Chapter Nine
There was only one place you'd find the old Kurt Hummel on a Tuesday afternoon, and Puck, pushing the gate of the local cemetery open, hoped it hasn't changed.
Walking up the familiar path, then turning left, he heard Kurt before he saw him. He smiled - didn't even try to fight himself and not listen.
"I don't know why do they have to be so hard on me, Mom. I'm trying, but they just keep pushing, they think I'm gonna slip up now that I'm not at Dalton anymore…" his voice, for once not forced into an ugly, low pitch to satisfy whatever invisible fancy private high school elf was checking on Kurt's heterosexuality, was carrying over the snow-covered gravestones, the only thing disturbing the silence this far up on the hill.
He was sitting on the bench Mr.H bought to put over there, tucked into a black coat that didn't really look like it fit into his new style of clothing, his face half-hidden by a woolen scarf. The tips of his ears were pink from the cold and there were snowflakes melting in his hair; Puck couldn't help the sudden assault of sappiness. Kurt, sitting by his mother's grave like that, talking to her in his own voice like nothing was wrong, Puck could pretend for a while – pretend that if he went over and sat next to the stunningly beautiful boy, Kurt would smile at him, take his gloveless hands in his to warm them, kiss him and hide his face in Puck's chest, softly telling him to say hi to Elizabeth, just like they've done so many times.
But this was not before; Kurt was not his to love anymore.
"And Puck is prancing around, singing songs and leaving notes like an idiot, like he actually cares. I just want him to leave me alone, you know? It's hard enough not remembering what I thought we had, and it…I don't know, Mom, it hurts to think I could've been so stupid, but it's hard not to slip back into it and lose my head again…" Kurt spoke again, elbows on his knees, tracing the letters of Elizabeth Maria Hummel with his eyes like they held all the answers.
Puck frowned. What he thought they had? As in, the fuckers did not only convince him having a relationship with Puck is wrong, they manipulated him into thinking there wasn't an actual relationship in the first place? Jesus fuck, Puck was going to drive over there and beat them all into motherfucking bloody pulps for doing this. What did Blaine say the leader dude's name was – Adrian?
"I'm dating Dianne now and she's fine, but all she ever wants to talk about is her. And clothes. And animal rights. I don't care about that stuff anymore," Kurt continued, sounding less than sure. "She's good in bed and everything—" and Puck so did not need to know that; neither did Kurt's dead mother, for that matter, "but it isn't what it was with Alona. Or with Kristie, even. It's just…it keeps getting worse and worse…is there more to it than this? Because all the guys from See the Light can't stop raving about their pretty little girlfriends and I just…" he sighed, "I just don't get it."
That's because you're gay, you stupid little fuck, Puck thought, but managed to stay silent and keep his cover. It was just getting interesting.
"I wish you were here, Mom. You would be on my side, wouldn't you? Because Carole is great, and Dad is…well, he's Dad, but they don't understand, they think I need to see a shrink, or something. Finn runs from the room every time I come in to watch football, it…it doesn't feel like home anymore," his voice quivered suspicously, just the way it did when he was about to cry. Puck knew for a fact he couldn't if he wanted to save face; he'd had Blaine tell him the basic 'rules' of being a straight teenage guy. Some of them (all of them) were more than a little ridiculous; like 'listen to hip hop music' – if Kurt did that, poor Finn probably had a lot to deal with at home.
"I'm…" sniff, "I'm just so tired of it all, Mom, you know? I just wish everyone would leave me alone to live my life the way I want to. There's nothing wrong with it; you taught me that."
Yeah, well, if Mrs. Hummel was listening somewhere high up above, she was probably facepalming right now. Puck was pretty sure this was not the lesson she'd tried to teach her son before she died.
He risked a look from behind the bark of an oak tree where he was hiding; Kurt was rubbing at his eyes with more force than was really necessary, obviously furious with himself for letting out a tear or two and that was fucking it – Puck was taking him and locking him up somewhere until he'd admitted the error of his ways or something. It hurt; really, physically hurt to see Kurt at war now not only with the rest of the world, but with himself.
"Hummel, for Christ's sake," he stepped out into the open, snow crunching underneath his boots as he moved closer.
