Fic: Angst (30 Days of Puckurt) 2/2

[emoryems]

Author: emoryems

Rating: G-R

Pairing/Character(s): Puck/Kurt

A/N: there is a total of 9,423 words in the following angst ‘drabbles’. Each individual ‘drabble’ (honestly they came out a little longer than intended) contains its own rating, summary, and if applicable, warning. All of these were written for 30 Days of Puckurt Drabble over at puckurt

Cold - (PG-13; 2,559)
Summary: Kurt and Puck are in an accident in the middle of winter. Warnings: non-graphic description of injuries.

Kisses - (PG-13; 1,195)
Summary: what could have happened (in a Puckurt world) if Puck had found Kurt after the incident in the locker room during NBK.

No - (R; 954)
Summary: Puck and Kurt are the victims of gay bashing. Warning: violence, homophobia.

Trust - (PG-13; 2,035)
Summary: “It was an accident, of course it was. But that doesn’t mean that Kurt isn’t holding a pack of frozen green peas to his face while he sits in a walk-in clinic, pain throbbing through his cheek and into his skull insistently. It doesn’t mean that Puck isn’t sitting next to him, a burning blush of shame warring with a pallor of sickness on his face.”

Sombre Eyes - (PG; 574)
Summary: Kurt comes home after a bad day. Noah is there.

Starry Night - (PG-13; 2,116)       
Summary: Puck is a source of unexpected comfort. This became a large part of the eighth chapter of a pre-existing story “Drowning in Sunny Skies”. Warning: discussion of non consensual sex, and an accompanying video of said act.


Trust

Summary: “It was an accident, of course it was. But that doesn’t mean that Kurt isn’t holding a pack of frozen green peas to his face while he sits in a walk-in clinic, pain throbbing through his cheek and into his skull insistently. It doesn’t mean that Puck isn’t sitting next to him, a burning blush of shame warring with a pallor of sickness on his face.” (PG-13; 2,035)

~

Kurt slips out of bed silently and the covers drag over his exposed skin with nary a rasp.  The floor is cold on his feet and goosebumps rise on his flesh as his sleep-warm skin meets the early-morning air of the bedroom.

He makes his way to the kitchen, arms crossed in front of his chest, and pours a short glass of water from a container in the fridge. The liquid is cool and refreshing, wetting his dry throat and soothing the last vestiges of sleep from his mind as it passes his lips.

There is the sound of birds singing outside and the first rays of golden sunshine are peaking over the short trees in the backyard, illuminating the summer landscape. Nearly having to rip his eyes from the sight, Kurt sets the empty glass on the counter and makes his way back to the bedroom.

Kurt pauses in the doorway and stares, transfixed by the view before him. Puck is sprawled on the right side of the bed laying face-down. The muscles of his back and arms, hard and rippling, yet soft with sleep, are highlighted by the sun filtering through the window above him. The golden rays catch of the ridges and cast shadows across the planes of his skin, painting it bronze and black in the dim light.

Wanting to be closer, Kurt pads silently over to Puck’s side of the bed; he is instantly thankful that he has done so because Puck’s face is turned toward him and is bathed in the shimmering sunlight. Every feature of his face is lit up and visible in crystal clarity, right down to the pores of his cheeks and the light dusting of stubble lining his jaw.

Unable to stay so far away, Kurt moves in until he is standing beside Puck and kneels down, bringing their faces close together so that he can peruse Puck’s features more fully.

His eyes seize on the delicate arch of Puck’s brows and his fingers lift almost absently to run over the contour of them.

The pain is sudden and brilliant, flashing over Kurt like a thousand needles piercing him all at once, and his vision is suddenly alight with a bright white explosion, something like a star going nova, that accompanies a loud ‘crack’ as it echoes in his head. His back hits a solid surface, a wall or a floor, he can’t tell, and Kurt hears someone cry out. It takes him a moment to realize that it is him.

As the last of the bright light extinguishes from behind his lids, Kurt hears the whisper of sheets falling from the bed and a ‘thud’ as something large lands beside him. His vision is now black and spotted, like he has gone for too long without eating and has quickly stood up, and so when a warm hand grabs his wrist and pulls his hand from its position covering his face, he jumps and groans.

