Puck stared blankly at Kurt, who had returned his gaze to the stark, beige wall. He was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open, and his mother would tell him to shut it before he caught some flies. Kurt was shredding a tissue with shaking hands, as though he wasn't even aware he was doing so, and Puck shook his head to try and clear his thoughts.

"Are you in shock or something?" he asked before he could help himself.

Kurt turned to look at him, a slightly confused expression adorning his delicate features.

"Well, are you?" Puck pressed. The kid was taking this way too well, was far too calm for any of this to be real.

"I-I don't know. You can't just ask someone that," Kurt said, his voice almost exasperated if it wasn't so exhausted, as though explaining this to Puck was just the cherry on top of his bad day.

But this day wasn't just bad, it should be monumentally terrible. If Puck was him, he'd be throwing that box of tissues against the wall, screaming his guts out, cussing at the teachers.

OK, so maybe Hummel did do that last part. But now he was altogether too relaxed, too resigned. Something was seriously wrong with this picture.

"Is this a joke? Because this isn't funny, Hummel!"

This time when Kurt looked at him Puck caught his eye and held it for a moment. Kurt's light blue eyes were so full of sadness, of despair, that it seemed to be an almost Herculean feat that he was even sitting upright. His features were drawn in such a way that he appeared for the first time in his life far older than his years. His normally impeccable brown hair was mussed and his body slumped over itself. Puck cursed himself for being too caught up in himself and failing to notice any of this earlier.

"No Noah," he whispered, like he was at his wits end in explaining himself to an insolent three year old. "It's not a joke."

Puck really didn't know what to say to that, and since Kurt had looked away again, back to his spot on the wall, he figured he didn't have to say anything.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, Kurt watching a wall, and Puck watching Kurt. It was the longest minutes of Puck's life, so painfully awkward that he seriously considered excusing himself to try and locate his math class and spend the rest of the school day attempting to learn something. And yet, just as he trying to remember where his locker was, he'd felt a pang of guilt in his stomach at the idea of leaving Hummel all alone in the office.

Which, even he had to admit, was pretty stupid given that he'd hardly proven to be an adequate companion so far. In fact, he was fairly certain he was making things exponentially worse just by sitting there. But Kurt looked so lost and so small on that hard, navy bed, that he couldn't bring himself to leave.

So, having resigned himself to keep him company whether Hummel liked it or not, Puck figured he should know how long exactly he'd sentenced himself to this hell.

"Are they, uh, calling your mom?" he asked, in a voice he hoped sounded sincerely concerned.

This time Kurt didn't even spare him a glance when he answered in that same quiet, hollow tone, "My mom's dead."

Jesus Christ.

He even knew that one too. He remembered those times in Glee where it had been awkwardly inserted into conversation and the rest of the club grew temporarily silent.

No, she's dead, this is her son.

He needed a muzzle or something. Every single statement out of his mouth so far this morning had only made things worse. Or maybe just duck tape his mouth, he was sure Quinn would volunteer.

"I think Principal Figgins said he'd call my uncle. He, uh, he lives a few miles away."

This was the first time Kurt had volunteered any information without being prompted, which Puck decided to take as a victory, however small it may be. He also decided it was an invitation to continue the conversation.

"Cool. Are you guys close?"

"No." And now his face had closed off again and Puck assumed that this was the end of that chat.

Fuck, Hudson would be so much better at this. Or even that black chick who screamed a lot that Hummel was always hanging around. Pretty much anyone but him would be preferable.

A loud, shrill phone rang in the front of the office, causing Puck to practically jump out of his skin. Kurt didn't react, he just sat there, frozen, and Puck was starting to put some credence to his shock theory, even if asking directly hadn't lent itself to a diagnosis.

"Kurt, sweetie, your uncle's going to be here in a little while," called the nurse. Kurt didn't respond immediately, so Puck kicked him in the shin just in case he'd gone comatose or something.

He hadn't, and that far-off, empty look on his face was now replaced with a rather pissed off one, which Puck ignored.

"Ok," Kurt answered, after clearing his throat a few times.

As soon as Hummel's uncle arrived Puck could go back to class and continue with his day, guilt-free. He did his duty in keeping him company, none of those bratty Glee kids could be angry at him, and he might even earn some of that good karma he was in such sore need of. All he needed to do was survive until Mr. Hummel got there.

Puck glanced at the clock above the cabinet with the bandages in it. 9:45. In a detached way he was mildly impressed at just how busy a morning he had had. Kurt said his uncle only lived a few miles away, so factoring in the whole shocked, "My brother is dead," reaction, he figured it would probably be about twenty minutes until he got here and then-

"Figgins said it was a heart attack. That uh, he was found in the shop, and by then it was too late to, uh," Kurt trailed off, his high voice collapsing into hiccups that sounded an awful lot like sobs.