Kurt's head snapped up, eyes red, and Puck could see the moment he put all the walls back up and strenghtened them tenfold. The vulnerability in his eyes was replaced by anger; hot and burning a dark blue.
"What are you doing here?" he growled, voice back to it's 'manly' version, already half-standing, like an animal ready to flee.
"Jesus, relax. Just sit down."
And, to Puck's surprise, Kurt did, albeit still tense and alert. "Did you hear what I was talking about?"
"Of course I did. That's kind of the point of hiding behind a tree on a cemetery in the middle of winter on a Tuesday evening."
Kurt scoffed – at least Puck supposed that's what he did, since the only thing he could see from under the scarf were his eyes and eyebrows.
Meanwhile, he crossed the remaining distance, leaned over the bench and brushed off the snow, his bare hand immediately stinging. He saw Kurt's fingers twitch on his thigh, like maybe, for a second, he actually considered warming Puck's hands up with his own. The fact that he stopped himself was kind of understandable; holding hands with another dude had to be pretty high on the What Not To Do To Be a Model Straight Citizen list.
"Hey, Mrs.H," Puck said, sitting down, and taking in the familiar scenery. White marble stone with black letters in memory of Kurt's mother, a beautiful batch of roses resting by it's base, stark red against the snow, almost like blood; the gravestones of various colors with snowy caps spanning in every direction. The one they were sitting at looked so unimportant, forgettable faced with the more pompous and flashy ones, but it meant a whole world of things to more than one person.
"What are you doing here?" Kurt repeated, his voice softer, gaze lost somewhere in the whiteness around.
"I came to talk to you." And yeah, that was part three: talk to Kurt and make him see the right light; the rainbow-colored one, preferably shining out of a gay club. It was probably the best Puck could try to do.
"I'm not interested," Kurt retorted, but, somehow, wasn't making a move to go anywhere.
"I don't really care at this point, you know."
He could almost feel Elizabeth looking at him through the gravestone; it wasn't a thought as creepy as he'd thought. Puck had seen a picture of her, the one Kurt kept on his nightstand – she had soft, delicate features, Kurt's eyes and nose and it was easy to imagine her looking at him, blue eyes piercing, telling him to be good to her son.
Yeah, well, your son shouldn't have gotten himself turned into a psycho, he retorted and imagined her smirk.
"I know you're not aware that what you're doing is bull," he began.
"I've heard that story before."
"I know, but you obviously need to hear it again, so shut it. What you're doing is bull. I can't brainwash you as nicely as the Dalton dudes seem to have done, but I can tell you that this ideal straight person you've created for yourself actually has a lot of flaws."
Kurt's face was marred by a frown, his nose peeking out from under the scarf. "Like what?"
"He brushes his pants off when he stands up if he thinks nobody sees him. That's a faggy thing to do, right?"
Kurt flinched.
"He also ocassionally speaks in a voice that's way too high to be a guy's. And I bet he sings in the shower. And, let me see…he has meaningless sex with girls that doesn't really do anything for him, he talks to his dead mother every Tuesday and he cries," Puck ticked off, the words coming out twisted and angry and he kind of wanted to be pissed at himself, but he kind of wasn't.
Kurt's eyes were filled to the brim with tears that soon overflowed and slid down his face, but he didn't even seem to realize. He was staring at Puck, hurt clear in his eyes, and it was honestly a relief, because at least it was an emotion.
"You're a dick," Kurt responded, feebly, without any bite.
"I am, thanks. Not the point I'm trying to make here."
"When they told me you've never really changed, I didn't want to believe them at first, you know? I called you, and you weren't picking up the phone and you didn't come visit me, you…you promised to come and visit!" The tears were flowing freely now, and Kurt's hands were starting to shake – probably the first real emotions he'd let show since he left Dalton.
But—wait.
"What do you mean I didn't come visit? I was there every fucking Thursday and weekend, and you never wanted to see me!"
"What?"
"Right. You mean you didn't send those little snobby dudes in blazers who politely told me to fuck off because you were too busy to bother with me?"
Kurt blinked, once, twice. The answer was clear enough on his face.
"You didn't."
Kurt shook his head.
Just like that, Puck's old friend rage was back, flooding his veins and making him see red in the blindingly white snow. Fisting his hands, he tried to breathe, in and out, just like the stupid child psychologist he had to see during juvie had taught him.
