Fic: Reverseverse Ep4: 'Shake-Up', Part 3 - PG-13
Title: Reverseverse Ep 4, part 3
Verse: Reverseverse
Author: Test_kard_girl
Rating: PG, for some sweary language
Characters/Pairings Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Genre: AU
Warning: Puck and Kurt not being themselves
Spoilers: Say through Season 1, although as it's AU, in a very roundabout, squint and you'll miss it kind of way.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone. I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Author's Notes A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. The original fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal' before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in.
Word Count (This part) 4603
Summary: he "social ladder" is upside down. Puck gets bullied by one ice-queen Kurt Hummel. Doesn't mean he isn't head over heels though.
The Reverseverse, episode 4 part 3: Truces are formed, in all sorts of ways. Some more naked than others.
Puck scratches at the nape of his ridiculous mohawk, looking more puzzled than Kurt expected at the sight of his boyfriend perched in the centre of his own bed with a minted looking six-string balanced across his knees. Kurt doesn't quite see why he's so surprised. Music's more or less their entire deal, isn't it?
He taps a hand affectionately against the guitar's varnished body.
"I figured you probably didn't have a chance to salvage yours when you fled Casa de Puckerman." He says, as Puck slumps himself down on the opposite side of the mattress. "Seeing as how Fabray and the Cheerios have upped the ante, I thought we could practice some ideas for Invitationals? Come up with something even more spectacular."
Puck doesn't look convinced: "...Right."
Kurt bites down on his bottom lip. He's practicing blunting his razor-sharp wit, but it's taking some effort.
"I figured something a bit more 'classic rock'..." He explains wryly, turning the guitar in his lap and pushing it towards Puckerman's reluctant body. "But it's... not really my wheelhouse."
Kurt watches as Puck's fingers automatically drift along the strings, tracing their taut length with his well-calloused fingertips. His eyebrows crush together in the centre of his forehead as he plucks tentatively at E, A, D; E again. Kurt tilts his head. "Is it okay?" He asks.
Puck nods. "Yeah... Yeah." Kurt sees a flicker of green before his boyfriend's eyes are reclaimed by the guitar strings once more. "Is it yours?"
He sounds like he asks just for something to say.
"Nooo." Kurt spreads his hand out on his comforter, leaning back. "It's my father's."
"Oh-he a musician too?"
"Hah, no. No, he's just a big Mellencamp fan." Kurt bites the corner of his mouth. "Thinks all a blue-collar guy needs to get by in the Midwest is a pickup and three chords on the gee-tar." He reaches over; plucks his own discordant G sharp across the strings "He hasn't played it in years. Years and years."
It comes out emptier than he'd intended, and this time when Puck's eyes snap upwards Kurt is carefully occupied by the slight pulled thread in the leg of his Vivienne Westwood lounge pants.
"...'M more a Springsteen guy." Puck divulges, before his hands resume their loving path along the strings. He twists at the keys with practiced fingers and the tremor of stretched metal skitters up Kurt's spine.
"I had piano lessons..." He offers. "Far more elegant."
Puck doesn't seem to hear him. As Kurt watches, he picks out the notes again: E, A, C. The whites of his eyes are stained pink. He looks like he needs about five years of sleep, and the stubble's already starting to fuzz his jawline. Kurt's pretty sure the last thing he wants to be doing is experimenting with chord changes for some passive-aggressive Invitationals number.
"...So, uh, you got any idea what you wanna try?"
Kurt purses his lips thoughtfully: "Don't suppose you know any Madonna?"
For some reason, that's the line that cracks the corner of Puck's frown: "I thought you said 'classic rock'." He reminds him, mimicking Kurt's air-quotes with his strumming hand.
"Madonna is the queen of classic rock." Kurt replies airily. "It's a subtitle of being Queen of the Musical Universe."
"Queen, that's a better idea. You can't get more classic rock than Queen." Puck suggests, and Kurt grimaces like he's contemplating plaid.
"Hmm. I suppose the world pioneers of stadium rock do have a sort-of kitschy mass-market appeal..."
But Puck's already picking out some notes:
"This thing called love, I just can't handle it, this thing, called love--"
"-Oh god no, god no!" Kurt protests, smile cracking as he catches Puck's hand in his. "Too gay, needs to stop."
Puck smirks too, letting their fingers tangle for just a second before he pulls his hand back: "Okay, okay..."
He tries again:
"I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things, We can do the tango just for two-"
"-Even more gay." Kurt interjects; but Puck only rolls his eyes:
"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings, be your Valentino just for you-"
"-Do you even know who Valentino is?-"
"--Ooh love, ooh loverboy, What're you doin' tonight, hey boy-set my alarm, turn on my charm, that's because I'm a good old-fashioned loverboy."
With inches between them, and the skin of his neck flushing pinker with every syllable he sings, Noah's voice is tentative- gravelly like jazz in some musty club where everyone tastes of tequila. Normally it's the peppiest of pop sings; but it sounds better like this. Kurt blames his innate musicianship for how he can't stop himself glancing down at their almost touching knees and joining in for the last chorus:
"Ooh love, ooh loverboy, what're you doin' tonight, hey boy. Everything's all right, just hold on tight, that's because I'm a good old fashioned loverboy..."
They look at each other as the sound falls away. There's an odd tinny hum in Kurt's ears. It shouldn't feel this significant; the first time they've sung together. That's crazed, surely.
Puck's glance skitters downwards, and Kurt feels a sharper than expected knife in his brain-stem.
"Noah." Kurt's hand grips hard around the other boy's calf. "You can look at me, okay? Your mother isn't hiding in the closet."
(He doesn't hear that till a few second after he says it. Hm, ironic.)
But Puck maybe doesn't hear the funny. He just wipes his palms over his face:
"...Gee, thanks Kurt, that's real understanding."
"I didn't-" Kurt shifts, moving his legs under him. "-Look... You don't have to stay here if you don't want to--"
"-Who said anything about not wantin' to stay?"
"Your face says it." Kurt snaps, a bit helplessly. "You've hardly made eye-contact with me since fifth period, and I don't know what I did to piss you off, this is just..." He gestures around at his cavernous treasure-trove of a bedroom. "I just wanted to..." The last work sticks a bit on his tongue. "Help. Something...Whatever."
It's a pathetic enough admission that Puck's eye-contact problem seems instantly remedied. He stares at Kurt with dark, blank irises like marbles.