Puck froze in his seat, still watching the clock. He honestly hadn't expected Kurt to talk to him. Kurt's crying quieted down and Puck wondered if it was safe to look at him now, because he didn't want him to be embarrassed about crying in front of him.

"He felt sick last night, but I was tired and I didn't ask him about it. And now he's...he's dead."

Puck finally whipped his head around to face Kurt, who was hugging his knees to his chest. He wasn't crying after all, instead his face was curiously blank, like he couldn't process the words he was saying. Hesitantly Puck stood up and took a step towards the smaller boy, and Kurt immediately flinched and hugged himself tighter. That familiar punch of guilt in his gut struck Puck again.

As emotionally oblivious as he tended to be, even Puck realized that Kurt was blaming himself, and that was bad. Because, shit, it wasn't Hummel's fault his dad had a heart attack. And he knew very little about them, but he was pretty confident in saying that a sixteen year old kid isn't responsible for diagnosing early stages of heart failure. Trying to convince Kurt of this, however, was a whole other matter. Especially because it appeared as though he wasn't really hearing anything anymore.

Since he wasn't the best person to be comforting Hummel, he tried to think of what that crazy-eyed guidance counselor would do in his position. Probably give him a pamphlet titled I Killed My Dad, Ask me How or something equally dumb. Mr. Schue would pull him aside for a shallow heart to heart and then assign him a song to sing, explaining how he felt and hope they could use it at Regionals. Coaches Sylvester and Tanaka would scream that this better not affect his performance at upcoming games/meets, and going through this list was making Puck realize just how useless the adults in his life were, so he did the only thing that made sense.

He did it his way.

"Do you wanna bust out of here or something?" He quirked a small, conspiratorial smile at the younger boy, who looked at him in disbelief.

After a moment where it seemed like Kurt was trying to see if he had misunderstood, he responded somewhat bitterly, "Aren't you worried your jock friends will see you hanging out with the queer?"

"Nah, they're all in class now, they won't see."

Something about the way Hummel was looking at him now, that mix of annoyance and exhaustion, tipped Puck off that maybe that wasn't the answer he had been looking for.

"Do you want to go or not?" Puck repeated, slightly impatiently. Hummel's uncle could be getting here any minute, this wasn't the time for indecisiveness. Just as he was about to give up on his rather ill-thought out plan, Kurt finally answered.

"Fine, let's do it." He sounded about as shocked at his own words as Puck felt. Puck nodded tersely and began looking for an escape.

"OK, when I give you the signal, you go out the front door and wait for me by the parking lot, got it?"

"What's the signal?"

"Jesus Christ, Hummel, you'll know it when you see it."

One frantic and concerned nurse, two faked retchings, three failed hand signals and a swift kick to Hummel's shin later and Puck was finally exiting the building, an excuse note in hand. As he approached the parking lot he scanned the area for Kurt, but came up empty.

Shit. Did he run away? Maybe this had been a bad idea. Hummel definitely shouldn't be driving in his condition, and the image of him wandering around in the streets was almost as disturbing. One designer messenger bag peeking out from behind a pillar cut through his thoughts and Puck jogged towards it.

As he rounded the corner he saw Kurt, crouched down and staring at the sky. Slowly Puck approached him and, after a moment of gauging his reaction, sat on the cool, dewy grass next to him. This time Kurt didn't flinch.

"What, uh, what are you doing?" Puck asked bluntly.

"It's sunny." Puck murmured his agreement, but inwardly started panicking. Because, yes, while it was technically true that the sun was currently out, that wasn't a revelation that should cause someone to plop their asses down on the ground in the middle of school grounds in shock.

"It feels like it should be raining."

"There was a hurricane the day my dad left," said Puck. "I remember wishing it was sunny so I could follow him."

Kurt peeled his gaze away from the sky and looked at him, his face unreadable. Deciding to end this uncomfortable moment of severe over-share, Puck stood up and helped Kurt to his feet. Instinctively he reached down and slung the boys messenger bag over his own shoulder and then walked towards his car, not bothering to check if Hummel was following, and yet somehow knowing that he was.

It was when Kurt had securely fastened his seatbelt and Puck had put the key into the ignition that Puck's master plan fell apart.

Because fuck, he hadn't really thought of where to go.

Sure the idea of getting Hummel away from the school seemed like a good one at the time, but where exactly was a nicer place to deal with being an orphan?

