Prev: Kurtofsky Now: Puckurt Next: Puckleberry
Fourteen stories. Fourteen pairings in this fic. One, for each year I've known you.
14 Reasons Why I Love You
10. I have read so many love stories. (I know and you should know, you must know, that I wanted to write your name there, etch it with my own hand in my own ink, my blood if I must) I have read so many love stories. And I know how they all end. So many variations. And they always, always, end in tears. There are so many ways my love for you could go. So many ways you could say no. None of the love stories, realistically, should say yes. So all I can do is try. Day after day. All I want to do is try. For you. I know that sounded melodramatic. Melodrama only seems melodramatic because we're both young. I could die here. I may. If we were old, or even just old/er/ this would be a heartbreak, and melancholic. But we're young, and in peaceful times.
But I love you. And we live for the present...
"Mon garcon," Kurt's superior said fondly, and let him run out, out into the sunshine.
Sitting at the looms all day could do wonders for one's perception of the outside. To others, the sun outside was weak, pallid, not fit to even walk a dog or to plant flowers in, flowers for the dead, on the fields of the Somme. But sitting in those small, dreary rooms with only the steady bump-thwack of the looms...it made the sunshine all the more worthwhile.
The air helped, too. Next to the looms, the only people left were the old and disabled, their hands raw and sore. Kurt himself had once had smooth hands. No more. Blisters and calluses lined his hands now, but Kurt counted himself lucky; at least he'd not lost fingers to the heavy edge of the loom. The blankets they weaved, the bandages, they would all go to the front, where his best friends lay, suffering in the cold, cold mud. Mud mixed with snow...a dirty slush.
Kurt gritted his teeth as he walked past the conscientious objectors, those idiots who called for peace. Yes, France was a peaceful country, and not weak, but they were weakening it while friends died on the border. He considered throwing a rock at them, but simply lifted his nose and moved on. He wrapped his coat tighter about him, the one coat that hadn't been taken to be repartitioned for the rations. The chill winds whipped his hair about, lashed at his face. Kurt rubbed his hands together, and headed for home.
His house was too empty. His papa, Burt, had long since headed for the front, holding the hills at Dieppe. They said the situation was getting worse, day by day, and eventually, they would have to call in allies...likely the Canadians. Kurt worried for his papa, but he had valuable skills as a mechanic, an engineer, so he would not be on the front-line. At least, not until the situation was desperate and the last breaths of freedom came down to their efforts.
But to be French is to fight for freedom, but to be French is to know when war is put aside, for one day, to celebrate not death, but life. Life and love. And it is Valentine's Day today, February 14, 1940, and Kurt is un gar on qu'est adonn aux plaisirs, as his mother would have said, smiling...
Kurt slipped on his gloves, the fur settling warm and sleek over his fingers, and abruptly the cold was less. Today he would visit Noah Puckerman again, 'Lieutenant Noah Puckerman sill-vooh-play', Lieutenant "Puck" Puckerman who made his heart lie heavy in his chest and his throat dry when Noah spoke to him, Kurt's breath coming shallower, heat rushing to his face and elsewhere. Lieutenant Noah Puckerman, an American soldier who had joined the Legionne Etrangeres. And he was strange, this soldier. Certainment, he had one broken leg, badly broken enough that he could not walk, and he somehow was important or just good enough to be posted to guard this sleepy town, to train the men here, drill them and get them to hate him. And then love him and thank him, out on the front lines of the war against the Nazis.
Nazis. Nazis. If he ever had his hands around a Nazi throat he would wring him until he strangled and he died...just like a chicken, just like the idiot chicken that ran away from maman when Kurt was nine.
Kurt's feet marked the familiar path between his house and Noah's, his worn shoes clumping on the cobblestones and pavement beneath his feet. Above his head, wispy clouds, carefree, and captured zeppelins cast shadows on the snowy ground.
Today was Valentine's Day. Perhaps, today, he could assist Noah with his crutches, and walk him to their favorite cafe downtown, the breads warm and freshly baked. No matter about rationing: French breads would always be freshly-baked, every day. The cheese and wine though...perhaps not so good.
But ahead lay Noah's little cottage, its roof caked with snow, powdery snow. The windows were frosted shut, and yet Noah would be inside. Kurt saw no Army car parked outside, and no tracks marked the snow. So Noah was at home, today.
