"He's not doing so great today." Burt crossed his arms, casually leaning against the open door, and Puck glanced past him into the empty living room, "His central line is infected, so the doctor is here making sure everything's clear."
"Is he okay?"
Burt nodded, "Yeah. Not really coherent, and knowing Kurt, he doesn't want friends seeing him delirious and violently ill."
Puck grinned, matching Burt's calm smile.
"I'll get Kurt to let you know when he's a little better. He has your number?"
Puck thought about it, but he was pretty sure he'd either come over with Finn or had just come uninvited, so he shook his head, "No, I don't think he does. You could give me his?" Burt merely raised an eyebrow, but when Puck fished his phone out of his fitted jeans–from some fancy place in the mall. He'd been hoping to impress Kurt–Burt rattled the digits off, "Cool. Thanks, Mr. Hummel."
He offered a hand lift, rather than a wave, in awkward farewell, and then turned and trudged the steps slowly. "Thanks, kid." Puck turned, lifting his head to look at Burt, who was still frozen in the doorway, looking welcoming despite his crossed arms.
"For what, sir?"
"For whatever it is you're doing. He's always happier when you're here." Puck blinked, surprised, and then his cheeks twitched into a big, stupid grin. Burt's eyebrow lifted again and his smile slipped slightly.
Puck backed a few steps away, half-turned, and called back, "No problem, Mr. H."
His smile remained, even after he'd returned to an empty home and a small bout of insomnia.
Kurt stroked Fiyero's back absently; his half-eaten salad was on the floor in front of the dog, who was eating quickly so Kurt wouldn't take it away again.
Finn and Puck were playing a game on Kurt's Wii, and Kurt watched in fascination as Finn managed to keep his hands on the controller and finish eating his hamburger at the same time. Puck's head had a dark, very thin layer of hair grown back, but Kurt wasn't going to ask him to shave it again: he was getting curious as to how Puck's hair naturally looked.
"Noah, it's past eleven!" Puck swore; the curse about spending time with Finn was that his mom knew when Puck's mom wanted him home. Kurt watched him stand, and took the offered controller when Puck saw that he'd finished eating.
"We still on for tomorrow?"
Kurt smiled, "Of course. As long as I'm not delirious with fever, then I'll be ready to go bright and early."
Finn watched them: watched Puck's hand linger on Kurt's as he handed him the controller; watched the heated staring match that neither seemed to realize they were participating in; watched Kurt's eyes follow Puck up the stairs and remain fastened to the last place Puck's feet had been.
"Where are you going tomorrow?"
Kurt glanced back, frowning when he realized that Finn had started the next level and Kurt had already lost one of Puck's hard-earned lives. He bounced on Finn's character's head in retaliation, "Puck's taking me to visit my mom."
Finn's character–Mario–landed on a Goomba and then fell off the screen. Kurt kept going, ignoring the way Finn had turned back to him incredulously, "Why aren't you going with your dad?"
Kurt snuck a glance at him, but he'd turned back when Kurt had popped Mario's bubble, "I figured this is hard enough as it is without me making him revisit difficult memories."
Finn nodded vacantly, suddenly refocused on the game, "Okay, just let me know if you need me to smack some sense into Puck."
Kurt gasped, his Toad ran head-first off of a cliff, "What?"
"Cause you like him, right?" Finn was terrible at keeping the amusement out of his voice.
"What gave you that idea?"
Finn finished the level without Kurt's Toad, who was bobbing along in the bubble behind him, and shrugged. "You like to forget that I know what you look like when you like someone."
Kurt gaped, watching Finn stare fixedly at the screen; when did they both become comfortable with Kurt's long-gone crush?
Puck was confused. Not about his sexuality–he didn't go three years sleeping with anyone he could and come out unaware that he was at least a little bisexual–but about how he ended up madly in love–or like, or whatever the sixteen-year-old equivalent of love is–with Kurt Hummel.
He helped Kurt into his seat, because apparently being well enough to go outside did not mean well enough to climb into Puck's beat up old truck, and then crossed around the front of the car while Kurt strapped himself in.
"You okay?" the truck roared to life beneath his hands and Kurt rolled his head over, where it was resting on the headrest because Kurt could barely hold it up.
"Yes," Kurt smiled, tapping his fingers slowly against the arm rest that jutted out of the door, "Thanks for taking me."
Puck fought a smile as he braced a hand on the side of Kurt's seat and backed down the driveway, "No problem."
"I know it's weird, but I didn't really want to go with Finn."
Puck shrugged, flicking his signal light and motioning with his hand to ask Kurt if he was going in the right direction.
"Left, and then right on 124th street." Kurt nodded, watching the trees go past outside his window.
"I know what you mean, though," Kurt frowned, still gazing out the window, and his eyebrows drew together, but he didn't say anything back, "About Finn. He's not the greatest with tact and sensitivity and all that jazz."
Kurt giggled as Puck took one hand off the wheel to give a brief jazz hand and he finally lifted his head off the seat; it always made Puck happy when he managed to get a little more life out of Kurt, "I cannot believe this."
"What?"
"You–calling yourself sensitive and using theatre references in one sentence." Kurt lifted a hand and pressed it over his heart, rolling his eyes skyward, "We've come so far."
"Shut up," Puck grumbled, shoving Kurt in the shoulder, but he was laughing. He turned up the radio, effectively ending the conversation because he knew Kurt's moods well enough to tell when talking would just wear him out; throughout the ride, he snuck peeks at Kurt, whose face wore a small smile for the majority of the ride, and ignored the urge to reach over and hold Kurt's hand, resting on the console between them.
