A Quiet Type Of Hate
Title: A Quiet Type Of Hate
Pairing/Characters: Puck/Kurt with Burt Hummel, Finn Hudson, and Carole Hudson
Word Count: 1,415
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Note: Seriously. This fic took a week to put a title on! Hardest fic I've ever had to title. Ever.
Summary: Sometimes, silence isn't golden. Sometimes, it cuts deeper than words ever could.
It’s two months later that Kurt finally realizes that something is really wrong.
He doesn’t understand why he’s been so blind.
All his dad had done was call Puck “son” and in a second, he was out the door. Fear ate at him as he went after him, wondering if he was right in his worries and Puck had been planning to break up with him. He knew his dad liked Puck, hated that they were having sex (though they’d been strangely celibate recently), but liked that Puck made him happy (and you know, was as big of a Deadliest Catch addict).
He’d rushed out the front door, expecting to see Puck’s beloved (yet piece of crap) truck gone, but it was still there, covered in the snow that had been falling since the day before. Puck wasn’t in it and Kurt squinted against the too-bright snow, following the footprints right to the other side of the truck. He squinted further, knowing Puck wasn’t in the truck, but where...
He followed the prints, eyes widening when he finally spotted Puck.
Puck who was sitting in four inches of snow.
Puck who had his legs pulled to his chest.
Puck who was crying.
Puck who wasn’t even looking at him. Who was just staring ahead, unblinking and lost. He didn’t think Puck even knew he was crying.
Kurt dropped to his knees, forgetting (not caring) how much his jeans had cost (his dad). “Noah...”
He tried to not think about how this scared him, of how it came through in his voice. He tried not to think about how Puck hadn’t looked this haunted since the day he showed up at his doorstep, drunk and brokenly whispering that Beth was gone. But he wasn’t drunk this time and Beth was still gone and...all his dad had done was call him “son”.
Puck didn’t even look at him. He just kept staring at nothing, not blinking, and tears pouring over wet lashes that were probably half-frozen. “Why did he call me that?”
“Because...because he likes you. Because you make me happy. Because I love you.”
Suddenly, Kurt wished that Puck was still staring at nothing, because when he looked at him, Kurt’s chest hurt. He looked at him like he didn’t understand how.
He wanted to hurt whoever had broken Noah Puckerman that damn much.
“My mom...” he whispered and Kurt wasn’t sure if he’d read his mind or if it had just come out. Puck’s eyes left him again, this time staring blankly at his knees.
Kurt remembered her, remembered her coming home from work early two months ago and finding them half naked on the couch. She hadn’t known about them and-
Fuck.
Two months ago.
That was when Puck had started acting weird and...it was her.
“No,” he whispered, using the name Puck only let him use in private, “what happened? Did she say something?”
Puck shook his head once. “She hasn’t said anythin’. Not since...”
She hadn’t said anything to him in two months? What the...
“She keeps taking me to this guy she works with. Doctor Neilson.”
Fuck.
Kurt remembered him, remembered Puck making a joking comment about the crackpot guy that worked in her building.
The sexual reparative therapist.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I don’t say anything to him, but...he can’t be right. Everything he’s said...he can’t be right. I’m not sick...”
Kurt’s heart broke as Puck looked at him again, eyes begging, screaming at him to tell him that the doctor was wrong. He shook his head, kissing Puck’s forehead, his tear tracks, his lips. “So wrong. You’re fine. Perfect.”
“Not for her.”
The words were whispered, but Puck might as well have shouted them into a microphone. They echoed in his head, bouncing around.
He hated Puck’s mother.
He hated himself more for not seeing that things were this bad.
All the times Puck tried to hold off on going home, the sleep-deprived bruises under his eyes, every time that he moved away from a kiss or a touch, the slushies.
He should have realized something was wrong after the first slushie when Karofsky tossed one in his face and Puck just stood there, blinking away the frigid drink. On a normal day, he would have at least shouted at Karofsky, maybe would have thrown him against a wall if he was feeling particularly agitated. But he’d just stood there, blinking away that stupid drink.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And the weight loss...
Looking at the body cradled against his, Kurt felt his stomach flip. It shouldn’t have been this easy to fit Puck to his chest. He wasn’t that much shorter than Puck, but...he wasn’t supposed to fit like this. He could feel Puck’s ribs, too pronounced under stretched skin. He’d always been muscular, but this...he was just skinny now.
It had been a while since he’d gotten this close to him, even longer since he’d seen him with his shirt off. The idea of seeing what he was feeling under that shirt made Kurt queasy, but he pushed it back.
He knew that Puck didn’t eat when he was stressed, knew that it wasn’t intentional, that he just forgot that he had to eat.
He’d apparently been forgetting too much.
Thinking back, Kurt tried to remember the last time he’d actually seen Puck eat something without a plate being shoved in front of him. He couldn’t.