Kurt knocked on the door. "Noah!"
"Kurt," Noah called out through the door, his voice thin with strain. "Don't come in yet."
"Why?" Kurt asked, but made his hand drop from the handle. He hurt, hurt for Noah, whose voice fluttered, when before even through the pain his voice was warm and always reassuring, always confident.
"Because," Noah said, and his voice seemed closer, closer than when he was calling from his bed or from his chair, "I-"
The lock jiggled under his hand, and Kurt looked down, his eyes widening and his breath coming quicker.
"Can-"
The door swung open, and Kurt looked up into dark brown eyes, shining with mischief.
"-Walk."
"Noah?" Kurt said, his hands reaching out to help, assist, escort.
"No, no," Noah said, seizing a hat from his hat-rack and tightening his belt about his waist. "There will be none of that today. Today, I will walk alone. If I fall, I will get back up."
"Non!" Kurt said, shaking his head, making hair whip into his face. "I will help you back up!"
"You are a very good friend, mong ahmee."
"-Mon ami."
"That. You are a very good friend, but I must learn how to walk alone again. I will not be here forever."
"Do not think about that," Kurt demanded, grasping Noah's hand in both of his. "Please. It is Valentine's Day today..."
"Ah, yes," Noah said, straightening, and wincing as he tested his weight on his legs. "We should go to our cafe. Lead the way."
Kurt's boots crunched through the snow, the one thick pair of woollen socks he wore dampening from the wet seeping through his worn bootheels.
"Are you sure you are feeling fine, Noah?" Kurt asked, still worried.
"I am fine," Noah said. "The snow is deadening the pain."
Kurt could see the pain in his face in every step. Perhaps Noah could hide it from the world, but Kurt had spent so much time with him, listening to his stories, making him that - mon dieu - horrible coffee he liked so much, seeing him in pain. He knew when Noah was simply enduring, but he couldn't pick Noah up like he wanted.
"Gahrsawn," Noah said.
"-Garcon," Kurt corrected.
"-That. Garsawn,"
"-Garcon."
"GARCON! I AM FINE!"
Noah's exclamation was somewhat ruined by a zeppelin passing overhead, its engines drowning out his voice.
Kurt giggled.
Noah closed his eyes briefly, his mouth moving as if he were praying for patience.
"The last one," Kurt said, and Noah stood behind him, his hand on Kurt's shoulder. The server packed the chignon (badly made, but with so many ingredients rationed, the best they could do) into a small newspaper wrap, and passed it to them. Her eyes had widened at Noah's presence.
"You can walk?" she blurted, and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Oui, mademoiselle," Noah bowed, took her hand over the counter, and placed a kiss to it. She giggled, her other hand over her mouth.
Kurt gritted his teeth and muttered swear words under his breath. Noah could pronounce 'mademoiselle' but could not pronounce 'garcon'? Imbecile.
"I had not known you were such a charmer, Noah."
"I can only see the truth, mademoiselle, que tu est tres beaux."
"Belle," Kurt muttered under his breath..
"-Belle," Noah said, hastily.
The server giggled. "Beaux? Oh, Kurt. He was speaking to you!"
Kurt looked down, trying to hide his blush. "He was not."
Noah looked over at him. "Ah, we Américain, we believe in l'égalité."
Noah seized his hand and placed a kiss on it, his lips warm and chapped. Kurt froze, heat rushing to his face. He was uncomfortably certain that he was blushing. From the laughter that the server was failing to suppress, he was.
Kurt looked over at Noah, frowning. "Where is all this French coming from, Noah? When last we talked, you were horrendous." A corner of his lips twisted. "Not that you still aren't horrible. But you're better."
"Such praise! Ah, from delightful, beaux Kurt! I got a dictionnaire pour Francais."
Kurt rolled his eyes.
"Oh, Kurt, Noah," the server said. "I forgot. It is Valentine's Day, non? As you are such a lovely couple..." She turned and headed into the small room at the back of the cafe.
"We are not," Kurt said, but it sounded weak without Noah's warm voice supporting him. "Noah?"
"Hmm?" A warm hand placed itself at the small of Kurt's back. Kurt froze for the second time in as many minutes.