Kurt rolls his eyes. "Yeah; I said-"
But he doesn't finish, words stolen by Puck's mouth suddenly pressed hard against his.
Kurt sucks a breath through his nose, catching Puck's roughened jaw between his palms, pulling him closer, meeting each needful push of his lips with his own. It's more a fight than a kiss, and Kurt has to jam his hands against Puck's chest and shove hard before he forces the other boy to let him go and allow them both some oxygen.
Not that Puck lets him go far. He keeps their foreheads jammed together, his fingers slipping upwards to catch and curl in the side of Kurt's hair. Kurt would usually hate that; but he's distracted by the look in the other boy's eyes. Up close the want twists Kurt's stomach, and he realises with a squeeze of shame that he was wrong: Puck isn't scared to be with him-he's scared that his mom's kicked him into the gutter and still all he wants more than anything is Kurt's body curled around his.
The guitar's still nestled between them, resting against Puck's stomach.
Kurt's breath catches as he wraps his hand around the neck of the instrument and takes it away, leaning over to lay it carefully on the floor.
When he turns back, Puck's fingers are pressed against his temples like he's considering climbing out the window, and Kurt almost laughs.
"Fuck, I didn't-"
"Stop it." He chastises quietly, balancing a hand against Puck's thigh and touching their lips together once more, much more softly. This time, when Kurt presses his hand to Noah's ribcage, the boy goes where he pushes him:
"Keep kissing me." He suggests softly, as Noah guides him down beside him. "I think it was helping..."
*
“Y’know, we’ve been spending way too much of our time recently observing losers in their natural habitat.” Mercedes muses idly.
In her peripheral vision, she can see the vague turn-up of Tina’s smile: “Maybe you’d prefer to pull a Hummel and join in?”
“Bitch, please.”
Mercedes runs her fingertips along the chain-link, watching the straggly swarm of identically-clad cheerleaders begin to disperse. Only a few of them are visibly weeping. Maybe Coach Sylvester’s losing her touch.
The squad scurries past, each one of their gazes skating to the ground before they get too close and make the mistake of meeting Mercedes’ or Tina’s flinty stares. Mercedes feels a tiny smugness tug at her lip, kind of glad for just that little bit of normality.
The three Cheerios they’ve been waiting for bring up the rear, mouths identical thin pink lines- although Brittany looks like she’s just doing it to keep up appearances. When she gets close enough she smiles sunnily and offers a tiny little finger wave.
They come to a stop a respectful half-meter in front of them.
“Can we help you?” Quinn enquires frostily, ponytail spinning in nervous circles behind her head, and Mercedes can’t help snorting at the
tight, pinched way her words come out.
“Aw, can the attitude Fabray- Queen Bitch doesn’t suit you. I’d stick with Virgin Princess.”
From behind Quinn’s shoulder, Santana raises disinterested eyebrows: “Is this the part where you go all Million Dollar Baby on us? ‘Cos I just had my tips done.” She informs them, examining the aforementioned fingernails.
Brittany looks aghast: “Babies cost that much?”
“You know, your bitching? It doesn’t scare me.” Quinn interrupts flatly, fitting her arms tightly over the WMHS of her uniform. “You wouldn’t be seen dead out here if you didn’t want something from us, so what is it?”
Mercedes lifts her chin. Give Fabray her due, she’s grown some balls in the last couple of weeks. Shame she’s shooting her mouth off in all the wrong directions though. This is gonna end in tears, she just knows it.
But hey. Needs must. Or something:
“A truce.”
Santana blinks, leaning in closer like she’s heard something outrageous: “Hold up, can you repeat that?”
“You letting Karofsky come in your ear again Lopez?”
Quinn makes a face, pushing warning fingernails into Santana’s forearm. Her eyes are all for Mercedes though; cool, and angry with that twisted, righteous anger that all losers seem to have:
“Funny. You get a chance to see how good we are and all of a sudden you want to be best friends.”
“Who said anything about ‘friends’?” Mercedes retorts bluntly. “Look, we don’t like each other: I think that’s probably the only thing we’re gonna agree on. But Tee and I-” She nods towards Tina’s impassive face “- have been talking and the way we figure it is, we all want the same thing.”
“What’s that?”
“To win.” Something spiteful squeezes Mercedes’ chest. “You, ‘cos you ain’t ever won one sparkly thing in your whole lives; us, ‘cos our self-elected monarchy are halfway to crazy-town and it’s about time someone else got the chance to step into the spotlight.”
Quinn’s face remains suspicious.
“What’s Berry got to say about this?”
Mercedes tilts her head, sneering at the cheerleader’s pathetically obvious loathing. “Aw. You got a little crush?”
Santana’s clearly still sore about the ear thing; she points an incredulous finger between the two gleeks:
“Nah, I think she’s just wondering why we’re spending our time chatting with the runts when this is clearly a top-dog conversation.”
Mercedes’ lets out a dry little laugh, hand automatically going up to remove her earrings when Tina steps neatly between them:
“Glee practice, tomorrow lunchtime.” She instructs, pushing the straight black slices of hair away from her pale cheekbones. She stares Santana down with that soulless Underworld thing she does so well when she’s angsting: “You show Mr Schuester that number for Invitationals, and we’ve got your back. Deal?”
“…And Berry?”
“-Can sing her lungs out from the second row of the chorus.” Mercedes supplies mulishly, and surprises herself by how satisfied that idea makes her.
Not half as satisfied as it makes Quinn though. The girl’s sea-green eyes glitter like smoked glass as she holds out one white, unblemished hand. It reminds Mercedes uncomfortably of her best friend.
“…Deal.”
*
Kurt kisses him carefully, almost experimentally, as they lie chest to chest across the bedcovers. His eyes flicker open between every touch of their lips, and Puck thinks staring into his darkening gaze from that tiny distance, as the blush rises higher and higher on his cheeks, is almost more arousing than the soft, insistent press of his mouth.
Almost.
Puck's fingers grasp, catching in the hem of Kurt's shirt, tugging him closer. His brain is sluggish but so, so needy; he opens his lips wider, kissing back; shuddering at how easily Kurt's tongue slides against his. It's hot. So. Fucking. Hot. His tentative grip becomes a curled fist, shoving the fabric of Kurt's shirt up his back, replacing it with his own hungry, unpractised hands.