“I’m sorry - I’m sorry. Let me see.”

It’s Puck’s voice in his ear and Puck’s hands on him, and Kurt is confused and desperate to know what has just happened. “What?”

“Shh. I just need to look.” And then two hands are cupping Kurt’s face and turning his head to the side. “Shit.”

“Noah? What happened?” Kurt is able to see Puck as he kneels beside him on the floor next to their bed, but one of his eyes, his left, is cloudy and full of tears. Most of the pain radiates outward from it.

“I didn’t mean to,” Puck says, pleading and angry and confused. “I don’t know what happened - I just reacted.”

Moaning as waves of pain wash over his eye and the surrounding bones, Kurt braces a hand behind himself and pushes up so that he is not slumped against the wall any longer. “Okay. It’s okay - just give me a minute.”

“Shit,” Puck says again. “We need to get some ice on that. It’s already starting to swell.”

Kurt nods and regrets the movement at once as it sends his head throbbing and spinning. “Yeah,” he says after he has recovered his equilibrium. “Kitchen.”

Two strong hands hold him gently around the upper arms and pull him into a standing position, and Kurt stumbles a little as they move as one through the bedroom and hallway into the kitchen.  It is a relief to be sat in one of the wooden chairs there.

“There’s a new bag of peas in the freezer - they’ll work good.”

Puck nods at Kurt’s suggestion and reaches into the freezer, pulls out the green bag, and wraps the plastic in a hand towel. “Here.” He hands the cold pack to Kurt with his right hand.

It isn’t until this moment, as Puck hands Kurt the bag of peas, that Kurt realizes what happened. Puck’s knuckles are bright red and swelling fast, his hand’s movements tight with pain. “You punched me,” he says without thinking.

Puck’s face goes rigid and his eyes crinkle at the words. He doesn’t seem to be able to respond - there is something agonizing behind his eyes and he is avoiding touching the skin of his knuckles like it is dangerous. The mental pain that Kurt can see in Puck doubles his own physical pain at least once over.

Hissing as he brings the towel-wrapped peas to his face, Kurt moves to stand; he is relieved when the room stays stable in his vision. Puck is standing still, unsure, and as Kurt comes close to him he shies away slightly, leaving Kurt to feel deeply, profoundly, sad for the man. “It’s okay,” he says. “We’ll be okay.”

~

It was an accident, of course it was. But that doesn’t mean that Kurt isn’t holding a pack of frozen green peas to his face while he sits in a walk-in clinic, pain throbbing through his cheek and into his skull insistently. It doesn’t mean that Puck isn’t sitting next to him, a burning blush of shame warring with a pallor of sickness on his face.

“I’m so sorry; you have no idea how much.”

Kurt closes his eyes and lets the irritation that flows through him run its course before looking over at the other man, one eye piercing while the other is swollen shut. “Shut up, Noah. I know.” His voice comes out in a snap, and the flinch it brings makes all of the anger stream out of Kurt, leaving behind only exhaustion and pain. “I’m sorry, Noah. I honestly don’t blame you, okay?”

Even as Puck nods, lips pressed tightly together and knuckles whitened from his hold on his knees, Kurt can see the disbelief, the self-recrimination.

“Noah,” Kurt says softly, “please look at me.” Puck turns a little, but his eyes don’t leave him lap, as though he is afraid to tear their gaze away. “Please?”

Finally, and with an intense hesitation, Puck’s neck swivels and his eyes, bloodshot and hard, meet Kurt’s eye. “What?” he asks roughly.

Kurt licks his lips and his eyebrows pinch together in sympathy. “You can’t blame yourself like this. If it was anyone’s fault, it was my own.”

Puck’s hands tighten even more on his knees and he hisses at the motion, right hand instantly loosening its grasp. Blood is spreading beneath his skin on his knuckles, bright and splotchy as it pools.

“That doesn’t matter,” says Puck, “I was the one who swung without looking, who did that.” He points at Kurt’s face, at the thick swelling under the cool pack, and runs his uninjured left hand over his mohawk.

Kurt is at loss for words; as much as he would like to assure Noah again and again how much he shouldn’t blame himself, Kurt knows that the other man won’t listen. Not right now, when it is so fresh and bright in his mind and memory.

