Snowfall
Title: Snowfall
Author: xallegedlyx
Pairing: Puck/Kurt
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The happenings and musings of a cold December day. (A nice quiet winter wonderland story that has somehow spiraled out of control. Heavy use of metaphor and angst ensue.)
Author's Note: I've been sitting on this fic for almost a year! Decided to post it, put it out into the world. It's as close as I'm going to get. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Do not own, do not sue.
The sun glared blindingly into Puck’s eyes even as snow fell around him. It was the sort of day one could get lost in. The way the sun twinkled off the snow, the graceful drifts, the cold wind that whipped so bitingly, the curl of the puffy snow-heavy clouds in the sky against the brightest blue. The days the sun was out were always the coldest. Puck wanted to get lost in it, wanted to feel the power of it. Like being in a crowd of people moving together seamlessly, like the sea on the beach, you want not only to be a part of it, but to encompass all of it. As if, if you could just let go for a second, you might reach some place, some incandescent transcendent state that was above and present and entirely there. Puck wanted to be the snow, the breeze that blew it, the clouds that drop it and the sun that kissed his cheeks with warmth and sent harsh rays peering into his eyes. If he could just sit here long enough, lay in the bask of the sun and the cold of the snow, be part of it for enough time, he might become the icicles that adorn all the corners of the world, might learn to simply be like the frost on a windshield, could simply exist like the banks pushed so artfully chaotic in the edges of parking lots. But he was not. He was tied in tangibility, weighed down by his body and his heart and his own very eyes. By seeing these things, he could never be one of them. They felt no stab of cold or remorse to their fingertips or deep deep in the their chests. They were ever-present and still as a snowfall. Dogs barked, little flakes floated from the sky to gently arrange themselves in a pattern over everything, cold air entered Puck’s lungs and left them.
Puck buried his hands deeper in his pockets and sat back against the bench. The boy across the way seemed to fit with this reality more than Puck ever could. Puck had been watching him all day. For hours now he had moved with the swift grace of the wind.
It was a beautiful little rink, ovular and white, surrounded by winter-bitten trees and buildings with little shops. In the summer all the guys with skateboards would inhabit the expanse of smooth cement, Puck had seen when he came along with them. The heat would rise in waves from the sun-baked ground and almost suffocate him. Now in the winter, covered in ice, this place belonged to Kurt Hummel. Kurt took this job every winter, teaching kids to ice skate. Where the skateboard guys would trip and stumble, depend on the wood of the board and the wheels that turned, Kurt seemed to move across the same space as if he were floating. As if the skates were as much a part of him as his own feet.
In this lovely space, on this bright bright day, Kurt would take out across the ice with a little youngster, pull them by the hand, steady their arms, turn around and lead them across the frozen span, if only for a few feet. Puck could see in his eyes, the easiness of his smile, the carefree swinging of his legs and his arms and his laugh that out there Kurt was free. Free in a way Puck didn’t know if he would ever be.
So he watched. He watched Kurt with the little girl dressed in pink first thing in the morning, he watched Kurt lead the unsure boy with the big red parka across the rink for the first time, he watched Kurt show off for the twelve-year-old who’d been skating all her life, he watched Kurt and wished to be the one that got to hold his hand. Oh to be that glove. Puck could punch himself knowing that he had that chance. It was right there.
Like anything Puck ever touched, it got fucked up.
It was about noon that day when Puck thought he saw Kurt maybe notice him there. About four when he was sure Kurt glanced his way. It wasn’t until his shift ended at five-thirty that they talked.
“What are you doing here, Puck?”
The lights were shutting off around the rink as the early winter night set in. The edges of the sky were turning inky and Puck could almost imagine the air itself had turned blue, lit briefly a brilliant white by buildings outlined in Christmas lights and gold by the lamps lighting the street. The air Kurt breathed out as he stood in front of Puck was a lighter blue, the shadows on his face even reaching dark navy hues. Puck could almost feel the warmth that radiated from Kurt’s body, tried not to think about the heartbeat, the warm crook at the inside of Kurt’s knee, the tender stretch of skin across the small of Kurt’s back. It all seemed so foreign now. As he slouched against his frosty bench, his wind-chapped lips struggled into a smile.