Kurt hums approvingly, smile flickering between them as he shifts his weight, pressing closer. Puck does not find it a hardship to go where he's pushed, spreading himself across the covers, Kurt's lithe body sprawling over his. The unexpected press of the other boy's hardening cock against his thigh forces a groan from between Puck's teeth and he shifts, tilting his hips up and getting some clumsy relief for his own dick, confined in the crotch of his jeans. He does it again, and Kurt's lips slip from his as he presses his face momentarily into the crook of Puck's neck, breath fast and warm and fingers slipping almost absently under the front of Puck's t-shirt.
Their bodies move together, jerkily at first, then with more intent; two musicians given up on listening to rhythm and listening to their cocks instead. Kurt's kisses become less and less; just hot exhales against Puck's mouth, teeth catching occasionally and urging Puck's hands on in their exploration of his body. Puck squeezes his eyes shut until he has spots exploding behind his eyelids. So good. So, fucking, fucking good. His hands curve around the firm roundness of Kurt's ass, forcing him closer, harder. Yes. Yes-
"-Puck." Kurt breathes, a one-word instruction, and Puck forces his eyes open; sees that same broken, beautiful smirk he's been privy to a million times from a distance before Kurt presses a hard kiss to his lips and shifts slightly, forcing Puck to let him go so he can push a hand between their bodies.
"Oh god." Puck swears at the ceiling, head thumping backwards as the heel of Kurt's hand presses down against his cock, kneading its throbbing hardness through his jeans. Just perfect, just agonisingly perfect. Fuck.
Puck spreads his legs wider; pushes himself up against Kurt's hand.
"Feel good?" the other boy enquires in a whisper, lips teasing against the corner of Puck's own.
Puck can only nod, fingers wrenching at the bed-covers. It feels more than good. So much more than ‘good’. Having blood in his dick is way better than having it in his brain. Oh fuck this. He scrabbles blindly for his own fly, but after too many fumbling seconds, Kurt slaps his hands away:
"Let me."
When Kurt's hand pushes inside his jeans, closing around him though his underwear, Puck almost comes from sheer disbelief. Oh god. Oh god. The other boy pulls experimentally along his aching length and Puck arches into his hand, groaning like a kicked hound.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Puck answers through gritted teeth, nodding. "Yeah, yeah."
Half of him is mortified; so so embarrassed, so inexperienced and nervous and ashamed of even wanting this. But Kurt's never looked so beautiful, chest heaving, face pink, cock still digging awkwardly into Puck's thigh and his hand feels so good. Better than all those dreams. Better than all those times Puck's jerked himself off, pretending his fist belonged to someone else.
"Oh fuck, fuck… Kurt…"
Puck throws an arm over his face, biting down on his own skin as Kurt removes his hand, only to push in again inside Puck's boxers, fingers wrapping easily around his erection, bare skin around bare skin. He grips too tight, it's too rough, no lube, no nothing, but Puck doesn't care. His body's shuddering already. He knows he won't last long.
"Yes, please, god." He whispers, as Kurt's hand works along his length, finding the rhythm again, and this time Puck matches it without thinking, making it perfect. He feels the other boy get a better grip in the covers beside him, speeding up.
Puck pants like a dog, dragging his jeans and his underwear down over his hips. His toes curl in his socks, tingling with the orgasm burning its way up his legs. Kurt's hand twists at the head of his cock before he pulls back down, and Puck spits expletives at the ceiling.
There isn't much left. Kurt grips tighter as Puck's body begins to jerk, and Puck glances up just once; sees the other boy's teeth buried in the corner of his lip. Their gazes lock and it's almost frightening how little Puck understands the black, lustful colours in the other's eyes.
He reaches down, digging his fingernails into Kurt's thighs, and as he does, the back pocket of his jeans begins to vibrate:
"Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world-"
"Fuck no, fuck no." He swears, suddenly his sweat a little bit colder.
"Is that... that you?"
"Shit, stupid fucking thing." Puck's rhythm breaks and judders, dizzying colours swirling in front of his eyes. Suddenly his stomach plummets into his toes.
"-A city boy, born and raised in south Detroit-"
"-Are you kidding, just ignore it-"
"-Fuck, Kurt." Puck squeezes his eyes shut again, gasping hard as his skin starts to burn, and his phone continues jangling.
"-Going anywhere!"
"Kurt." Puck grabs blindly for Kurt's other wrist, fingers closing desperately around pale, hot skin. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck-"
His orgasm smashes through him, hips thrusting pathetically once, twice more up into Kurt's hand.
"Fuck. Fuck, yes..." He bites down on his arm, shame racing through his veins, hot and desperate as the come staining through the front of his boxers.
"…Fuck... Fuck."
His phone falls silent.
For the longest while, the only sound is their breathing, a harsh staccato bouncing between their chests and around the walls. Puck presses his arm over his eyes, wincing with loss and embarrassment as Kurt extracts his hand from inside his pants, wiping it carelessly against Puck's shucked down boxers.
His phone stays silent, but Puck can still hear it ringing in his head. He's heard it ringing all day.
He bites his lip, trying to catch his breath as he feels Kurt shift again, crawling up Puck's chest and settling his chin against the dip of his collarbone. He's trembling too, Puck realises slowly. He's still hard.
"Do you, uh..." He stutters, doesn't know how to say it, and his brain kinda isn't really present. "D'ya want me to do...you?"
Kurt doesn't answer. He just leans up and presses his lips to his one more time, and Puck's eyes begin to prickle in the corners.
"...Y'know they call it a 'happy' ending." Kurt reminds him lightly after a few moments, but it sounds flat in Puck's ears. He wipes a hand over his eyes, trying to clear the tears starting to form. It doesn't work. That fucking phone. Maybe he should've answered it. Maybe that would've helped. Like they're not all traumatised enough.
"Noah..." He feels Kurt's hands curl around his own, pulling them away from his flushed, damp face: "Forget it."
Puck meets his eyes, and feels his insides shrivel even further at the hardness encased in those irises.
"If she doesn't care she doesn't matter."
Puck blinks, his vision blurring and clearing. In the same second Kurt glances away from him, and Puck stares for a long minute at the straight line of his nose, the delicate smudge of his eyelashes.
Fuck. He looks back at the ceiling.
He feels really stupid all of a sudden. And young; tangled up with another boy on top of his sweaty bed covers, his embarrassed cock still half in, half out his underwear.