“Kurt Hummel?”

Kurt and Puck’s heads shoot up at the question, and they stand, Puck holding on to Kurt’s upper arm as they move, to follow the nurse into the small room. She indicates a table covered with white tissue paper for Kurt to sit on.

“Doctor Henderson will be in soon,” she says and leaves, closing the door behind her.

The small room, walls covered in diagrams, a calendar, several bookshelves with supplies, and one anatomical model, seem to loom over them. Kurt can only see the top of Noah’s head as the man sits slumped in a chair and he wishes he could move to him, hold him close and tell him that this won’t change anything, won’t change how he feels.

The door opens with the slightest of creaks and Kurt looks over to see an older woman, maybe in her late fifties, stepping through. Her hair is brown with many grey streaks and her face shows many years of large laughs and days in the sun - she looks like someone that Kurt would like to know outside of a professional capacity.

“Hello,” she says in greeting. “What can I help you with today?”

Kurt nods his own greeting and reluctantly pulls the bag of frozen peas from his face, turning his left eye toward her so she can see clearly. “I just wanted to get this checked out. See if I might need x-rays.”

The doctor moves in, eyes intent on Kurt face, and takes in the swelling and fresh bruise. “What happened here?”

Kurt shoots a quick glance at Puck and says, “I was struck in the eye about two hours ago.”

Doctor Henderson raises one brow even as she reaches one hand up to gently probe his injured flesh. “With what?”

“A hand,” Kurt says awkwardly, watching as Puck’s shoulders slump just a little further.

“So you were punched. Don’t mince your words - be blunt.”

At the doctor’s no-nonsense tone, Kurt finds himself nodding. “Yes. I was punched.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Henderson hums. “It doesn’t look like anything is broken, but this can be tricky. Can you still see out of the eye?”

Kurt’s vision is watery and blurry at best, but that is probably because of the swelling. “Sort of. Everything is a bit blurry.”

“Understandable,” the doctor says. “Now - I really must ask - was this domestic violence? The hit was obviously quite hard to do this sort of damage.”

Kurt is shaking his head before she has finished speaking. “No. It was a complete accident, I assure you.”

Dr. Henderson’s eyes flash to Puck, who has been silent since she entered the room, and to the hand that he has cradled in his lap. “Okay,” she says hesitantly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes - you really don’t have to worry.”

She looks at Kurt intensely for a moment, eyes searching his face for something, but then seems to accept his answer. “Alright then. Since I can’t tell for sure if there is any damage to the bone, I’m going to send you for an x-ray. Just give me a minute and I’ll have a requisition.”

She stands and leaves in a twirl of loose professional clothes and comfortable runners, the door coming closed behind her.

Kurt instantly hops off of the examination table and comes to stand before Puck, hands reaching down to push the man’s shoulders back so that he is sitting straight. Kurt then gently sits himself down in Puck’s lap, bum settled on one of Puck’s heavily muscled thighs, and wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he says, voice muffled by Puck’s shirt.

Puck reacts immediately, wrapping his own arms around Kurt in turn and chest hitching. “I’m sorry. I love you, too. It’ll never happen again, not on accident or on purpose.”

“Aw, Noah,” Kurt sighs, “I’ve never worried about you hurting me. I won’t start now, certainly not because of this. Okay?”

Puck nods, cheek brushing against Kurt’s soft hair, and he presses a kiss into the side of Kurt’s head, careful not to put any pressure on his left side. “Yeah. Okay.”

Doctor Henderson finds them like that mere seconds later when she walks back in the door, requisition form firmly in hand.


Sombre Eyes

Summary: Kurt comes home after a bad day. Noah is there. (PG; 574)

~

Kurt closes the front door behind him and lets his jacket fall from his shoulders. He hangs it absently, eyes staring ahead at nothing as he thinks of everything. There is a set to his shoulders, like a heavy weight has been placed there, and it curls him inward and gives him the appearance of a much greater age.

His feet tread lightly on the hallway as he moves into the living room, the material of his socks sliding easily across glossed hardwood.  The sound of Noah moving about in the house draws Kurt into the kitchen, and he finds the man rummaging in the fridge, baggy jeans hanging from his solid hips and white muscle shirt riding up just a little on one side.