“My dad’s back in town.” They stayed silent for a long moment.
Kurt shifted his weight. He adjusted the strap of the bag across his shoulder, pulled his zipper up closer around his neck.
“It’s freezing. What, were you going to stay out here all night?”
Puck just shrugged. He had, with purpose, not planned any farther than this afternoon. Trying to decide what to do with his day would only remind him that there was nothing for him to do with his day. He had no place to go, really. With his dad back, it was best for everyone if he stayed out of the house for a while.
Puck guessed he could go catch a movie. Maybe go to the diner. He wasn’t really sure. Anything that would take up a few hours. He could slip back home later, after everyone had gone to bed, and be out again before the sun rose.
Kurt sighed. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.” His voice was weary. Puck didn’t meet his eyes. He turned to walk away and didn’t wait for Puck to follow. Didn’t turn his head to make sure Puck was there. And really, Puck knew he deserved it.
Kurt’s car always smelled like fabric softener. It was one of those things that Puck kind of loved. It was a good fabric softener. Maybe lavender or vanilla. It smelled like warm clothes fresh out of the dryer. It smelled like purity and cotton. It smelled like comfort and protection. Puck was pretty sure it had turned him on a time or two. Even now, empty and hollow, that old fabric softener smell filled him up a little. Even if it was just for a second. He loved that smell more than ever when it wafted from the heating vents. When it came to his car, like everything about Kurt, perfection seemed ingrained in its design.
Kurt was still shivering after they had both climbed in and started the engine. The radio station immediately went to NPR and the defrosters blasted first thing. Kurt rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers. Puck knew that even under those fancy charcoal-grey knitted gloves, Kurt’s fingers were shaking and blue with the chill. After a minute Kurt put his hands on the steering wheel.
“Okay,” he said. “Where to?”
When Puck was like seven and his sister was just a baby, his mom would drive them around in the car a lot. It was the only way to calm them down sometimes. The baby would only sleep if she was being cradled by the gentle rolling of their old sedan across asphalt. Puck would sit in the back next to his baby sister in his car seat and watch the whole world roll past his window. He imagined he must be seeing the most wonderful things. His mom would tell him stories about all the places in Ohio they’d been, all over Lima and Columbus and one time they even made it all the way to Cleveland and back. It was easy for Puck to imagine that Ohio was the center of the world.
It was only a couple years later when he found a stack of National Geographics in the school library that he realized it wasn’t. When he gazed at photographs of Egypt and Syria and Rome and Brazil, he knew he hadn’t been anywhere. For years since then he’d collected all the National Geographics he could find, gotten good at slipping them under his coat, into his book bag, in with another stack of books, and out the door. He’d wait until he was home where he’d sit on his bed and just look and long for Jerusalem and Paris, Stockholm and Shanghai. That was where he wanted to be. Not fucking Lima. He wanted to get lost in the world the same way he wanted to get lost in a snowfall. He just wanted to be, wanted to go, wanted to see. Didn’t want to have to think anymore.
Almost ten years later, and Puck still hadn’t even left Ohio. He felt more caged than ever when he looked at Kurt sitting there, waiting for directions. Puck didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, for Kurt to decide for them where they were going, maybe? For Kurt to kick him out?
“Oh god, Noah.” He said. But put the car in drive and let the wheels turn.
Puck knew where they were going before they got there. He could feel the familiar streets as they passed him by, the old stop signs and turn signals he was used to, the yards of houses that he always noticed, the old recognizable tar streaks over blacktop. It was a déjà vu he’d felt a hundred times over. He knew this way as well as he knew the way to his own home.