"...Did... Does your dad care?" He asks, blank.
It feels like a long wait before Kurt answers.
"No." He says eventually. And a moment later, Puck feels the mattress shift under them as the other boy climbs off him, and a second after that, a box of tissues landing unceremoniously against his stomach.
"...I need a shower. Put the Netflix on or something, 'kay?"
*
Sue taps her ballpoint against her teeth, lip curling in a near-perfect imitation of a satiated jaguar. Under the table she can feel Sandy Ryerson’s knee bouncing with arousal- and although that realisation in itself would be enough to hurtle a person less practiced in the intricacies of psychological warfare than herself to the very precipice of horror, in this instance it’s exactly the reaction she was looking for.
She glances back at the frail, knobbly figure still soaked in the spotlight before her. The keys to McKinley’s auditorium now seem to be permanently in the possession of one hideously-tousled William Schuester (something about a Journey?) so a slight change of plan brought the audition into the fear-soaked confines of Sue’s own four by six office space, the follow-spot mere inches from their sole auditionee’s face. The girl bore the heat of a thousand watts well enough though; with style- Sue might even consider sending one of the Cheerios to buy a Congratulations card when she develops her first inevitable flare-up of melanoma.
Casually, Sue nudges Ryerson’s elbow, and scrawls one word across the top of the otherwise blank page before her: ‘Yes’.
The disgraced educator nearly squirms with delight, leaning languidly forward to depress the button on his loudspeaker. His rimless spectacles flash in the spotlight:
“Congratulations Miss Sally Bowles, you just landed the lead.”
(Sue’s almost entirely sure he’s wearing hold-ups under his pants).
She glances up. In front of them, Rachel Berry’s smile expands to proportions that on a person so vertically stunted can only be described as sinister.
Yep. Sue Sylvester’s criminal intelligence triumphs yet again.
*
Puck turns the faucet and curses at the unexpected freakin’ power-jet of water that smashes against the basin and soaks the front of his t-shirt. Shit. He twists the faucet off again; tries to brush his tee dry with one experimental hand. As if he didn’t look homeless enough already.
“You alright there kid?”
Puck’s bare feet squeak against the lino flooring as he starts round. Kurt’s dad’s framed in the doorway, eyes half-closed with tiredness but pupils as sharp as push-pins.
“Uh, yeah, sorry, it was just, the water-”
“-Yeah, it’s a dodgy one.” Burt interrupts in a drawl, and Puck can’t tell if he’s pissed off or amused. He pads into the kitchen, and grabs a dishtowel to shove in Puck’s direction before heading to the fridge.
Puck wipes nervously at his chest, too tired and too weary to figure out how his first introduction to his boyfriend’s dad should go. He probably shouldn’t be in his boxer shorts, cock still sore with the memory of Kurt’s hand gripped tight around it.
Jesus, don’t think about that.
“Uh I’m, uh, Noah Puckerman, sir.”
“You don’t sound so sure about that.”
“I-” Puck scratches nervously at the back of his mohawk and Burt grants him a pitying smile:
“Relax son.”
“…I just needed a drink.” Puck explains-kinda needlessly, since he’s standing with a half-filled glass of water in his hand. “I’m sorry if I, like, woke you up.”
“You didn’t.” Burt assures him shortly. He pulls some cardboard ping-meal box out of the fridge and nudges it shut with his elbow. “…You’ve been around here before, right?”
Puck’s surprised he remembers. They’ve only ever nodded in passing, as Puck skulked through the kitchen and down to Kurt’s basement away from prying eyes. “Yeah, kinda. A coupla times. Just… Me and Kurt are in Glee together.”
“…Yeah, he text you might be staying over.” Burt replies, in a way that Puck can’t tell whether he’s aware of the obvious omission or not. Though he’s pretty sure if Burt knew for sure Puck was macking on his son he’d be sleeping in the garage, probably minus some vital organ.
“You were working on some competition stuff or something?” Burt gives a vaguely helpless shrug as he deposits his meal in the microwave and spins the dial. “I don’t know, do you kids do competitions now?”
“Yeah, it’s Invitationals in like a week.” Puck supplies, nudging tentatively at the faucet again, this time managing not to drown himself.
“He doesn’t tell me anything.”
It’s painfully matter-of-fact, and Puck can’t help looking up. Burt’s glowering at the slowly rotating plate of the microwave.
He takes a sip of his water, starting hesitantly towards the door. He should go back to bed, make his getaway before he says something dumb. His brain’s running mostly on fear and recycled arousal- it’s bound to happen eventually.
“…I, uh, borrowed your guitar.” He says eventually, lamely. “If you were, y’know looking for it.”
Burt glances round; blinks.
“Right…Thanks for sayin’.” He gives a tight, tiny smile, and Puck has almost convinced himself to go when a question forces its way out of the older man’s mouth:
“So; how is my son?”
Puck swallows heavily. What?
Burt waves a hand, as if dismissing some of the acrimony from those words: “Just, our schedules don’t cross over much; feels like we haven’t been in the same room for weeks. And he’s been kind of…different. You don’t know anything about that?”
Puck thinks his eyes have gone kind of wide. He takes what he hopes is another totally nonchalant sip of his water and just about manages not to choke on it.
“Um he’s... fine.” He assures the other man, way too light to be believable. “Just, I guess, busy?”
Burt nods, tucking his tongue against his cheek as the microwave finally pings and he pulls the door open to release a toxic tomato-flavoured curl of steam. ”Right.”
They probably don’t see each other, Puck reflects sleepily when he finally returns to bed, blinking at the back of his boyfriend’s head through the drowsy blackness. Kurt is always super-busy… At least his dad wants to see him…
He presses his face into the pillow, stifling a yawn. He remembers Kurt’s flat, hollow “no.” from earlier and wonders when the last time he and Burt being in the same room together actually was. The football game? Before that? The last time Puck came over? When did they last talk? He can’t really picture Kurt and his dad being all buddy-buddy over some Broadway special.
Talking’s overrated anyhow, he thinks bitterly, picturing his cock-blocking phone where it now lies, smothered in a spare sock and shoved into the deepest pocket of his backpack.
He isn’t brave enough to hold Kurt as they sleep; but he snuggles against the same mattress, sharing the same covers, basking in the warmth of the other boy’s body and the scent of skin he knows way too well. And for the first time in days and days, he sleeps.