Kurt stands and watches for a moment, lets his eyes take in the form before him, the man who he can’t imagine his life without - well, not without thinking of it as a half-life - and feels tiredness wash over him. There must have been something about how it affected him, maybe he sighed or maybe he slumped even further, because Noah straightens up suddenly and turns around, a smile on his face. It dies as he sees Kurt, the happy and welcoming lines fading and clouding over like the sun disappearing behind the horizon.

“Hey babe,” Noah says, kicking the fridge closed as he walks to Kurt, “what’s going on?”

Kurt stays silent, his words caught behind his wish to keep calm and collected, so instead he grips Noah in a tight embrace, arms wrapping around strong, lean shoulders and cheek resting against the side of Noah’s neck.

“Are you okay?” Noah’s voice vibrates between them.

Nodding, Kurt presses in just a little bit closer, trying to hold Noah so that all he can feel in the world is him. For a moment all he knows is the way Noah’s arms hold him back, the sound of Noah’s heartbeat and his breathes which are synced with his own, and the way that Noah is the only thing that feels good, feels right, in the world.

Noah leans his head to rest against Kurt’s hair, his ear brushing over Kurt’s in a light movement that sends tingles running down the long length of his neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Kurt closes his eyes as tears start to build, prickling along the edges of his eyes and catching in his lashes, and shakes his head. “Not really.”

Noah sighs as he nods. “Okay. Okay.”

Sometimes Kurt doesn’t want to rail against the world, scream at the injustices and the pain it inflicts; sometimes, he just wants to feel love and acceptance. Sometimes he just wants to be held in the arms of the man he loves and forget about anything and everything that tries to crush him.

This is not the first time that Kurt has come home and just held on to Noah, a bundle of emotions - sadness, hate, grief and so many more - all held tight in his chest, and tried to remember that there is good in the world. It most certainly won’t be the last.

But it is the first time Kurt has done so without feeling guilty and weak.

Noah leans in close so that he can keep a tight hold on Kurt as they stand in the kitchen, late afternoon sunlight flooding around them, and says, “I know, babe. It’ll be okay.”


Starry Night

Summary: Puck is a source of unexpected comfort. This became a large part of the eighth chapter of a pre-existing story “Drowning in Sunny Skies”. Warning: discussion of non consensual sex, and an accompanying video of said act. (PG-13; 2,116)

~

Numb, Kurt’s eyes flick to his door, evaluating the solid barricade separating him from the rest of the house. He doesn’t want to stay in his room, can’t stand the thought of spending the rest of the night locked inside, so he makes his way out the door and into the hall.

Kurt walks down the stairs woodenly, eyes wide and unblinking.  The images, grainy and stark, are frozen in his mind, a sickening glance at something so horrible that he can barely comprehend the reality of it.

He feels relief and shame warring within him; he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go through with watching the video. He wonders if his inability to do so makes him weak.

At the bottom of the stairs a single streak of light cuts across the floor, bisecting the hallway between the entry hall and the kitchen.  His feet hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs, and his bare toes are chilled by the change from carpet to hardwood.

The faint sound of the TV is overlapped by two voices talking, his dad and Carole, and Kurt looks in the direction of the kitchen, through which is the living room, and hesitates.  He then pivots in the other direction, shoves his bare feet into a pair of shoes, and quietly opens the front door.

The last time he had done this, yesterday on the way to the mall, it had been light and spotted with people on the street.  This time, as he gently shuts the door behind him, there is no one in sight and the world is cloaked in darkness.

Kurt doesn’t know where he’s going; he doesn’t know when or where his is going to stop; only that he has to keep moving. He feels like he’s running from something, and maybe he is.

He walks for blocks and blocks, the dark houses of Lima’s inhabitants passing by in a blur of siding and stucco.  He sees a park ahead, one that he’s only ever visited by the light of day, and turns that way, eyes locking on a bench.

Kurt sits on the bench and leans back, slouching so that his neck rests on the top slat of wood, and stares into the night sky.  The stars above shine and wink at him, wavering in what he can only describe as a ‘twinkling’ pattern.