Silently he praised the lords that Kurt was so out of it he didn't seem to realize that Puck had no clue what he was doing. Did he want to go home? Probably not, considering it'd be empty and that would be kind of depressing.

Puck's musings were cut short when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a security guard coming out the side door of the school, and he was suddenly reminded that he was technically harboring a fugitive, and not even the oblivious nurse would remain ignorant for long.

Without another thought on his destination Puck roared out of the parking lot, his truck leaving skid marks in it's wake.

Puck was driving uneventfully in silence for approximately twelve minutes when he suddenly swerved out of the middle lane to make an abrupt left turn into a pharmacy parking lot. Kurt's body swung forward, like a marionette released from it's master's grip, but made no comment on the questionable driving.

"Stay here," Puck mumbled to Kurt as he hopped out of his truck, taking care to lock the door behind him. He kind of doubted Kurt would run away, but that was no reason not to be careful.

When he returned about five minutes later, he thrust the brown paper bag that contained the fruits of his journey into Hummel's lap roughly and restarted the car.

Kurt opened the bag hesitantly and, after examining it's contents, refaced the window.

"Drunk driving, Puck? You didn't tell me this was a suicide mission." Kurt's voice was soft, and Puck wasn't at all sure if he was supposed to hear him or not. He did note with some trepidation, however, that Kurt sounded disturbingly not adverse to that option.

"It's not for me, dumbass," he answered, slightly annoyed at the haphazard way the smaller boy seemed to regard his own safety. "Not yet anyway. I thought it'd be good for you, you know, to help or whatever."

"You thought cheap beer and a Milky Way bar was going to help with the fact that my entire family is dead?" Kurt tried for indignation, but the hitch in his throat when he said the d-word made him sound more like a small, terrified boy than ever before.

Well sure, when said like that, it did sound kind of dumb.

Puck wanted to tell him that his whole family was not dead, that Jones was still willing to beat the living shit out of anyone who hurt him, that Berry would gladly spend the next few months singing every inspirational song in existence to cheer him up, that Artie and Tina would sacrifice whatever it was they normally did on their free time to spend every waking moment with him, and that he and Finn were gonna stick around too.

He wanted to tell him that even if he didn't have a biological family left, he still had his Glee-family, but he couldn't think of a way to say those words without it being incredibly cheesy and dumb, and Puck did not do After School Specials. So instead he grumbled at Hummel to drink his fucking beer and restarted his truck.

As Puck pulled out of the parking lot and resumed his aimless driving, simply for the sake of having something to do with his useless hands, Kurt leaned against his seat, his head lounging against the seatbelt, and stared blankly out the window.

"You know, you can cry if you want. I don't mind."

Kurt's head lolled lazily on the back of his seat and he turned that creepy, empty stare on Puck instead of the passing trees.

"That's very gracious of you Noah," he said, and Puck detected a trace of his trademark sarcasm beneath the thick layer of pain and sadness.

"You know what, Hummel? I'm trying to be nice, you don't have to be such a little bitch about everything. At least I'm making an effort-"

"Turn right here."

Puck did so, nearly causing a multi-car pile up in the act, and found himself careening down a one-way street, dimly aware in the back of his mind that Kurt had probably been completely tuning his rant out.

"Make a left up here." Kurt was sitting up straight in his seat now, his eyes frantically darting back and forth, searching for something. "Here! Pull over."

Puck obeyed, but he barely had a chance to put a foot on the brake before Kurt had swung his door open and was exiting the vehicle.

"Jesus Christ, what are you doing?" Puck yelled, slamming on the brakes. The car made a loud screeching noise, not altogether unlike Kurt's own voice, and the boy was flying out before Puck knew what was happening.

What. The. Fuck.

The kid was practically comatose for the past hour and a half, but get him into a speeding car and suddenly he wanted to do his very best Superman impression.

And now he was jogging up a steep grass hill, having completely ignored Puck.

Dully he wondered if he should write a book: Puck's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Idea.

Cursing his own stupid attempts at kindness, Puck took after him, but not before darting back to grab the six pack. He had a feeling one of them would be needing it before the clock struck noon, and that was depressing, even for him.

"Would you slow down, Hummel!" he shouted as he made his way up the hill, Kurt already disappearing from his view. As he wheezed his way to a slow walk, he wished he'd actually attended Tanaka's conditioning sessions instead of blowing it off to screw Santana in the janitors closet.

Finally he reached the top of the hill, which looked out over a...kid's playground.