Verse: Reverseverse
Author: Test_kard_girl
Rating: PG, for some sweary language
Characters/Pairings Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Genre: AU
Warning: Puck and Kurt not being themselves
Spoilers: Say through Season 1, although as it's AU, in a very roundabout, squint and you'll miss it kind of way.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone. I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Author's Notes A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. The original fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal' before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in.
Word Count (This part) 4603
Summary: he "social ladder" is upside down. Puck gets bullied by one ice-queen Kurt Hummel. Doesn't mean he isn't head over heels though.
The Reverseverse, episode 4 part 3: Truces are formed, in all sorts of ways. Some more naked than others.
Puck scratches at the nape of his ridiculous mohawk, looking more puzzled than Kurt expected at the sight of his boyfriend perched in the centre of his own bed with a minted looking six-string balanced across his knees. Kurt doesn't quite see why he's so surprised. Music's more or less their entire deal, isn't it?
He taps a hand affectionately against the guitar's varnished body.
"I figured you probably didn't have a chance to salvage yours when you fled Casa de Puckerman." He says, as Puck slumps himself down on the opposite side of the mattress. "Seeing as how Fabray and the Cheerios have upped the ante, I thought we could practice some ideas for Invitationals? Come up with something even more spectacular."
Puck doesn't look convinced: "...Right."
Kurt bites down on his bottom lip. He's practicing blunting his razor-sharp wit, but it's taking some effort.
"I figured something a bit more 'classic rock'..." He explains wryly, turning the guitar in his lap and pushing it towards Puckerman's reluctant body. "But it's... not really my wheelhouse."
Kurt watches as Puck's fingers automatically drift along the strings, tracing their taut length with his well-calloused fingertips. His eyebrows crush together in the centre of his forehead as he plucks tentatively at E, A, D; E again. Kurt tilts his head. "Is it okay?" He asks.
Puck nods. "Yeah... Yeah." Kurt sees a flicker of green before his boyfriend's eyes are reclaimed by the guitar strings once more. "Is it yours?"
He sounds like he asks just for something to say.
"Nooo." Kurt spreads his hand out on his comforter, leaning back. "It's my father's."
"Oh-he a musician too?"
"Hah, no. No, he's just a big Mellencamp fan." Kurt bites the corner of his mouth. "Thinks all a blue-collar guy needs to get by in the Midwest is a pickup and three chords on the gee-tar." He reaches over; plucks his own discordant G sharp across the strings "He hasn't played it in years. Years and years."
It comes out emptier than he'd intended, and this time when Puck's eyes snap upwards Kurt is carefully occupied by the slight pulled thread in the leg of his Vivienne Westwood lounge pants.
"...'M more a Springsteen guy." Puck divulges, before his hands resume their loving path along the strings. He twists at the keys with practiced fingers and the tremor of stretched metal skitters up Kurt's spine.
"I had piano lessons..." He offers. "Far more elegant."
Puck doesn't seem to hear him. As Kurt watches, he picks out the notes again: E, A, C. The whites of his eyes are stained pink. He looks like he needs about five years of sleep, and the stubble's already starting to fuzz his jawline. Kurt's pretty sure the last thing he wants to be doing is experimenting with chord changes for some passive-aggressive Invitationals number.
"...So, uh, you got any idea what you wanna try?"
Kurt purses his lips thoughtfully: "Don't suppose you know any Madonna?"
For some reason, that's the line that cracks the corner of Puck's frown: "I thought you said 'classic rock'." He reminds him, mimicking Kurt's air-quotes with his strumming hand.
"Madonna is the queen of classic rock." Kurt replies airily. "It's a subtitle of being Queen of the Musical Universe."
"Queen, that's a better idea. You can't get more classic rock than Queen." Puck suggests, and Kurt grimaces like he's contemplating plaid.
"Hmm. I suppose the world pioneers of stadium rock do have a sort-of kitschy mass-market appeal..."
But Puck's already picking out some notes:
"This thing called love, I just can't handle it, this thing, called love--"
"-Oh god no, god no!" Kurt protests, smile cracking as he catches Puck's hand in his. "Too gay, needs to stop."
Puck smirks too, letting their fingers tangle for just a second before he pulls his hand back: "Okay, okay..."
He tries again:
"I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things, We can do the tango just for two-"
"-Even more gay." Kurt interjects; but Puck only rolls his eyes:
"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings, be your Valentino just for you-"
"-Do you even know who Valentino is?-"
"--Ooh love, ooh loverboy, What're you doin' tonight, hey boy-set my alarm, turn on my charm, that's because I'm a good old-fashioned loverboy."
With inches between them, and the skin of his neck flushing pinker with every syllable he sings, Noah's voice is tentative- gravelly like jazz in some musty club where everyone tastes of tequila. Normally it's the peppiest of pop sings; but it sounds better like this. Kurt blames his innate musicianship for how he can't stop himself glancing down at their almost touching knees and joining in for the last chorus:
"Ooh love, ooh loverboy, what're you doin' tonight, hey boy. Everything's all right, just hold on tight, that's because I'm a good old fashioned loverboy..."
They look at each other as the sound falls away. There's an odd tinny hum in Kurt's ears. It shouldn't feel this significant; the first time they've sung together. That's crazed, surely.
Puck's glance skitters downwards, and Kurt feels a sharper than expected knife in his brain-stem.
"Noah." Kurt's hand grips hard around the other boy's calf. "You can look at me, okay? Your mother isn't hiding in the closet."
(He doesn't hear that till a few second after he says it. Hm, ironic.)
But Puck maybe doesn't hear the funny. He just wipes his palms over his face:
"...Gee, thanks Kurt, that's real understanding."
"I didn't-" Kurt shifts, moving his legs under him. "-Look... You don't have to stay here if you don't want to--"
"-Who said anything about not wantin' to stay?"
"Your face says it." Kurt snaps, a bit helplessly. "You've hardly made eye-contact with me since fifth period, and I don't know what I did to piss you off, this is just..." He gestures around at his cavernous treasure-trove of a bedroom. "I just wanted to..." The last work sticks a bit on his tongue. "Help. Something...Whatever."
It's a pathetic enough admission that Puck's eye-contact problem seems instantly remedied. He stares at Kurt with dark, blank irises like marbles.