He wishes that he didn’t know that stars don’t actually twinkle; wishes that he’d never read about atmospheric disturbance and its effect on visibility in the night sky. Maybe if he didn’t know, didn’t understand, he could believe in the presence of magic or miracles.

Maybe if he believed that there was a cure, sudden and one hundred percent guaranteed to work, he wouldn’t feel like he’s at the bottom of a pit, unable to ever rise from it again.

As his eyes trace along Orion’s Belt, Kurt hears footsteps approaching along with the sound of bottles clinking together. He rolls his head to the side and sees a familiar figure lit by a streetlight in the distance. He turns back to the stars.

A single shooting star streaks overhead, its bright path quickly extinguished, fading into nothing. It reminds Kurt that he should Google the next meteor shower, see when it is; they really are a beautiful spectacle to witness. He watched one with his mother once.

There is a heavy ‘whump’ as Puck sprawls on the bench beside him, setting his six-pack of beer down between them.

“Hummel,” acknowledges Puck as he reaches for a bottle and pops the cap off with his belt buckle.

Rolling his eyes, Kurt replies, “Puckerman.”

Taking a long pull from the bottle, Puck swallows and asks, “What’re you doing out here?”

Kurt shrugs, continuing to look up. “Needed to get away.”

Puck merely nods in response, in understanding, and takes another drink of beer.

There is only an occasional wisp of cloud to obscure the night sky, floating a slow path across the heavens, and Kurt lets his eyes drift lazily with one.

They sit in silence for close to half an hour, Puck draining his first beer and quickly working his way through a second and then sipping on a third. Kurt, neck stiff from the awkward position, sits up, leaning his elbows on his thighs.

“Did you watch it?” Kurt’s question hangs between them, quiet and calm.

Puck takes a sip of beer. “Yeah.”

“The whole thing?” This time his voice is coloured by a hint of anxiety. And curiosity.

Puck shrugs, eyes facing forward and beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “Most of it.”

“Why?”

Puck turns and looks at Kurt for the first time in their conversation, eyes hazed with alcohol, but still intense. “I had to know.” The answer is simple, to the point.

Kurt nods and licks his lips, looking upward to try and stem any tears from falling from his eyes.

Puck watches him for a minute, eyes trailing over what Kurt knows to be a sloppily picked outfit and dark rings around his eyes, and then turns away. “Anyone who watched it the whole way through knows it wasn’t -” He cuts off, like he can’t think of the right word to use.

“Consensual,” Kurt offers.

“Yeah.”

Kurt uses the tips of his fingers to sooth the lines of his eyebrows, massaging his temples when he finishes. “I couldn’t do it.”

“What?” Puck asks, looking over. Kurt meets his eyes briefly, then tears away to focus on the ground. “Don’t be stupid, princess. You don’t need to.”

Kurt huffs out a little laugh and nods even as a tear slips from his left eye. “Thanks, Noah.”

Kurt notices, as Puck brings his third beer to his lips once again, that this is the first time since they joined Glee that Puck hasn’t offered him some type of drink. Puck’s always been the kind to share at least some of his illegally-procured wares, and Kurt has always said ‘no’. This time he never even had to.

Watching the other boy lean back against the bench and look upward, Kurt is grateful. In his own way, Puck can be very caring and thoughtful - it just takes some time to see it.

“You gonna be okay Hummel?”

Kurt leans back and looks into the sky again, the single wet tear track drying on his cheek. “I don’t know.”

Sniffing, Kurt lets his eyes wander to the side, watching the side of Puck’s face. “I have to get a bunch of blood tests, just in case - in case he gave me something. I just - there is so much that could go wrong. Even more than it already has.”

Kurt doesn’t know why he confessed that to Puck - they aren’t that close, and this is so intensely personal. But out of all of the people he knows, other than maybe Santana, Puck is the only one he thinks will get it. Will understand how big of a concern it is to know that you may have caught something from a sexual partner.

Puck sighs and Kurt watches as he twirls the neck of the beer bottle in his fingers. “That’s rough.”

Puck doesn’t say anything more, just sits with Kurt in silence for a little while, and for that Kurt is relived. He doesn’t need some big reaction; he doesn’t need someone to lie to him about how okay it will be. Sometimes you just need someone who will listen.