Kurt turned slowly. Noah gazed at him, his eyes steady. A smile curled his lips. Kurt swallowed. "You mean..."
"Chocolat!" the server interrupted, returning. "Pour Valentine's Day."
"Amelie!" Noah said. "You should not have!"
When did Noah learn this girl's name? Kurt began to mutter again, under his breath. Noah's hand slipped further down, and squeezed. Kurt's eyes shot open, wide open, and he stood, stiff as a board. Amelie giggled, clapping one hand over her mouth.
"No, no," Noah said. "These chocolates are for you and your boyfriend, no?"
Her face shut down.
"Noah-" Kurt hissed, a moment too late.
"We are setting flowers out for him tomorrow," she said, her tone flat.
"Oh, no. Désolé, Amelie. I am sorry for your loss."
"What fault did you have?" Amelie said. "He was reckless. He was. Always reckless." She wrung her hands. "But that is only my problem. You...enjoy your love. Please. For me. Take the chocolat."
"Yes, Amelie," Noah said. "Come, Kurt."
Kurt locked eyes with her. It will be alright, his eyes said.
I know, hers said. We are French. We will love again.
They sat in the corner of the cafe, next to the window, Noah resting his leg on another chair, both of them watching the steam from Noah's coffee rise.
"It is Valentine's Day, Noah," Kurt said, slowly. "Surely you owe me another story?"
"A story? On Valentine's Day? Oh, Kurt. You make such a big deal out of my ordinary life."
"But it is all Américain. I have never heard of such things."
"We are not so different, Kurt. We are human, as are the French."
"But so fascinating! Do you really have chocolat, as much as you want to eat? Hershey's, making it? Cars and clothes and parties? No rations?"
Noah looked guilty for a brief moment. "Yes, yes, all of that."
"Clothes? Good clothes?"
"Yes," Noah said, and drank deeply from his coffee, guilt and caffeine sharp and bitter on his tongue. "Those too."
Kurt tore a hank of bread from the chignon they were sharing and placed it in his mouth.
"It all seems so amazing."
"Perhaps..."
"But today is Valentine's Day. Will you tell me of the girlfriend you left in America?" Kurt did not know why he tormented himself so, listening to Noah tell of his fondness for his girlfriend while he himself...he...Noah...while Noah made his heart lie heavy in his chest, a piece of lead.
"Lauren?"
"Yes, her. She seems such a character."
"Oh, she is." Puck finished his coffee, and stared down into the depths of it.
"Did you spend Valentine's Day with her, before?"
"Oh yes, several times."
"So tell me a story."
"The first time I spent a Valentine's Day with her...she had always wanted a bicycle, you see. I built her a bicycle out of scraps from the junkyard that my uncle owned. To think of it, it was a little lopsided. One of the wheels was bigger than the other, the seat was torn, and the handlebars skewed off to one side. But I painted it red and I carried it to her house at six o'clock in the morning, hoping she would not be awake yet."
"But...?"
"She was." Puck looked at the bottom of his cup, at the dregs and the remnants of the coffee that tasted like acidic mud. "And she looked at me, all covered in rust and paint splotches, and she laughed and said that she wanted a bicycle but she'd much rather have me ride her, then clapped her hands over her face and peeked out behind them."
Kurt could not keep himself from laughing.
"So I said to her, 'What do I do with this bicycle then?' and she said, 'put another seat on it, and we can ride it together. Then she walked with me to the junkyard, and I built her another, and we rode our two-seating bicycle for the rest of the year."
Kurt looked down, but smiled shyly.
"But what about you? Did you find a nice girl for Valentine's?"
"I do not want to talk about it."
"Oh, heartbreak, eh," Puck said. "I understand."
"No, it is, I..." Kurt struggled with it, but the truth should come out, this was Valentine's Day and Noah could walk again, and if he could walk he could also /leave/, the Army could get him to move away and Amelie was right, she was right and he needed to embrace this - his heart beat fast but heavy, his body throbbing as he gathered up his courage. Outside, on the street, many birds flapped up into the air. He need to say this
"No, Noah," Kurt said. "No girls. I...Je suis adonné aux plaisirs. I embrace the pleasure. I am homosexuel. Gay."
"Oh," Noah said. He looked down.