Kurt rolls his eyes. "Yeah; I said-"
But he doesn't finish, words stolen by Puck's mouth suddenly pressed hard against his.
Kurt sucks a breath through his nose, catching Puck's roughened jaw between his palms, pulling him closer, meeting each needful push of his lips with his own. It's more a fight than a kiss, and Kurt has to jam his hands against Puck's chest and shove hard before he forces the other boy to let him go and allow them both some oxygen.
Not that Puck lets him go far. He keeps their foreheads jammed together, his fingers slipping upwards to catch and curl in the side of Kurt's hair. Kurt would usually hate that; but he's distracted by the look in the other boy's eyes. Up close the want twists Kurt's stomach, and he realises with a squeeze of shame that he was wrong: Puck isn't scared to be with him-he's scared that his mom's kicked him into the gutter and still all he wants more than anything is Kurt's body curled around his.
The guitar's still nestled between them, resting against Puck's stomach.
Kurt's breath catches as he wraps his hand around the neck of the instrument and takes it away, leaning over to lay it carefully on the floor.
When he turns back, Puck's fingers are pressed against his temples like he's considering climbing out the window, and Kurt almost laughs.
"Fuck, I didn't-"
"Stop it." He chastises quietly, balancing a hand against Puck's thigh and touching their lips together once more, much more softly. This time, when Kurt presses his hand to Noah's ribcage, the boy goes where he pushes him:
"Keep kissing me." He suggests softly, as Noah guides him down beside him. "I think it was helping..."
*
“Y’know, we’ve been spending way too much of our time recently observing losers in their natural habitat.” Mercedes muses idly.
In her peripheral vision, she can see the vague turn-up of Tina’s smile: “Maybe you’d prefer to pull a Hummel and join in?”
“Bitch, please.”
Mercedes runs her fingertips along the chain-link, watching the straggly swarm of identically-clad cheerleaders begin to disperse. Only a few of them are visibly weeping. Maybe Coach Sylvester’s losing her touch.
The squad scurries past, each one of their gazes skating to the ground before they get too close and make the mistake of meeting Mercedes’ or Tina’s flinty stares. Mercedes feels a tiny smugness tug at her lip, kind of glad for just that little bit of normality.
The three Cheerios they’ve been waiting for bring up the rear, mouths identical thin pink lines- although Brittany looks like she’s just doing it to keep up appearances. When she gets close enough she smiles sunnily and offers a tiny little finger wave.
They come to a stop a respectful half-meter in front of them.
“Can we help you?” Quinn enquires frostily, ponytail spinning in nervous circles behind her head, and Mercedes can’t help snorting at the
tight, pinched way her words come out.
“Aw, can the attitude Fabray- Queen Bitch doesn’t suit you. I’d stick with Virgin Princess.”
From behind Quinn’s shoulder, Santana raises disinterested eyebrows: “Is this the part where you go all Million Dollar Baby on us? ‘Cos I just had my tips done.” She informs them, examining the aforementioned fingernails.
Brittany looks aghast: “Babies cost that much?”
“You know, your bitching? It doesn’t scare me.” Quinn interrupts flatly, fitting her arms tightly over the WMHS of her uniform. “You wouldn’t be seen dead out here if you didn’t want something from us, so what is it?”
Mercedes lifts her chin. Give Fabray her due, she’s grown some balls in the last couple of weeks. Shame she’s shooting her mouth off in all the wrong directions though. This is gonna end in tears, she just knows it.
But hey. Needs must. Or something:
“A truce.”
Santana blinks, leaning in closer like she’s heard something outrageous: “Hold up, can you repeat that?”
“You letting Karofsky come in your ear again Lopez?”
Quinn makes a face, pushing warning fingernails into Santana’s forearm. Her eyes are all for Mercedes though; cool, and angry with that twisted, righteous anger that all losers seem to have:
“Funny. You get a chance to see how good we are and all of a sudden you want to be best friends.”
“Who said anything about ‘friends’?” Mercedes retorts bluntly. “Look, we don’t like each other: I think that’s probably the only thing we’re gonna agree on. But Tee and I-” She nods towards Tina’s impassive face “- have been talking and the way we figure it is, we all want the same thing.”
“What’s that?”
“To win.” Something spiteful squeezes Mercedes’ chest. “You, ‘cos you ain’t ever won one sparkly thing in your whole lives; us, ‘cos our self-elected monarchy are halfway to crazy-town and it’s about time someone else got the chance to step into the spotlight.”
Quinn’s face remains suspicious.
“What’s Berry got to say about this?”
Mercedes tilts her head, sneering at the cheerleader’s pathetically obvious loathing. “Aw. You got a little crush?”
Santana’s clearly still sore about the ear thing; she points an incredulous finger between the two gleeks:
“Nah, I think she’s just wondering why we’re spending our time chatting with the runts when this is clearly a top-dog conversation.”
Mercedes’ lets out a dry little laugh, hand automatically going up to remove her earrings when Tina steps neatly between them:
“Glee practice, tomorrow lunchtime.” She instructs, pushing the straight black slices of hair away from her pale cheekbones. She stares Santana down with that soulless Underworld thing she does so well when she’s angsting: “You show Mr Schuester that number for Invitationals, and we’ve got your back. Deal?”
“…And Berry?”
“-Can sing her lungs out from the second row of the chorus.” Mercedes supplies mulishly, and surprises herself by how satisfied that idea makes her.
Not half as satisfied as it makes Quinn though. The girl’s sea-green eyes glitter like smoked glass as she holds out one white, unblemished hand. It reminds Mercedes uncomfortably of her best friend.
“…Deal.”
*
Kurt kisses him carefully, almost experimentally, as they lie chest to chest across the bedcovers. His eyes flicker open between every touch of their lips, and Puck thinks staring into his darkening gaze from that tiny distance, as the blush rises higher and higher on his cheeks, is almost more arousing than the soft, insistent press of his mouth.
Almost.
Puck's fingers grasp, catching in the hem of Kurt's shirt, tugging him closer. His brain is sluggish but so, so needy; he opens his lips wider, kissing back; shuddering at how easily Kurt's tongue slides against his. It's hot. So. Fucking. Hot. His tentative grip becomes a curled fist, shoving the fabric of Kurt's shirt up his back, replacing it with his own hungry, unpractised hands.