They walked beside each other, and Puck finally came to realize how strange it was to be walking Kurt, the boy he'd thrown in dumpsters for months, to his mother's grave. To top that off, he was kind of hoping for a breakdown–not because he liked seeing Kurt cry, because he hated seeing that, but because it might give him the opportunity that Santana thought he needed.
Kurt walked slowly, stiff and exhausted; Puck could see the strain in the back of his neck, in the way he held himself, in his eyes. He was supersensitive to Kurt's hand brushing against his as they walked and to the soft sighs of breath that puffed out from Kurt's face in the cold morning.
They stopped together, and Puck followed Kurt's movement so he faced the simple plaque in the ground. It was elevated, on an angle, towards them. The inscription was simple:
Katherine Elizabeth Hummel
1967-2002
Beloved Wife, Mother, and Daughter.
It was followed by a simple drawing of a marigold flower, which Kurt quietly told him was her favorite. He lowered himself to his knees on the grass; it said something that Puck's first thought was Won't that ruin his pants?, but he kept his mouth shut, watching Kurt stare at the plaque.
"Hey, mom." It startled Puck. He knew some people talked to their dead relatives–Finn used to do it as a kid. He probably still did, but they hadn't talked about it in years–but he hadn't expected Kurt to be one of those people, "I have cancer. Leukemia," Kurt let out a tiny, breathlessly bitter laugh, "The same kind as you: acute myeloid leukemia. It's so rare, but I got it."
Puck could see the tensing of Kurt's shoulders, the way his hands were twitching to rest on his hips or cross over his chest, and knew he was struggling not to cry.
"Dad says it's because we're so similar. He thinks we–I mean him and I–have nothing in common," Puck averted his eyes, watching an old couple walk hand-in-hand a few rows away. The woman was crying. Puck didn't think it was fair to have to bury someone you loved; he looked back down at Kurt, at the sharp curve that marked where his skull ended at the back of his bald head, "But we look so much alike. He doesn't realize, but I have his eyes and his nose. Or maybe he does." Kurt sighed and rocked back on his heels.
His head was tucked down, and his shoulders slowly but surely started shaking, and Puck stepped a little closer, "Hey. You okay?"
Kurt shook his head, still facing the ground. "No," his voice cracked, "Not really."
Puck dropped to his knees, wrapping his arm around Kurt and pulling him closer. Kurt was too skinny: Puck could feel his ribs jutting against his hand, which he hadn't felt during the countless times he'd lifted him over the lid of a dumpster. Kurt turned towards him, pressing his face to Pucks shoulder and wrapping an arm around Puck's neck.
Puck squeezed him once, and then they tilted sideways, sitting against Katherine Hummel's plaque and cuddling. Kurt pressed himself flush against Puck's body, turning sideways until Puck was practically cradling him. Kurt was sitting on the ground, but his legs were bent so his feet were between Puck's legs, and he had both arms thrown around Puck's neck.
Puck pressed a hand to Kurt's shaking shoulder, rubbing his other hand against the small of Kurt's back. Kurt shook; Puck could feel a damp spot spreading from where Kurt's face was, but he couldn't care less.
Puck held him close for a long time; Kurt's face was buried against his neck and he could feel the soft texture of Kurt's lips.
Eventually, Kurt pulled away a little, wiping his eyes and smiling sheepishly. Puck stared at the smile on his face for a minute before he brought his hand up to cup Kurt's cheek and pull him forward.
Kurt's eyes fluttered shut, but his body went rigid. It was the gentlest Puck had ever kissed anybody; he tugged lightly on Kurt's bottom lip and Kurt made a noise in the back of his throat and brought his hands up to shove at Puck's chest, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Puck opened his eyes, startled, "What?"
Kurt moved away, standing up and putting a few steps between them. His voice was dangerously rough–deeper than Puck had ever heard it, "I don't want your pity."
"It's not pity!" Puck tried, "I think I lo–"
"Don't." Kurt cut across, "It doesn't work like that." Puck had no idea what to say, so he watched Kurt's eyes fill with indignant tears in silence.
When Kurt spoke again, his voice was closer to normal, but Puck thought he sounded slightly more hysterical, "Why do you think I've been avoiding talking about this, Puck? I don't want this," he gestured between them desperately, "I can't–I can't handle this right now."
He turned away, and Puck watched him press his palms against his face firmly and then he dropped his arms, turning back to Puck and gesturing at nothing in particular.
"I don't believe in a God. How could I?" He broke off, his voice high and broken, and then looked away and laughed bitterly; Puck blinked stupidly, wondering where this was going now, "I lost my mom when I was eight, I've had to live with being gay and all that comes with it in a small-minded town, and now… Puck, I might die."
"You're not–"
"Shut up!" Puck closed his mouth, taking a step closer to Kurt, who backed away, shaking his head, "I don't believe in a God, so I don't know what's waiting for me. Maybe I'll be with my mom. Maybe I won't. But it doesn't matter where I am, Puck. It doesn't matter, because I'll be leaving my dad, and Mercedes, and all my dreams. Every hope I've ever had for my future–none of it will come true for me."
It clicked in the middle of his rant for Puck–Kurt had watched the exact same disease destroy his mom, and if she wasn't strong enough to beat it, how could he? He didn't know what to say to make him understand that he didn't care, that it didn't matter that Kurt was sick, but he couldn't even bring himself to tell Kurt he was strong enough. He had to be.
Kurt paused, taking a shaky breath to steady himself, "Don't you dare make this harder than it already is. Please." The last word came out in a whisper, pleading and desperate. Puck wasn't sure how long they stared at each other, Kurt breathing hard and crying, Puck tensed with his fists clenched, but then Kurt lifted his arms and wrapped them around himself, "Can you take me home now?"
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