troughs, he was breaking out on his cheeks, one of two on his forehead and his jaw still remained unshaven, that look of a young man maturing too fast in clothes so drab and dreary compared to those of the prince's, the Dark Prince, that alter ego he'd once gone by. No longer.

He shook his head violently, as if he'd just been jolted with electricity. He was not going to allow thoughts of Kurt to cloud his mind as he'd allowed it to happen for the past week. Memories of the list, memories of deceit, even those that had them both in this store playing dress up with the glass cool against his skin as he now lay his forehead against it, his breath soon to show up on the mirror as he kept it in check, but heavy breath at that, breath that had been picked up by hairs on the nape of Kurt's neck, all erect with goosebumps, his naked hazel eyes even having caught sight of a shiver and that bunny head band, and that smile and the glass shaking as he now banged his head against it, harder and harder. Forget, forget, forget!

It was saved from shattering at the cost of it splintering with odd pieces loosening and falling to his feet, it's very beautiful cobweb like design left in his wake as through the cracks he caught sight of crimson, hot crimson on his face, down the center of his throbbing forehead but hurriedly wiped away, along with the pus from a zit he'd popped in his fit. He was bleeding, though not badly. Merely a trickle that could easily be stemmed with a plaster, yet he wished not to alarm his sister as he called out her name, his voice guttural and dry, "Sarah!" No reply. "Sarah's friend!" Again no reply. He whipped the curtain aside on the railing, the sound akin to a sword swishing through the air to behead as there stood both girls, quietly staring.

'Die Lowlife Scum Die!' Were the first words to mind upon a familiar sight of a baby boy romper outfit pinned to the opposite wall, a piece of paper in the face hole. 'Die!' He shook his head with blurred vision, his sanity in question after so many hits to the head. 'Die!' He was standing right where he'd been standing all those months ago, but his body was now unsupported on weakened legs as he flew an arm out onto the wall. 'Die!' Kurt would never be satisfied until he was dead, to wrench out the remains of his heart until he fell. 'Die'. Yet the faces of his sister and of her friend, children, innocence, were smiling, broad teeth bearing smiles, 'aww' like smiles that had him joining them, looking at the paper, his broken heart welling so. 'Noah...'

It was a drawing on thick white paper, proportioned well and shaded perfectly, exquisite, the result of many an hour's work with no blemish left from a pencil that had faltered in the hand before ceasing in feathery motions, but a strong pencil, one that wouldn't easily snap in between the fingers when the pressure was high, for it was the height of detail. A drawing of both him and Kurt together from the shoulder's up, facing each other, slender arms around a thick neck with eyes that dove into one another's, melting the heart, had Puck's lurching in his chest as he took in how its intimacy bewildered its beauty, marveling at such a skillful hand, how not even jealously itself could find a line in the entire work that was not perfect.

Kurt had been here. Had perhaps followed them. Perhaps planned for the curtains to be drawn, to assemble a sight he knew would gauge Puck's reaction, the real punching impact, yet like before, there was no use looking over his shoulder for him as if like a child searching for his parents on a crowded city sidewalk. Kurt was long gone, his lingering presence kept only alive by the scent of American Beauties and the drawing that Puck longed to trace with his fingers without touching, for it was too beautiful to touch, even Kurt's neatly sprawled signature in the bottom right hand corner beside text that had him stilling and as if new life had been breathed into him, his heart gave a sudden thump, legs giving way as his tears sprouted from under.

'Don't start hating me Noah, when I have only started loving you…'

~ 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 hope you enjoyed the chapter and are looking forward to the next.

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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