"I'm gonna kill them. I swear, I'm gonna go down there and rip their fucking heads off and bury their fucking bodies six fucking feet under." Puck shot up from the bench, pacing like a caged lion. There was a tree to his right – maybe if he found a smooth enough spot, he could take a punch…
"Stop it. Puck, stop." His body, instinctively used to obeying Kurt when he sounded like that – teary, soft and unsure, like he was going to break any second – skidded into a halt.
"Kurt, they fucking did this. They screwed up your brain and made you forget about me and didn't even give you a fucking choice." And okay, maybe he swore a lot when he was pissed.
"They did what they thought was best," was Kurt's answer. Not again.
"They did what they had to if they didn't want their perfect little straight identities to fall apart, being around someone as awesome as you every day!"
"What do you mean 'awesome'?" Kurt asked. The guy could be so stupid it even stopped being adorable sometimes.
"Kurt. You were gay. Out. Proud. Beautiful, also, and they probably had to concentrate on keeping their dicks in check very hard, pun fucking intended. What do you think was easier, admitting they were shitting themselves or bringing you down with them? And the poor Blaine sod fit right into their plans, too, sons of bitches…"
Kurt was looking at him kinda funny – like there was something on his nose, but it was pretty and he wanted to take it and put it into a flowerpot and grow a plant out of it, and Puck really had to stop watching TV with his Ma.
"You think I'm beautiful?" And yeah, out of the whole conversation, that was the bit he had to take. But—oh, well.
"Seriously, Kurt? You're not really doubting that, are you?"
Unblinking eyes, even lighter blue with the snow reflected in them, stared up at him like an owl's.
Puck sighed. "Of course I think you're beautiful, moron."
Kurt frowned and when he spoke, his voice was just a little childlish. "But they told me you're just trying to get in my pants…Although, I suppose, you could think I'm beautiful without having any feelings for me, but—"
"You're rambling," Puck interrupted, not even noticing the fond tone creeping into his voice. Kurt looked up at him again.
"You were trying to get in my pants, right?"
The conviction he said it with, the almost absolute certainty behind it broke Puck's heart just a little more. And also made him wonder what he'd done wrong. He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and sat back on the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him.
"I wasn't."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying, dude – I promised not to, remember?"
Judging by the look on Kurt's face, he remembered. "That was—was that—how do you—" he stuttered.
"How do I what?" Puck asked, but all he got in return was a shake of Kurt's pretty little head.
"Forget it. You're lying." And the wall was up again; the easy, unfeeling, straight persona that was right there whenever Kurt just wanted to escape.
"I'm not, for fuck's sake! Listen to yourself, you're like a broken record – new me, new life, seen the light, all of you are lying, snap out of it already!"
Kurt – the new, cold, strange Kurt – shook his head. "You would've tried harder if you really wanted me when I came back."
Witnessing the spectacle, Elizabeth Hummel was probably sitting on a cloud somewhere, eating popcorn and (hopefully) cheering Puck on. And she, or some other of her saint buddies, also gave him eternal patience, because the Puck he knew would've already smashed everything within ten feet.
"You broke my heart, you little dick!" he shouted, resuming his pacing. That bench really wasn't made for sitting.
Kurt – still the cold version of him – scoffed. "Like you have one," he sneered.
Patience, Puck repeated in his head like a mantra. Don't kill the dude on his own mother's grave.
"It might come as a surprise to you, but I do. And you smashed it to a million fucking little pieces and laughed over it, so excuse me for not running in circles around you like a goddamn puppy you can kick whenever you want to."
"Prove it." A flick of the old Kurt appeared, almost immediately retreating back to wherever he was hiding.
"Prove what?"
"That you cared."
Patience.
"Well, first of all, I knew you'd be here, didn't I?"
Kurt shook his head. "I took you lots of times. That doesn't prove anything."
Pa—no. Screw you, Elizabeth Hummel. Noah Puckerman wasn't a saint and this was the last motherfucking straw.