Kurt pushed his chair back, the chair making a noisy scrape on the floor. "I have been attracted to you from the moment you told me the first story, Noah."
"Oh," Noah said. He looked down.
"And I...you do not feel the same way. I understand." Kurt turned his head sharply and walked away. But his heart was freer than it had been. It was enough. Enough.
"Kurt! Kurt!"
Kurt had walked fast, his face beginning to burn in embarrassment as what he had said caught up to him, really caught up to him. He walked quickly, his head down to block the chill, the sharp chill of the wind. He had passed the factories long ago, their clouds of smog darkening the sky behind him. Ahead, only sky. Clouds, carefree. Under his feet, pavement, solid pavement, with snowbanks piled up around the evergreen trees. The streetlights were off, even now, coming into sunset; electricity was rationed, also.
"Ugghh!"
Kurt whirled.
He would recognise Noah's voice anywhere.
Noah picked himself off the ground, every movement stiff and full of pain, and Kurt brought his gloved hand to his lips but could not seem to make himself move.
"Don't run," Noah said, weakly, and hobbled toward him again.
Noah towered over him, and Kurt turned his face away.
"Don't run from me," Noah said, and ran his coarse glove over Kurt's jaw. "Please, never run from me."
"I..."
A hand, clad in coarse wool, tilted his chin up and then Noah's lips were on his, warm and chapped and bitter with coffee, and Kurt's eyes closed.
"Better?" Noah asked, the sun falling around them in patterns that moved, as the leaves of the tree next to them shifted in the wind. The light was so gold...the sunset, l'heure d'or. The golden hour, when the sun turned everything beautiful and sun-washed, the couleurs melting into each other, so melancholy.
"Mmhm," Kurt nodded, pressing his chin into Noah's glove.
"Again?" Noah said, and tilted his head forward again.
Kurt's hands came up to curl around Noah's neck, and he stood up on his toes to kiss him again. This time Noah tasted of chocolat, bitter and sweet, dark and precious.
"Again," Kurt said, his voice small, but infinitely wanting. "Again."
Noah's hands came to the small of Kurt's back, holding him as though he were fragile.
"Again."
Chocolat and chignon.
The engines of a zeppelin, overhead.
"Kurt...I..." Noah said, as they broke for air. "I am...I am going back to active service. My orders. They're here."
Kurt blinked, and then his expression was fierce.
"Again," he demanded, and Noah pushed him back.
"No, Kurt, I am...I'm flying out. Soon. Tomorrow night. By the captured zeppelin. I can't...we can't..."
"You must," Kurt said, and fisted the front of Noah's coat. "Have a happy memory, Noah. Or at least, give me one. Give me hope, in this forsaken war."
"I..."
"We are French, Noah," Kurt said, his other hand clenching at his side. "We believe that...love...is something that must be experienced...before we die. And I...if I die tomorrow-"
"No-"
"I will die content, Noah, for with you, I am-" he took a deep breath and let it out as a cloud, carefree now, his heart light, "-free."
"I...I don't know what to say, Kurt."
"Then don't say anything. Kiss me. And come with me, home."
Noah fought to smile. "Your place, or mine?"
Kurt gave him a look, infinitely sarcastic. "What do you think?"
"Do you think, we can spare a little of Amelie's chocolate...to be melted over the stove? I know what I would do, with warm chocolat..."
"You would think of that, Noah."
"Would you like to 'experience' that?"
"Oh, yes-"
"If St. Valentine's was anything as lucky as I, Kurt, I am surprised he did not die of a heart attack."
"Hmm?"
"But he did not have you."
Chocolat, coffee, chignon.
Bitter and sweet and precious.
"Kurt, I..."
"It is enough now, mon ami."
"Yes, I know. I...want you to have this."
"But, Noah, this is...precious. I never knew that you had...you had..."
"Take it. It is only metal, and I want you to remember who I was, instead of what I did."
"I...thank you, Noah."
"Remember me by it."
"I will." A devilish smile. "If nothing else, I will remember the night. I am still not walking correctly, Noah..."
"And now we match."
"And now we match."
"One last time, under these trees?"
"Oui, Noah."
"Again."
"And again and again and again."
The sounds of zeppelins, the sound of war, ever closer. Ever closer. Ever...
Prev: Kurtofsky Now: Puckurt Next: Puckleberry