The light above the garage greeted them as they pulled into the driveway. It painted everything a canary gold against the ever-darkening blue hues of the night. Kurt didn’t say anything when he hopped out of the car, when he grabbed his bag, when he headed for the front door.
Puck knew he could be as pathetic as he wanted, as dramatic as he fancied, as sullen as he felt, but Kurt wouldn’t sit around and coddle him. If there’s anything he’d learned, that was it.
Kurt was just setting his things down when Puck got to the threshold. He was stamping his boots, unzipping his coat, brushing the snow from his head when he heard the sound of a football game is drifting from the kitchen, the sound of whistles and canned cheering. Sports commentators announced the score to the tune of the NFL background music. Puck could see only by the light of the kitchen filtering into their dark front all. Kurt was a smudge of charcoal moving in front of the large dark closet, outlined only by the highlight on the side of his face, the curve of his shoulder, the rustling of his coat as it was hung up and put away. With the scrape of a chair and a grunt at the screen, Puck could hear Kurt’s father make his way in their direction.
“Hey there Noah.” Kurt had never introduced Puck as Puck. Puck was pretty sure the nickname was something Burt had never been aware of. Puck had always liked it that way. It was like a clean slate. He wasn’t Puck, the bully, or Puck, the guy with daddy issues, or Puck, the jerk. There was none of the baggage. Noah was a normal guy. In Burt Hummel’s eyes, Noah was nice and caring with his son. A winner. Not like real Puck at all.
“Hi Dad,” Kurt said and brushed past him before Puck could even properly respond, leaving only a swish of air in his wake. Burt didn’t move. Puck didn’t move. For a second Puck felt like he was always being left in the stir of Kurt’s air. It was something he and Burt had in common. They were the ones who felt Kurt flit in and out of their lives, like Kurt was the waves and the tide that drew in and out, and they were the small stones of sand on the beach, forever in his wake. They watched in stillness as he came and went, leaving his presence behind even after he was gone. For a second they just stood.
“You two get in a fight?” Mr. Hummel broke the silence, “I thought maybe it was all the stress from school, or you know, this time of year’s real hard on both of us. Look Noah, I would really appreciate it if you could talk to him. Kurt’s been real quiet lately and I - I just don’t know what…” Puck could see him struggle. He knew because it’s a struggle he always had himself. “I think he’s been fighting with some of his friends at school. And he’s always had a hard time making friends. Always alone. Ever since his mom…” Puck nodded again. “It’s not a role I know how to fill.”
“Yeah Mr. Hummel.” Puck couldn’t tell him the truth, wouldn’t dare shatter the trust in Burt’s gaze. So he didn’t say anything. Let the silence wash over him. His mind was blank.
“Are we going to eat dinner or what?” Kurt huffed from behind the doorway. Puck could hear him moving things around, changing the channel, opening and closing the oven.
“Yeah, we’ll be right there.” Burt gave Puck one long last look before turned away, opened the door, let the bright light from the kitchen pour into Puck’s eyes.
“Here, son. Let me grab you a plate.” The table was set for two. Pastel-colored paper plates with a knife and a fork to each side, a paper napkin under each fork. Puck remembered the first evening he spent here with the Hummels. Seeing Kurt in such a setting had been a revelation. He hadn’t been sure why, but at the time everything about Kurt had seemed golden. The way he brushed his hair aside, the constant perfection of his clothes and his handwriting, his smooth voice, kind smile. He’d seemed like something from some higher plane. But that night he sat down with Puck and his dad and ate off a paper plate, smiled while he chewed, smeared some pasta sauce on his cheek. Instead of deterring Puck at all, it made his heart soar. Kurt was perfect even when he wasn’t. Puck had vowed then not to fuck it up. Not to let anything get in the way. He could scoff at the thought now.
“Dinner’ll be ready in just a minute Noah.” Mr. Hummel informed him. Puck stood awkwardly in front of that table as Burt moved to Kurt who had begun to toss a salad. “Why don’t you go wash up?”
