Puck fell out of his bed, hitting the floor with a loud groan. The pounding on the front door continued; he could vaguely make out somebody shouting.
He hauled himself up, rubbing a hand over his head and walking down the stairs as quickly as his sleep-addled body was allowing. He turned into the living room and the pounding stopped–Finn's face hovered in the window beside the doorway, and he mouthed, "Let me in," when he saw Puck.
Puck frowned, raising his voice so Finn could hear him, "You're not going to hit me if I open up?"
Finn's eyes rolled behind the glass, "Why would I hit you, dude?"
Puck was skeptical, but he opened the door anyways. Finn stepped past him, toeing his shoes off. He waited until Puck had closed the door behind them to punch him in the face. Puck staggered backwards into the wall, lifting a hand immediately to his jaw, "What the fuck, man?"
Finn shook his hand loosely, grimacing, "That's for leaving him alone, jackass."
"So I upset him," Puck glared, shrugging casually, "He's the dumbass in this shit."
Finn stared at him, obviously trying to control his temper, "Look, I have no idea what you two said to each other. All I know is that I found my little brother face down in a pool of his own fucking vomit. That's why I punched you." Puck reeled: the emotional punch to the gut took more out of him than Finn's fist colliding with his jaw.
"Shit, he–How's he doing?"
Finn shrugged, finally looking away, "He's in the hospital, but I think he's fine," He rolled his eyes, a small smile spreading over his face, "He says he's fine."
Puck snorted, leading Finn into the kitchen and pulling two beers from the fridge. Finn took one, almost instantly peeling at the label, "Is your mom out of town or something?"
"No," Puck flicked the cap of his own beer off and let it clatter noisily on the table, "She's just given up trying to stop me."
Finn nodded, absently running his forefinger over the top of the bottle, "So when are you going to visit him?" Puck hated that–the way Finn could redirect the conversation and make it seem casual and innocent.
Instead of answering, Puck lifted the bottle to his mouth and poured the liquid down his throat.
"He misses you, dude."
He let out a sharp laugh, "No, he doesn't. He made it clear that he has no interest in me." It wasn't true, and he knew it–Kurt hadn't said anything to imply that he didn't return the feelings, just that he didn't want to.
"I dunno," Finn took a sip from his bottle, his lips pulled into a smile around the neck, "He seems to think he messed up something between you two."
"Really?" Finn just looked back at him blankly, "I said some pretty shitty things."
"So what?"
"So Kurt has standards."
Finn ignored him, "You need to go see him. I don't care if you hurt him or he hurt you. He misses you, so grow a pair and go see him."
Puck stood up, turning around and digging in the fridge for another beer, "Fuck you, Finn."
Kurt was still awake at one A.M., kept up by another infection and its accompanying fever. His nurse had smiled sweetly at him over two hours ago and told him to his the call button if he needed anything, and then left, closing the door smoothly behind her.
So when the door creaked open, Kurt's first instinct was to search out the button and make sure he hadn't accidentally summoned a nurse. He found the button on his side able, and he'd barely looked towards the doorway when Puck's quiet, "Hey," stopped his questions.
He shifted, not moving to sit up but adjusting himself so he could see Puck better; he looked disheveled, like he'd been caught in the rain.
"Hi," he was thankful for the darkness of his room–he didn't want Puck to see how happy he was to see him.
Puck took a step into the room, shuffling his feet. Kurt swallowed, "Look, if you're just here to yell at me some more then–"
"M'not–I'm sorry." Puck stumbled forward, dropping clumsily to his knees and holding himself up on the side of Kurt's bed, "I shouldn't have left you 'lone. S'my fault you're here and I'm so stupid."
He put his head down on Kurt's bed, groaning loudly.
He started talking, his face still pressed into the mattress, "I get it, y'know? I really do."
He ignored Kurt's muted shriek of "Are you drunk!" and kept mumbling.
