They were idiots to not make them keep their doors locked at night. Puck was sure most of the kids never actually stayed put.
The institution takes the position on accessibility being equal to justifiable safety. So when the doors are open, there's no ability for the residents to try anything... Hurt themselves, carve their room mates up in their sleep, suffocate themselves with their own pillow cases, shit like that. Unlocked doors. And the staff doing hall checks every half hour. That was the key to maintaining a supposedly stable, safe environment.
But Puck was a thief. A real fucking choice thief at that. He could side step the orderlies in his sleep.
So Puck was roaming. His room just felt too stifling. He had to get out. Had to move around until he felt tired enough to try to sleep again. He wonders if years of snorting have given him a permanent pattern of sleep disturbance and bouts of insomnia that finding normalcy can't fix. Sure he's been sober for a while now but he definitely can't help but ponder the possible permanent damages he'd brought upon himself.
How annoying is it that he finally kicks the habit and now all he has to show for it are some stupid stories about his drug induced mishaps, sleepless nights, and more self hatred then his broad shoulders could handle most days.
He hated thinking. But here he was, wandering aimlessly, and thinking. His brain on overdrive as he hoped for it to lull itself into automatic shut down before he rounded the entire first floor.
That little fag kid. Why did his mind seem to always find itself back to him? He should be thinking about Quinn, about eating her out, fingering her until she's biting her fist to stifle the screams...
Or even riding. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ridden his motorcycle. It had been everything to him at one point. That was until his cravings became too much and he was short on cash. Then it was history, only leaving a trail of memories and dust behind it as the dude he sold it to sped off into the night. He didn't even make back half of what the bike was worth. But hell, that's the nature of the beast. You'll do anything to rid the symptoms of withdrawal and feel that uncensored, self deluded feeling of invincibility again.
He had still been wearing it. The kid had still kept wearing that damn bracelet every day since Puck had first made it. Like it was a diamond encrested gold band or some shit.
Puck smiled to himself at the thought. Fancy.
"Shh. It's okay. Don't cry."
Holy fuck nut. Was he thinking of the kid so much that he was actually hearing him inside his head?
"Shhh. Please. It'll be okay."
Puck shook his head, and realized to his intense relief, that the voice was coming from behind a nearby door. The girl's bathroom.
He knew that voice. It belonged to him. The very object of his thoughts. But then as he laid his ear against the door, he gathered that the kid wasn't alone, and that whoever he was with was bawling like crazy.
Puck wasn't sure why. But he had to know. Was the little fag sneaking around at night with one of the other residents?
It wasn't that hard to imagine. Puck was sure the guy wasn't the only flamer in the entire place. And he was sort of... attractive he supposed.
One thing he didn't understand was why the thought of the kid running around made him feel surprisingly put out?
Whatever. Curiousity. That was it. Old fashioned curiousity. This weird possessiveness just comes from the fact that Puck feels like he owns him; kind of like a toy. Ever since he first locked eyes with the pale, cup cake of a boy. Lady face was the promise of more interesting prey. Someone else to torture and slowly unravel. That was all.
He used his self deemed ninja skills to silently nudge open the door. The bathroom was huge, a narrow row of toilets lined against the wall and at the very end of the last stall, Lady face himself, cradling someone that Puck couldn't quite make out through the dull light provided by the moon; its bluish tint pooling in through the slit of a window over head.
He laid against the first panel, his back going rigid at the cold feel of the wood. And he listened. Harder then he would ever dare to admit aloud. Puck then chanced a peak around the edge of the stall, peering with determined focus.
It was that black girl: Mercedes.
Kurt was gently pulling something out of her grip.
A fork.
Probably the very same one she used to eat lunch earlier today.
Between her empty sobs, the lithe teen managed to pull away, taking some torn tissue paper and then with such care it actually made Puck feel a pang of jealousy, dabbing at the inside of the broken girl's arm.
"It'll be okay Mercedes."
"I-I'm too disgusting. N-n-no one, will ever, l-love me." She hiccupped, sobbing between words.
Puck expected some failed attempt to state some bogus, sappy, affirmation. Tell her how if she's just patient someone will come along, or that all she needs is to love herself and it'll all turn out fine. Puck expected it. But that's not what he got.
"Smile, though your heart is aching. Smile even though it's breaking."
Puck was again rendered speechless by this unassuming little bastard. He was actually fucking singing.
"When there are clouds in the sky you'll get by.
If you smile through the tears and sorrows. Smile and maybe tomorrow.
You'll find that life is still worth while. If you just..."
Puck lets the melodious sound wash over him like water. Angelic... Yeah, that might be the right word to describe the soft, haunting words of a song he was sure he'd heard many times before. But never like this...
"Light up your face with gladness.
Hide every trace of sadness. Although a tear maybe, ever so near. That's the time you must keep on trying.
Smile what's the use of crying. You'll find that life is still worthwhile. If you just... Smile."
He had to remember to breathe when the last note rung out into sterile space like a lingering ghost. It was beautiful, his voice. It was unlike anything Puck had ever heard. The pitch was high, much too close to a woman's range, but smooth, vevelty. A quiet power that completely enraptured him.
Mercedes had stopped crying her eyes out. She simply allowed the other boy to hold her and stroke her hair as she sniffled in an oddly comfortable silence.
Puck's arm was wet. But he couldn't remember touching anything wet when he crawled into position.
Instinctively he felt his face, tracing his fingertips over his cheeks.
Wetness...
Aw, fuck that.
Puck quietly unglued himself from the floor and successfully snuck back out of the room. He would never, ever, tell a living soul about tonight. Ever.