"I love you, you dick! I love every stupid inch of you, and your hair and eyes and hands and the way you tilt your head when you're giving me shit, your goddamn soy milk that tastes like piss, but I put it in my coffee because you used to smile at me like I fucking mattered, and how you always shout when you're talking on the phone and you don't even realize, and the way you are with people you love, your freaking gigantic closet with all the ridiculously hot clothes, and your voice, and your motherfucking lips that drive me crazy but I've always waited because I was scared you'd leave me!"
And fuck, that was one long sentence, and it didn't even make sense. Puck didn't really necessarily want to think about what he'd just said, but, apparently, it left Kurt speechless.
"You…love me." He mostly whispered once he'd found his voice, and it was his Kurt again; Puck wanted to sink his fingers into him and never let him leave.
"Of course I do," he grunted, falling bonelessly onto the bench and drawing his knees up.
"Noah," Kurt said, making him flinch just a little when he realized what the name meant, "look at me."
And there he was – blue eyes with green swirls and a spark in them, tears drying on his cheeks, a smile, but a sad one. The most beautiful thing Puck had ever seen.
"Thank you," he said, reaching out to take both of Puck's hands in his and rubbing his thumbs over Puck's ice cold palms, spreading warmth much further than just his fingertips.
~*~
Kurt pushed the door to Gloria's open with his shoulder. It was blissfully warm inside, the general smell of Christmas and cinnamon rich in the air as he brushed the snow off his jacket.
The inside of the café was deserted; not even Gloria with her customary magazine was anywhere in sight. A lonely radio on the bar was playing tinny-sounding carols and the whistiling of the outside wind could still be heard.
Kurt hung his jacket on the rack, stepping further into the familiar, comfortable room. He started walking to make his way to the bar and wait for Gloria, but stopped mid-stride when he heard voices coming from the back room.
"...just really don't know how much longer can I take." It sounded suspiciously like Blaine.
Kurt frowned. Wasn't he supposed to be off somewhere running some kind of an errand?Curiosity getting the better of him, he stepped closer, wary of the creaking floorboards.
"You can stop anytime you want, you know."
Emma. Blaine was in the back room talking to Emma.
"I can't!"
"Blaine—"
"I know. He's a dick who doesn't deserve me, and so on, and so on. Spare me the speech."
Kurt reached the door to the room, listening bemusedly. It was probably meant to be closed, but a tiny sliver of light was escaping from across the floor and if Kurt squinted, he could just make out Blaine, sitting in an armchair with his head in his hands.
"Then what am I supposed to tell you?" Emma, out of Kurt's line of sight, replied. She sounded a little desperate, and Kurt really wanted to know what were they talking about.
"I don't know! Tell me I'm a dick, for letting myself get dragged into this, and for dragging Kurt into it..."
Wait, what?
"You didn't drag him into it. You had no other choice..."
"Letting an innocent person get completely screwed in the head and probably destroying his whole life versus getting to have sex with my ex-boyfriend turned psycho? Yeah, I can see the moral dilemma."
He sounded bitter, and Kurt silently started praying that it's only his brain playing tricks on him. There was no way what Blaine was saying could be true, right?
"Look, everybody does stupid things for love." Emma walked over to drape herself all over Blaine, and he put his arms around her to make sure she didn't fall.
"Love," he snorted. "I really don't know what that means anymore."
Emma petted his hair. "Yes, you do. You're one of the most romantic guys I know, Blaine-bear, you just need someone you could love who would actually love you back."
"I used to have him. Look how that turned out."
"I know you're blaming yourself, baby, but you couldn't stop it, you didn't see what was happening, remember?"
"Yeah, well, I should have – that's the whole point. And I should've just said no when he made me the offer."
"You were vulnerable."
"I was weak! 'Bring Hummel in and we can still sleep together' was something my Adrian never would've said."
And, suddendly, Kurt remebered his theory from two months ago. The way Blaine's eyes kept changing from sad to melancholy and back to sad, the way he was stuttering and blushing while talking about seeing the light. It was because he hadn't seen it at all.
Ignoring his common sense, Kurt burst into the room, furious.
"How could you do that?" he screamed, and, somewhere in the background, heard Gloria stomping down the stairs.
Blaine's eyes went wide as saucers. "Kurt..." he stood up and reached out a hand. Kurt stepped away, his back hitting a wall.
"Don't touch me!" he shouted, almost hysterical. "You're still a fag, aren't you?"