"You should get your dreams, Kurt. Even if you can't have all of 'em, you should want what you can." He turned his head to stare up at Kurt, who had lifted himself up on his elbows and was watching him incredulously.
"Please, Hummel. Just, like–give me a chance to make you happy, 'ven it's only for–fuck, for a little while."
"Okay," Puck blinked, lifting himself off the bed and Kurt smiled at him, repeating the word that had surprised both of them, "Okay. I'll let you try."
Puck grinned, crawling forward and nearly falling down, "Great. S'awesome." He pulled himself up to stand and leaned down, half laying on the bed, to press a sloppy kiss to the side of Kurt's mouth.
He lifted up again, grinning, and Kurt made a small "Ew" noise, "You taste like cheap beer."
Puck snorted, pushing his knee into Kurt's legs and nudging him over, "You taste like vomit, I win."
Kurt winced, moving over so Puck could crawl into the bed with him, "Sorry."
Puck made a noise in his throat, settling into the space under Kurt's armpit and pressing his face against the side of his torso, "Don't care. 'm drunk anyways."
Kurt let Puck curl against him, closing his eyes, "I can't believe they let you in here like this."
Puck grunted, his breath hot against Kurt's skin and through the fabric of his pyjamas, "Didn't. 'm stealthy."
Kurt laughed, struggling to keep it down so the nurses wouldn't come by to kick Puck out.
The first thing Kurt became aware of was the gentle sounds of somebody strumming on a guitar. He opened his eyes, blinking drowsily at Puck, who was sitting in a hard chair, bent over his guitar.
Kurt watched Puck run his fingers over the strings, flicking them gently–Kurt thought he recognized the song, but in his half-awake state, he couldn't be sure.
Somebody cleared their throat, and Puck looked up, locking eyes with Kurt for a split second before Kurt turned his head to see his dad, leaning back in the chair that seemed affixed to the side of his bed.
Kurt glanced down at his collarbone, startled to realize his central line was no longer hooked up to anything, "Am I finished treatment?"
His dad nodded, "For now," and continued watching Kurt attentively. Puck stopped strumming his guitar–both men were waiting for any indication that Kurt needed help. He felt better than he had in weeks–he loved the random moments that his body decided to cooperate with him–so he sat up easily, swinging his legs out of the bed and throwing the blanket off.
His dad jolted, eyes widening, "What are you doing?"
Kurt rolled his eyes and reached for Puck, who stood and caught his arm immediately, "I've been trapped in this bed for nearly a week. I need to stretch my legs. Is that allowed?" He drew out the last word, leveling a glare at his dad that Puck would have withered away from–Burt Hummel didn't even flinch.
He simply sighed, sitting back and running a hand over his bald head, "I suppose I can't stop you, can I?"
Kurt beamed, "Nope." Puck followed him to the door, "Are you coming?"
His dad flipped open a magazine–some boring thing called Fly, Rod, and Reel–and motioned vaguely with his hand, "No. Keep him on this floor, Puckerman."
"Yes, sir," Puck saluted behind Burt's back, and Kurt swatted his hand down. Kurt had fully expected Puck to sling the guitar over his back and bring it with them, and he smiled to himself as they left without it–he'd prefer not being serenaded in front of the hospital staff.
"Thanks for that." Kurt leaned into Puck, relishing his low voice, as they stopped, resting against an empty nurse's station.
"For what, precisely?" Puck pushed him back against the counter, putting a hand on each side of Kurt's waist. Kurt brought his hands up, resting one on Puck's upper arm and letting the other trail around to the base of his neck.
Puck let out a short bark of laughter, "Your dad found me in your bed, dude–he's been murdering me with his eyes all morning."
Kurt lifted an eyebrow, leaning back to trail his eyes down Puck's face, "Did you have your guitar with you last night?"
"No," Puck leaned forward, resting his forehead on Kurt's, "I went home to shower."
Kurt sighed, "Well, I'm sorry about my dad. He's just–protective."