He let out a quiet sob, pressing his face into the prickly strands of hair that dusted Puck’s head.
Puck didn’t make a sound as he lay against him, body shivering and reminding Kurt that neither of them had grabbed their jackets.
They sat there for a long time, paying no attention to the snow that fell around them. It was Burt and Finn that finally helped them back inside as Carole stood in the doorway, ready to wrap them in the towels she’d specifically grabbed from the dryer. There was hot chocolate on the counter, steaming and sweet.
No one asked questions until Puck was asleep on Kurt’s bed, dressed in a pair of Burt’s flannel pajamas. Only then did Kurt truly break, telling them what he knew from Puck and berating himself for being so fucking blind. His curses weren’t commented on, not after the story was out and they all called Deborah Puckerman a few choice words.
Puck didn’t go back to that house again. By the time he woke up, Burt had returned with a car full of trash bags, all filled to the brim with clothes, books, and Puck’s black-framed glasses (that he stopped insisting he didn’t need after he held a late night conversation with a coat rack, thinking it was Finn). Carole had sat up front with his dad, holding Puck’s guitar and the only picture of father and daughter that Puck would ever have.
Kurt laid with him that night, curled up against his boyfriend, and whispering I love you’s until they both fell asleep. Finn stayed awake as long as he was able, acting as a guard against a visible threat and feeling useless all the while.
Carole remained on the bottom steps, staring at her (now) three boys, her eyes moist as she dabbed at them with the sleeve of her denim jacket. Burt sent her upstairs around midnight, watching the teenagers for another hour before he joined his wife.
He didn’t understand any of it, didn’t understand how a mother could be so cold. He’d seen a lot, experienced a lot of intolerance since Kurt had come out officially, but...he’d never thought that Noah Puckerman could be broken like that.
“All a parent can do is love their child.”
Elizabeth (God, rest her soul) had said that the day Kurt was born as she handed their tiny blue bundle into his shaking arms. He’d been so scared of dropping him, of destroying him.
Deborah Puckerman may not have beat her son, but the emotional abuse she’d set on him had left deeper scars than any physical one. It made him sick. It would have hurt Puck less if she’d just kicked him out. This...this was just cruel.
By 3AM, Burt was slouched in a chair in the corner of Kurt and Finn’s room, arms crossed and his chin to his chest.
First thing in the morning, he’d call a lawyer and see what he would need to do to make sure that woman never got near Puck again.
The End
Pairing/Characters: Puck/Kurt with Burt Hummel, Finn Hudson, and Carole Hudson
Word Count: 1,415
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Note: Seriously. This fic took a week to put a title on! Hardest fic I've ever had to title. Ever.
Summary: Sometimes, silence isn't golden. Sometimes, it cuts deeper than words ever could.
It’s two months later that Kurt finally realizes that something is really wrong.
He doesn’t understand why he’s been so blind.
All his dad had done was call Puck “son” and in a second, he was out the door. Fear ate at him as he went after him, wondering if he was right in his worries and Puck had been planning to break up with him. He knew his dad liked Puck, hated that they were having sex (though they’d been strangely celibate recently), but liked that Puck made him happy (and you know, was as big of a Deadliest Catch addict).
He’d rushed out the front door, expecting to see Puck’s beloved (yet piece of crap) truck gone, but it was still there, covered in the snow that had been falling since the day before. Puck wasn’t in it and Kurt squinted against the too-bright snow, following the footprints right to the other side of the truck. He squinted further, knowing Puck wasn’t in the truck, but where...
He followed the prints, eyes widening when he finally spotted Puck.
Puck who was sitting in four inches of snow.
Puck who had his legs pulled to his chest.
Puck who was crying.
Puck who wasn’t even looking at him. Who was just staring ahead, unblinking and lost. He didn’t think Puck even knew he was crying.
Kurt dropped to his knees, forgetting (not caring) how much his jeans had cost (his dad). “Noah...”
He tried to not think about how this scared him, of how it came through in his voice. He tried not to think about how Puck hadn’t looked this haunted since the day he showed up at his doorstep, drunk and brokenly whispering that Beth was gone. But he wasn’t drunk this time and Beth was still gone and...all his dad had done was call him “son”.
Puck didn’t even look at him. He just kept staring at nothing, not blinking, and tears pouring over wet lashes that were probably half-frozen. “Why did he call me that?”
“Because...because he likes you. Because you make me happy. Because I love you.”
Suddenly, Kurt wished that Puck was still staring at nothing, because when he looked at him, Kurt’s chest hurt. He looked at him like he didn’t understand how.
He wanted to hurt whoever had broken Noah Puckerman that damn much.
“My mom...” he whispered and Kurt wasn’t sure if he’d read his mind or if it had just come out. Puck’s eyes left him again, this time staring blankly at his knees.