A little while passes, and Kurt can feel Puck staring at him, watching him, and he closes his eyes. He wants to erase all of this from everyone’s memories, turn back time and never take Ian’s number, never be stupid enough to believe in the goodness of people. Because if this has taught him anything, it’s that even people you think you can trust, who you think you know, can ruin you if they want to.

“Come on, Hummel,” Puck says suddenly as he sits up and grabs his six-pack. “I’ll walk you home.”

Together they walk away from the bench, the dark night sky scattered with billions of stars overhead, and turn toward Kurt’s house. As they walk Kurt studies Puck, sees the tension in his shoulders and the hard clench of his jaw. He looks angry and determined, something that Kurt has only ever seen on the rare occasion, something that Puck tends to exude when he’s feeling vindictive.

“You won’t find him, you know,” Kurt says, watching Puck for a reaction.

Puck’s brows pull downward and his lips purse together a little harder. “And why is that?”

“He’s in custody. We’re - my dad and I - we’re pressing charges.”

Puck looks over, his face hard and unreadable except for the small spark of surprise, and his knuckles whiten from gripping the handle of his six-pack too hard. “Good.”

Kurt knows that in one word, Puck has managed to express his conflicted feelings about what Kurt has told him. Puck has always been the one to try and solve problems by fighting, by using his physicality to get what he wants, and Kurt can tell that the other boy regrets not being able to handle this himself.

Since glee club came together under Mr. Shuester and Puck joined alongside Mike and Matt, Kurt has experienced the slow fall into camaraderie with him.  It wasn’t something that came suddenly, and they weren’t trading secrets and having videogame marathons, but it was an understanding.

As they climb the pathway to his front door, Kurt looks over at Puck, at the way his head is tilted just a little downward, and is glad to call him a friend.  Even if, right now, it’s only in his mind.

When they reach Kurt’s front door, they stop and stand in silence, a quiet understanding and companionship that neither needs to speak about or explain.

Kurt looks over at Puck and gives him a little smile. “Thank you, Noah.”

Puck smirks and lets one of his hands rest on Kurt shoulder in a move Kurt has seen him express with other members of the glee club. “Not a problem, Hummel. Let me know if there’s anyone you need me to beat into a pulp.”

The offer is larger then it sounds, and Kurt smiles a littler harder in result before reaching out a hand to grab the door knob so he can go inside.

The door flings open before Kurt can even touch the handle, and the large figure of his father stands framed by the doorway, the light of the front entry haloing him. The hand Puck had placed on Kurt’s shoulder slides away slowly as Kurt turns toward the deeply scowling face of his dad.

Burt left hand is clenched tight on the doorframe, while his right hand curls around a familiar object: Kurt’s cell phone.

Kurt’s eyes take in his phone, and he winces internally; he hadn’t even realized that he had forgotten it.

“Kurt,” Burt starts, but then he sees Puck and he says, “Puckerman?”

“Hey Mr. Hummel, what’s up?”

Kurt doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cringe more, so he settles with staying silent.

“What are you doing, Kurt? You leave in the middle of the night, don’t tell anybody where you’re goin’, and don’t even take your cell phone.” His dad sounds angry and worried, just like he had on the phone last week, and Kurt feels a familiar pit of guilt dig deeper into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just needed to get out. I didn’t even think - I’m sorry.”

Burt reaches forward and pulls Kurt into a hug, and Kurt, cheek pressed into his dad’s shoulder, can see Puck watching them.  There is something akin to jealousy in his eyes, but it is gone the second he realizes Kurt is watching him.

“Well. I’ll catch ya later, Hummel. Bye Mr. Hummel,” Puck says, conveniently keeping his six-pack out of sight, and starts walking away.

His dad grunts roughly in response to Puck, and Kurt lifts a hand and waves.

“You scared me again, kid,” his dad says, disengaging from the hug. “You need to tell me next time you do something like this, okay? Or at least take your cell phone.”

Kurt nods and steps into the house behind his dad and lets the older man shut and lock the door. “I know,” Kurt says. “I really just didn’t think. I won’t do it again.”

His dad looks at him as though evaluating him and Kurt notices the red around his eyes, the way his lashes are spiked together a little, and feels a sting of pain pierce his chest.

“I’m sorry.”