"W—what?"
Kurt scoffed. "Of course you are. God, I can't believe I haven't seen it sooner! Get away from me!" he spat out again when Blaine tried to take another step. "I can't—fuck you!"
Snow still falling outside, Kurt ran out of the room and the café, completely forgetting about his jacket. The wind stung in his eyes; he almost let himself cry.
Through the gray clouds, the sky was turning black – it was almost four and he had to get back for a meeting. Walking briskly by the small shop windows and tiny suburban houses, hands clenched into angry fists, starting to shiver from the cold, Kurt felt terrified.
Later that week, the Christmas holiday had started. Afterwards, when it was time to come back, Kurt wasn't among the hundreds of students settling back for a new semester, leaving his room vacant and Alona brokenhearted.
~*~
Kurt's lips were burning; his insides twisting, the persona he'd built atop his own self cracking and falling apart. Flashes in front of his eyes made him look into the memories of Noah kissing him on the assembly; the warmth that pooled in his stomach, a swarm of butterflies that flew all the way up his throat, skin tingling, electricity shooting down his spine before he'd managed to stomp on it.
He remembered kissing Kristie, Esther and a few others after them; remembered wishing he felt like he was flying again, the way only Noah could make him feel. How he'd tried to persuade himself he was glad when Noah finally stopped going after him and let him be the new, improved version of himself.
There, somewhere deep in his stomach, was also the hate he'd felt towards Blaine; the flame of anger that flared when he saw him walk through the door, talk to Noah a few times, how everything dissapeared when he read the swarm of pink post-its he'd found stuck to his locker door one morning and felt warmth flood him head to toe.
Remember when you swore you were never eating chocolate ice cream again?
He did. Five minutes after making the promise, Noah refused to kiss him until he had another spoon.
I can't eat it without thinking of you anymore.
Remember when you fell asleep during the football match?
Kurt did. The TV was full of running and tackling men in horrible clothes that couldn't even be considered clothers, and it was so warm in Noah's arms.
That was when I knew I loved you for real.
Remember when Burt almost caught us making out?
And yes, he did. But the whole affair – Noah squeaking like a little girl and Kurt bumping his ass on the floor – was just too embarassing to think about.
That was just funny.
Apparently, somewhere inside Noah, there was a sleeping romantic, who sometimes snorted in his sleep, or even half-opened one eye to turn on his other side.
With the cirlce of his arms around Kurt's shoulders, just the way they used to hold him like he was made of glass, the feeling of home soaking through to warm Kurt's heart and the tiniest of chances of that maybe happening again – it was enough for Kurt.
~*~
Puck wasn't sure where he was standing when they left the cemetery, Kurt's arm looped through his and the other boy driving him home, but when he entered the school on Wednesday, he supposed he was about to find out.
Sure enough, five minutes into his lunch break, Kurt materialized out of nowhere and pulled him into an empty class; the music class, Puck noted with irony.
Kurt's tentative grip on his forearm tightened. "Noah."
"Yeah?"
"I, um…first of all, I wanted to apologize. I'm just…so, so sorry." He did look like he was, the patented puppy look firmly plastered on his face.
Shaking his head, Puck sat on the teacher's desk. "I think we've established it wasn't really your fault - yesterday."
Joining him, Kurt sighed, and Puck just noticed his clothes were still the same as the day before – baggy t-shirt, baggy jeans, dirty sneakers. "I don't want to fight about that. I just—I wanted to ask you, if you, maybe…wanted to be friends."
And there it was, probably the only thing Kurt was going to offer.
Puck didn't really know how to feel; he supposed it would be too soon to jump back into a relationship, especially with Kurt now having two completely different sides that seemed to be fine with existing at the same time.
And anyway – it was Kurt, the guy he'd spent so much time loving, chasing, convincing, and maybe this was the universe telling him being friends was the best logical solution to everything.
Smiling, he offered his hand for Kurt to shake. "Friends sounds good," he said, ignoring the smooth touch of Kurt's palm on his and the way it made his insides squirm and rearrange themselves. His whole body itched to give Kurt a hug, but he stopped himself – the other boy still wasn't standing as close to him as he used to, and the important thing, before Puck tried for anything more, was bringing Kurt back to his full fabulousness.