Kurt hums approvingly, smile flickering between them as he shifts his weight, pressing closer. Puck does not find it a hardship to go where he's pushed, spreading himself across the covers, Kurt's lithe body sprawling over his. The unexpected press of the other boy's hardening cock against his thigh forces a groan from between Puck's teeth and he shifts, tilting his hips up and getting some clumsy relief for his own dick, confined in the crotch of his jeans. He does it again, and Kurt's lips slip from his as he presses his face momentarily into the crook of Puck's neck, breath fast and warm and fingers slipping almost absently under the front of Puck's t-shirt.
Their bodies move together, jerkily at first, then with more intent; two musicians given up on listening to rhythm and listening to their cocks instead. Kurt's kisses become less and less; just hot exhales against Puck's mouth, teeth catching occasionally and urging Puck's hands on in their exploration of his body. Puck squeezes his eyes shut until he has spots exploding behind his eyelids. So good. So, fucking, fucking good. His hands curve around the firm roundness of Kurt's ass, forcing him closer, harder. Yes. Yes-
"-Puck." Kurt breathes, a one-word instruction, and Puck forces his eyes open; sees that same broken, beautiful smirk he's been privy to a million times from a distance before Kurt presses a hard kiss to his lips and shifts slightly, forcing Puck to let him go so he can push a hand between their bodies.
"Oh god." Puck swears at the ceiling, head thumping backwards as the heel of Kurt's hand presses down against his cock, kneading its throbbing hardness through his jeans. Just perfect, just agonisingly perfect. Fuck.
Puck spreads his legs wider; pushes himself up against Kurt's hand.
"Feel good?" the other boy enquires in a whisper, lips teasing against the corner of Puck's own.
Puck can only nod, fingers wrenching at the bed-covers. It feels more than good. So much more than ‘good’. Having blood in his dick is way better than having it in his brain. Oh fuck this. He scrabbles blindly for his own fly, but after too many fumbling seconds, Kurt slaps his hands away:
"Let me."
When Kurt's hand pushes inside his jeans, closing around him though his underwear, Puck almost comes from sheer disbelief. Oh god. Oh god. The other boy pulls experimentally along his aching length and Puck arches into his hand, groaning like a kicked hound.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Puck answers through gritted teeth, nodding. "Yeah, yeah."
Half of him is mortified; so so embarrassed, so inexperienced and nervous and ashamed of even wanting this. But Kurt's never looked so beautiful, chest heaving, face pink, cock still digging awkwardly into Puck's thigh and his hand feels so good. Better than all those dreams. Better than all those times Puck's jerked himself off, pretending his fist belonged to someone else.
"Oh fuck, fuck… Kurt…"
Puck throws an arm over his face, biting down on his own skin as Kurt removes his hand, only to push in again inside Puck's boxers, fingers wrapping easily around his erection, bare skin around bare skin. He grips too tight, it's too rough, no lube, no nothing, but Puck doesn't care. His body's shuddering already. He knows he won't last long.
"Yes, please, god." He whispers, as Kurt's hand works along his length, finding the rhythm again, and this time Puck matches it without thinking, making it perfect. He feels the other boy get a better grip in the covers beside him, speeding up.
Puck pants like a dog, dragging his jeans and his underwear down over his hips. His toes curl in his socks, tingling with the orgasm burning its way up his legs. Kurt's hand twists at the head of his cock before he pulls back down, and Puck spits expletives at the ceiling.
There isn't much left. Kurt grips tighter as Puck's body begins to jerk, and Puck glances up just once; sees the other boy's teeth buried in the corner of his lip. Their gazes lock and it's almost frightening how little Puck understands the black, lustful colours in the other's eyes.
He reaches down, digging his fingernails into Kurt's thighs, and as he does, the back pocket of his jeans begins to vibrate:
"Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world-"
"Fuck no, fuck no." He swears, suddenly his sweat a little bit colder.
"Is that... that you?"
"Shit, stupid fucking thing." Puck's rhythm breaks and judders, dizzying colours swirling in front of his eyes. Suddenly his stomach plummets into his toes.
"-A city boy, born and raised in south Detroit-"
"-Are you kidding, just ignore it-"
"-Fuck, Kurt." Puck squeezes his eyes shut again, gasping hard as his skin starts to burn, and his phone continues jangling.
"-Going anywhere!"
"Kurt." Puck grabs blindly for Kurt's other wrist, fingers closing desperately around pale, hot skin. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck-"
His orgasm smashes through him, hips thrusting pathetically once, twice more up into Kurt's hand.
"Fuck. Fuck, yes..." He bites down on his arm, shame racing through his veins, hot and desperate as the come staining through the front of his boxers.
"…Fuck... Fuck."
His phone falls silent.
For the longest while, the only sound is their breathing, a harsh staccato bouncing between their chests and around the walls. Puck presses his arm over his eyes, wincing with loss and embarrassment as Kurt extracts his hand from inside his pants, wiping it carelessly against Puck's shucked down boxers.
His phone stays silent, but Puck can still hear it ringing in his head. He's heard it ringing all day.
He bites his lip, trying to catch his breath as he feels Kurt shift again, crawling up Puck's chest and settling his chin against the dip of his collarbone. He's trembling too, Puck realises slowly. He's still hard.
"Do you, uh..." He stutters, doesn't know how to say it, and his brain kinda isn't really present. "D'ya want me to do...you?"
Kurt doesn't answer. He just leans up and presses his lips to his one more time, and Puck's eyes begin to prickle in the corners.
"...Y'know they call it a 'happy' ending." Kurt reminds him lightly after a few moments, but it sounds flat in Puck's ears. He wipes a hand over his eyes, trying to clear the tears starting to form. It doesn't work. That fucking phone. Maybe he should've answered it. Maybe that would've helped. Like they're not all traumatised enough.
"Noah..." He feels Kurt's hands curl around his own, pulling them away from his flushed, damp face: "Forget it."
Puck meets his eyes, and feels his insides shrivel even further at the hardness encased in those irises.
"If she doesn't care she doesn't matter."
Puck blinks, his vision blurring and clearing. In the same second Kurt glances away from him, and Puck stares for a long minute at the straight line of his nose, the delicate smudge of his eyelashes.
Fuck. He looks back at the ceiling.
He feels really stupid all of a sudden. And young; tangled up with another boy on top of his sweaty bed covers, his embarrassed cock still half in, half out his underwear.