Not gonna lie, that was kind of a let down. What would his English teacher say? Anti-climactic. It's not like he had been expecting a giant valley in the middle of Lima, but he kind of figured it would be something cool, like a cemetery. Hummel did have a flair for the dramatic.

Speaking of, Kurt had situated himself on the top of one of the slides, next to the monkey bars. Hoisting his six pack along with the remainder of his patience, Puck dragged his feet to join him.

"Look, dude, I don't really know how this grief thing is supposed to work, but I have cheap beer, which can be really good for numbing out all the shit." Not the most eloquent sales pitch, but given that Kurt had extended a hand in his direction, motioning for a can, it did the trick.

And that was how Noah Puckerman found himself sprawled out on a preschool playground next to Kurt Hummel, sipping beer at 11:24 in the morning.

Neither of them spoke for a while; Kurt because he appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, and Puck because he had officially, and at long last, run out of things to say.

A young father was playing with his son on the other side of the playground. The boy was trying to climb up a slide and when the man turned his back on him momentarily, the boy slipped and fell on his knee. The father jerked back around, and immediately sprung into action, lifting the boy off the slide and hugging him close. As he rocked his son back and forth, the boy's tears slowed, and his cries were silenced.

"My dad used to take me here when I was young. Before my mom died."

Ah. Well that made sense.

"I broke my arm falling off those monkey bars. I was six and my dad hugged me and promised everything would be okay. That it would stop hurting soon."

There was a moment, just a moment, were Puck felt a pang of jealousy deep in his gut, because his father had never made any such promises.

"Do you think this will ever stop hurting?" It was so painfully pathetic to see Kurt turn his big, round blue eyes onto the older boy, desperate for reassurance, that he cursed his traitorous mind for what felt like the thousandth time that morning.

Puck knew the answer to that. He knew it on every Father's Day when he had no gift to give, at every football game where the seat next to his mom was empty, on every birthday where he was one Hallmark card short. He knew the answer, but stayed silent, because Kurt knew it too, knew it on every Mother's day, at every Glee club performance, on every holiday.

This, he realized, was the one thing he had in common with the boy he'd spent so much of his life torturing.

Puck was suddenly aware that Kurt's breathing had shifted, from shallow, quick inhales to harsh, haggard wheezes. His eyes had been following the young family and as they walked away, back to the safety of their home, Kurt's carefully constructed mask, already cracked, shattered under the realization that he had no home to go to.

His entire body was wracked with loud, desperate sobs, raw like each one was being ripped from his throat. Puck watched him uncomfortably, knowing that he was supposed to help, that there had to be something, anything he could do to comfort him, but at a loss as to what it would be.

With one arm, Puck awkwardly patted his teammates back, but that only made him cry harder, and jerk away like the touch had scalded him. The wind whipped Kurt's scarf around his neck, and Puck shivered in the cold. He wondered vaguely if Burt Hummel had been cold when he died.

Kurt's tears were mixing with his snot and for some reason all Puck could think was that he was going to ruin that stupid designer shirt he'd been bragging about that morning (Kurt's smile and pride over the technicolor fabric seemed like a lifetime ago now) so he leaned in and wrapped his long arms around Hummel's tiny chest, clasping his hands together high on the boys back, so that Kurt's face was wedged awkwardly in his collarbone.

It was a weird position to be in for sure. Puck became increasingly aware of this fact as mothers and their children walked to their neighborhood playground only to find a boy who sounded like a dying animal evidently being smothered by a mohawked jock. No one stayed longer than a few minutes.

All the while, Kurt cried. He cried for a grand total of two hours and seventeen minutes, according to Puck's watch. Sometimes the tears slowed and Puck was sure they were going to stop, before something was triggered again and he descended back into the gut-wrenching sobs. Once he was sure Kurt would suffocate if he didn't stop; air not being able to reach his lungs through his tears.

Through it all, he sat there, gently stroking the smaller boys back, tracing circles on his spine like his mom always did when he was sick, pushing that prevalent awkwardness to the back of his mind, ignoring the splinters from the unkept wood beneath him. As the time passed Kurt surrendered to Puck's grip and eventually reached up, clutching at Puck's shirt roughly, manicured nails digging into Puck's skin, sure to leave a mark. He held on to him tightly, as if scared he'd disappear if he were to let go.

And Puck didn't say a word, because there was nothing to say. Nothing could make this better, because this time everything wasn't going to be OK, and they were both painfully aware of that.

Instead he held him close, a silent reminder that at the very least, not everyone in his life was gone. His body heat quieted Kurt's shivers, if not his cries, because if Burt Hummel was cold when he died, Puck wanted his son to be warm while he lived.