No one deserves this feeling. You know what the worst part is, it's not the burning in your eyes, or the way the slushie drips all the way into your underpants, it's the humiliation. I feel like I could burst into tears at any moment.

-Puck

It's not really the throwing up, or the pain. It's the humiliation of going through all these things with your football playing father screaming and pounding at the door your keeping closed with the heal of your designer boots, the further humiliation that you both know this is only because your too damn gay to run off a few drunk jocks. You know?

A final upheaval of some kind of bile slides down Kurt's throat and he's positive he has nothing left to offer the toilet gods. So he flushes and leans back against the off-white tiled wall. There are bloody handprints on the porcelain.

"I'm calling an ambulance," Burt shouted, "I'm going to break this door down and call an ambulance because you are not okay, Kurt."

Kurt wondered, in complete clarity, if any football players were able to speak at a reasonable level.

He pulled his foot away from the door (which didn't have a lock, god knows why) and let his father barge in. Its obvious Burt Hummel had no plans past this point, because all he did was look down at his sun, some strange platter of concern and rage and pity (but mostly rage) etched on his face. Kurt slumped over the toilet. "My stomach hurts," he said flatly, just to fill the silence.

Burt still held the bloody dish rag in his fist. "We're going to the hospital," he said.

Kurt scowled down at himself. "Fine."

Burt clasped one large huge giant paw on Kurt's shoulder and his son jumped because, okay, maybe he did had a little PTSD, but it's only been an hour.

Kurt wavered as he walked down the hall, out the door and into his father's truck. And as Burt did the same, he said in a completely steady tone, "You don't deserve this, Kurt. No one does."

"Shit, how about Hummel, huh?"

Puck said this as he and Finn leaned against the hood of his car, sipping at a slushie. (which he never realized how good they were, since he only ever got a few slurps before some loser walked by with a face that begged to be iced. He really was a giver.)

Finn was looking down at his bloody tshirt, his bloody letterman, his bloody hands. "You think we should've taken him to the hospital or somethin'?"

"Nah, man," Puck scoffed, "I've had worse at morning practice."

"But did you see all that blood?"

"Head wounds bleed a lot. He's probably fine."

But Puck didn't believe himself, because he felt guilty as hell for just dumping the little fag at his house when he'd practically bled out in his back seats. What was he gonna do, pin him to the leather? It would've just made it worse. It wasn't even his business anyway.

There was a long period of silence before Finn spoke again, "Were we ever like that?"

Puck spoke through his straw, "Like what?"

"Like those guys," he said softly, "Azimo and 'em. We never, you know?"

Puck looked down and shook his head. "Not that bad. 'specially not you. You weren't even down for dumpster diving."

Another long stretch of silence. "No one deserves what Kurt got."

Puck nodded. "Fucked as hell, man."

Pause.

"We're kicking Azimo's ass."

"Oh yeah."

A/N WHERE AM I GOING WITH THIS? I have no clue.