"...Did... Does your dad care?" He asks, blank.
It feels like a long wait before Kurt answers.
"No." He says eventually. And a moment later, Puck feels the mattress shift under them as the other boy climbs off him, and a second after that, a box of tissues landing unceremoniously against his stomach.
"...I need a shower. Put the Netflix on or something, 'kay?"
*
Sue taps her ballpoint against her teeth, lip curling in a near-perfect imitation of a satiated jaguar. Under the table she can feel Sandy Ryerson’s knee bouncing with arousal- and although that realisation in itself would be enough to hurtle a person less practiced in the intricacies of psychological warfare than herself to the very precipice of horror, in this instance it’s exactly the reaction she was looking for.
She glances back at the frail, knobbly figure still soaked in the spotlight before her. The keys to McKinley’s auditorium now seem to be permanently in the possession of one hideously-tousled William Schuester (something about a Journey?) so a slight change of plan brought the audition into the fear-soaked confines of Sue’s own four by six office space, the follow-spot mere inches from their sole auditionee’s face. The girl bore the heat of a thousand watts well enough though; with style- Sue might even consider sending one of the Cheerios to buy a Congratulations card when she develops her first inevitable flare-up of melanoma.
Casually, Sue nudges Ryerson’s elbow, and scrawls one word across the top of the otherwise blank page before her: ‘Yes’.
The disgraced educator nearly squirms with delight, leaning languidly forward to depress the button on his loudspeaker. His rimless spectacles flash in the spotlight:
“Congratulations Miss Sally Bowles, you just landed the lead.”
(Sue’s almost entirely sure he’s wearing hold-ups under his pants).
She glances up. In front of them, Rachel Berry’s smile expands to proportions that on a person so vertically stunted can only be described as sinister.
Yep. Sue Sylvester’s criminal intelligence triumphs yet again.
*
Puck turns the faucet and curses at the unexpected freakin’ power-jet of water that smashes against the basin and soaks the front of his t-shirt. Shit. He twists the faucet off again; tries to brush his tee dry with one experimental hand. As if he didn’t look homeless enough already.
“You alright there kid?”
Puck’s bare feet squeak against the lino flooring as he starts round. Kurt’s dad’s framed in the doorway, eyes half-closed with tiredness but pupils as sharp as push-pins.
“Uh, yeah, sorry, it was just, the water-”
“-Yeah, it’s a dodgy one.” Burt interrupts in a drawl, and Puck can’t tell if he’s pissed off or amused. He pads into the kitchen, and grabs a dishtowel to shove in Puck’s direction before heading to the fridge.
Puck wipes nervously at his chest, too tired and too weary to figure out how his first introduction to his boyfriend’s dad should go. He probably shouldn’t be in his boxer shorts, cock still sore with the memory of Kurt’s hand gripped tight around it.
Jesus, don’t think about that.
“Uh I’m, uh, Noah Puckerman, sir.”
“You don’t sound so sure about that.”
“I-” Puck scratches nervously at the back of his mohawk and Burt grants him a pitying smile:
“Relax son.”
“…I just needed a drink.” Puck explains-kinda needlessly, since he’s standing with a half-filled glass of water in his hand. “I’m sorry if I, like, woke you up.”
“You didn’t.” Burt assures him shortly. He pulls some cardboard ping-meal box out of the fridge and nudges it shut with his elbow. “…You’ve been around here before, right?”
Puck’s surprised he remembers. They’ve only ever nodded in passing, as Puck skulked through the kitchen and down to Kurt’s basement away from prying eyes. “Yeah, kinda. A coupla times. Just… Me and Kurt are in Glee together.”
“…Yeah, he text you might be staying over.” Burt replies, in a way that Puck can’t tell whether he’s aware of the obvious omission or not. Though he’s pretty sure if Burt knew for sure Puck was macking on his son he’d be sleeping in the garage, probably minus some vital organ.
“You were working on some competition stuff or something?” Burt gives a vaguely helpless shrug as he deposits his meal in the microwave and spins the dial. “I don’t know, do you kids do competitions now?”
“Yeah, it’s Invitationals in like a week.” Puck supplies, nudging tentatively at the faucet again, this time managing not to drown himself.
“He doesn’t tell me anything.”
It’s painfully matter-of-fact, and Puck can’t help looking up. Burt’s glowering at the slowly rotating plate of the microwave.
He takes a sip of his water, starting hesitantly towards the door. He should go back to bed, make his getaway before he says something dumb. His brain’s running mostly on fear and recycled arousal- it’s bound to happen eventually.
“…I, uh, borrowed your guitar.” He says eventually, lamely. “If you were, y’know looking for it.”
Burt glances round; blinks.
“Right…Thanks for sayin’.” He gives a tight, tiny smile, and Puck has almost convinced himself to go when a question forces its way out of the older man’s mouth:
“So; how is my son?”
Puck swallows heavily. What?
Burt waves a hand, as if dismissing some of the acrimony from those words: “Just, our schedules don’t cross over much; feels like we haven’t been in the same room for weeks. And he’s been kind of…different. You don’t know anything about that?”
Puck thinks his eyes have gone kind of wide. He takes what he hopes is another totally nonchalant sip of his water and just about manages not to choke on it.
“Um he’s... fine.” He assures the other man, way too light to be believable. “Just, I guess, busy?”
Burt nods, tucking his tongue against his cheek as the microwave finally pings and he pulls the door open to release a toxic tomato-flavoured curl of steam. ”Right.”
They probably don’t see each other, Puck reflects sleepily when he finally returns to bed, blinking at the back of his boyfriend’s head through the drowsy blackness. Kurt is always super-busy… At least his dad wants to see him…
He presses his face into the pillow, stifling a yawn. He remembers Kurt’s flat, hollow “no.” from earlier and wonders when the last time he and Burt being in the same room together actually was. The football game? Before that? The last time Puck came over? When did they last talk? He can’t really picture Kurt and his dad being all buddy-buddy over some Broadway special.
Talking’s overrated anyhow, he thinks bitterly, picturing his cock-blocking phone where it now lies, smothered in a spare sock and shoved into the deepest pocket of his backpack.
He isn’t brave enough to hold Kurt as they sleep; but he snuggles against the same mattress, sharing the same covers, basking in the warmth of the other boy’s body and the scent of skin he knows way too well. And for the first time in days and days, he sleeps.