Puck laughed, low in his throat, "So why were you so eager to get out of there?"
He blushed, turning his head so Puck's slipped against his, and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, "To be honest, I was afraid you were about to serenade me."
Puck grinned cockily, "So what if I was?"
Kurt pulled back, bringing his hands to Puck's shoulders and pushing their bodies apart, "I swear on my entire wardrobe, I will chop your favorite appendage off if you ever sing a song by a homosexual Jew at, around, or about me."
"There's like, no gay Jews," he sucked his lip inwards in a false pout, "Well, now there's me." Kurt laughed, embarrassingly loud, and Puck squeezed his hips, "But I had a decent rendition of 'For Good' from that play you like all worked out for you. I actually listened to it before I picked it, so there's that."
Kurt smiled brightly, happy tears threatening to spill over, and Puck made it his personal goal to get Kurt's eyes to sparkle more often, "As much as the song is completely unnecessary, I would love to hear it."
Mercedes made her next visit to Kurt with Matt, which would have been okay with Kurt had they not walked in on Puck laying flat on Kurt's hospital bed with Kurt straddling his waist.
"Damn, white boy." Kurt squeaked into Puck's mouth and tried to roll off, but Puck simply tightened his hold on Kurt–one hand stayed firmly planted on his ass–and guided him off of the bed.
"Oh, don't mind us," Mercedes' voice was impossibly dry, but there was a smile on her face. Matt's was frozen in surprise. Kurt tried to shake Puck off, but the other boy merely pulled him back until he was sitting on the side of the bed; Puck slid closer and draped an arm around Kurt's shoulders.
"Are you two an item now?" Mercedes put her hands on her hips, tilting her head bitchily to the side.
"Are you two an item?" Kurt fired back, nodding towards the two of them silhouetted in the doorway, speaking at the same time as Puck, who proudly said "Yes."
Matt grinned, taking a few steps towards them and meeting Puck's free hand in a high five.
"Boy, do we need to have a gab session." She came forward, snapping her fingers in front of Puck's face, "You. Boy-toy. Out."
Puck whistled lowly, "I can tell when I'm not wanted." He stood, kissing Kurt quickly before dragging Matt from the room, "Come on, Mattie, let's let these two have their…" he trailed off, looking torn and settling on "…feminine talk."
"Smooth," Kurt called after them, ignoring the face that Mercedes was making at him; she had noticed Puck's gentle kiss and the subtle squeeze he'd given to Kurt's shoulder as they'd parted.
"Wow, babe. You really landed him, didn't you?"
Kurt nodded wisely, "The trick is to convince him you have a horrifying disease. He falls all over himself just to love you."
"Love, honey?" She sat beside him, reaching across the bed to hold his hand, "You're done for."
"He's said it," he smiled gently, "I haven't." She cleared her throat pointedly, and he gasped dramatically, "What? I haven't!
"I want to know if you're going to." He pursed his lips, trying to cover his smile, but she saw it; she reached out and hit him in the shoulder–gently, because no one would hit him even remotely hard–and he started laughing. She crossed her arms, scowling, "You know Pucks a player, right?"
"Of course I know who Puck used to be," she snorted at him, "Okay, so he's still the same, just–more loyal; faithful. Mercedes," he drew out the end of her name in a whine that he knew annoyed her, "He's been with me for almost all of my treatment. I don't think he's so much as kissed anyone else since my diagnosis."
She sighed, giving his hand on more squeeze before lifting her purse onto the bed and revealing her favorite manicure set.
He exhaled dreamily, "You're an angel. I have told you that before, haven't I?"
"Yes, you have." She pulled the bedside tray between them–they'd automatically moved to sit cross-legged across from each other–and began laying things out, "Just so you know, if he hurts you–" With the tone of voice she was using, Kurt could've sworn she was talking about buying a pet rabbit for Brittany; her eyes stayed focused on his hands, already laid out flat on the table, "I'm gonna bust more than just his windows."
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