Kurt remembered her, remembered her coming home from work early two months ago and finding them half naked on the couch. She hadn’t known about them and-
Fuck.
Two months ago.
That was when Puck had started acting weird and...it was her.
“No,” he whispered, using the name Puck only let him use in private, “what happened? Did she say something?”
Puck shook his head once. “She hasn’t said anythin’. Not since...”
She hadn’t said anything to him in two months? What the...
“She keeps taking me to this guy she works with. Doctor Neilson.”
Fuck.
Kurt remembered him, remembered Puck making a joking comment about the crackpot guy that worked in her building.
The sexual reparative therapist.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I don’t say anything to him, but...he can’t be right. Everything he’s said...he can’t be right. I’m not sick...”
Kurt’s heart broke as Puck looked at him again, eyes begging, screaming at him to tell him that the doctor was wrong. He shook his head, kissing Puck’s forehead, his tear tracks, his lips. “So wrong. You’re fine. Perfect.”
“Not for her.”
The words were whispered, but Puck might as well have shouted them into a microphone. They echoed in his head, bouncing around.
He hated Puck’s mother.
He hated himself more for not seeing that things were this bad.
All the times Puck tried to hold off on going home, the sleep-deprived bruises under his eyes, every time that he moved away from a kiss or a touch, the slushies.
He should have realized something was wrong after the first slushie when Karofsky tossed one in his face and Puck just stood there, blinking away the frigid drink. On a normal day, he would have at least shouted at Karofsky, maybe would have thrown him against a wall if he was feeling particularly agitated. But he’d just stood there, blinking away that stupid drink.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And the weight loss...
Looking at the body cradled against his, Kurt felt his stomach flip. It shouldn’t have been this easy to fit Puck to his chest. He wasn’t that much shorter than Puck, but...he wasn’t supposed to fit like this. He could feel Puck’s ribs, too pronounced under stretched skin. He’d always been muscular, but this...he was just skinny now.
It had been a while since he’d gotten this close to him, even longer since he’d seen him with his shirt off. The idea of seeing what he was feeling under that shirt made Kurt queasy, but he pushed it back.
He knew that Puck didn’t eat when he was stressed, knew that it wasn’t intentional, that he just forgot that he had to eat.
He’d apparently been forgetting too much.
Thinking back, Kurt tried to remember the last time he’d actually seen Puck eat something without a plate being shoved in front of him. He couldn’t.
He let out a quiet sob, pressing his face into the prickly strands of hair that dusted Puck’s head.
Puck didn’t make a sound as he lay against him, body shivering and reminding Kurt that neither of them had grabbed their jackets.
They sat there for a long time, paying no attention to the snow that fell around them. It was Burt and Finn that finally helped them back inside as Carole stood in the doorway, ready to wrap them in the towels she’d specifically grabbed from the dryer. There was hot chocolate on the counter, steaming and sweet.
No one asked questions until Puck was asleep on Kurt’s bed, dressed in a pair of Burt’s flannel pajamas. Only then did Kurt truly break, telling them what he knew from Puck and berating himself for being so fucking blind. His curses weren’t commented on, not after the story was out and they all called Deborah Puckerman a few choice words.
Puck didn’t go back to that house again. By the time he woke up, Burt had returned with a car full of trash bags, all filled to the brim with clothes, books, and Puck’s black-framed glasses (that he stopped insisting he didn’t need after he held a late night conversation with a coat rack, thinking it was Finn). Carole had sat up front with his dad, holding Puck’s guitar and the only picture of father and daughter that Puck would ever have.
Kurt laid with him that night, curled up against his boyfriend, and whispering I love you’s until they both fell asleep. Finn stayed awake as long as he was able, acting as a guard against a visible threat and feeling useless all the while.
Carole remained on the bottom steps, staring at her (now) three boys, her eyes moist as she dabbed at them with the sleeve of her denim jacket. Burt sent her upstairs around midnight, watching the teenagers for another hour before he joined his wife.
He didn’t understand any of it, didn’t understand how a mother could be so cold. He’d seen a lot, experienced a lot of intolerance since Kurt had come out officially, but...he’d never thought that Noah Puckerman could be broken like that.
“All a parent can do is love their child.”
Elizabeth (God, rest her soul) had said that the day Kurt was born as she handed their tiny blue bundle into his shaking arms. He’d been so scared of dropping him, of destroying him.
Deborah Puckerman may not have beat her son, but the emotional abuse she’d set on him had left deeper scars than any physical one. It made him sick. It would have hurt Puck less if she’d just kicked him out. This...this was just cruel.
By 3AM, Burt was slouched in a chair in the corner of Kurt and Finn’s room, arms crossed and his chin to his chest.
First thing in the morning, he’d call a lawyer and see what he would need to do to make sure that woman never got near Puck again.
The End