Being here, watching the remnants of their relationship, was like seeing the carcass of a road-kill. The hollow memories like an empty skeleton. They were there, and he knew they had been sweet and warm and wonderful, but now they were vacant. Cold. Just a shell.
He turned on the light on the stairs, leaving behind the yellow-bright kitchen for the stark florescent of the basement stairs to the bathroom. Puck had kissed Kurt for the first time on these stairs. Standing almost at the bottom, turned to look up at Kurt a few steps above him. Kurt had been looking at him with bright sparkling green eyes. He had been laughing. Every day after that Puck had thought of Kurt’s eyes like a snowfall. Clear and bright and wonderful, constant and unwavering, deep and bottomless, framed within Kurt’s irises. In that moment with Kurt, Puck was as free and all-encompassing as if he had thrown his arms out around the sea and embraced all of it, as if there was no limit to the horizon.
Kurt’s eyes. He let the thought dwell with him all the way down to the landing, but instead of letting his feet carry him to the bathroom, he found himself standing in Kurt’s bedroom. In the dim light he could see the clutter on Kurt’s desk, the schoolbooks and papers strewn across the surface. The vanity in the corner, Kurt’s perfectly arranged products glinted. Kurt’s bed, made hastily this morning but immaculate nonetheless. Puck’s heart was like a stone weighing in his chest, a dark pit that was consuming him. He swayed.
It was quiet. There was the tick of a clock somewhere, the gentle hum of the television upstairs, voices conversing in the kitchen, muted and muffled. Puck thought of Kurt’s snowfall eyes. How long he’d been able to gaze into them, how they would welcome him to a place without pain or sorrow, unfurl to expose the beauty of everything that lay behind them and shine a light on Puck that made him beautiful too. No matter how many ticks the clock made, in this very room, Puck had wanted to stay through all of them, just to look into Kurt’s eyes. To be swallowed up by their infinite expanse.
The bed rose up to meet him.
His cheek pressed into the mattress. He didn’t know what he thought he was doing. Didn’t know what right he had to be here. Had no idea. He felt his breath between his parted lips, looked at the white duvet that covered now all his vision. He remembered the times he held Kurt underneath this very blanket, the way Kurt’s breath ghosted around his ears and neck. He remembered just holding him for hours beneath the white down, melting into the warm sweet softness of Kurt’s kisses, Kurt’s gentle sighs and whispers, Kurt’s legs drawing up around his waist, the feeling of being so complete as they clung to each other.
He didn’t want to think about this right now. Didn’t want to be the one curled up and aching. Puck’s arms were so empty without him.
He brought the duvet to his face and smelled it, pulled it over his head and wrapped it around his body as if it alone could take him back. The smell of Kurt’s fabric softener, the thread count against his skin, the longing to have his Kurt back right there with him, right there with his sparkling, endless snowfall eyes and thin shoulders and pink cheeks, Kurt with their legs tangled together and his steady breathing and his funny humpf when he’s trying to concentrate on something and Puck’s distracting him. It was all he wanted.
Like that, the tears were spilling. His eyes were stinging. His chest racked with a pain he was too afraid to fully grasp.
When Kurt finds him the only sound is Puck’s own ragged breathing.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Puck was saying, trying to say, between the tears that clogged his senses, the heaves that wouldn’t let him breathe, the constricting pain in his chest. “Kurt,” he said, his hand finding Kurt’s hand.
Puck knew he could sit outside in the snow and try to freeze his heart, with sheer force of will and stubborn determination he could build up a hundred brick walls around it, fling it across the world and set it on the sights of National Geographic, let it live in the constant memory of the past, fool it into letting him sleep with Cheerios and ignore the boy waiting for his call, forget about it and cage it and diminish it. But there would always be that one moment, the weight of goose down on his chest, the smell of cotton or vanilla or lavender, the familiar way to someone else’s home, the second glance of a boy on an ice rink, that will fell it again, topple that high tower, that will drive back the old ache, that will break him all over again as surely and as deeply as it did the first time.
Puck gazed into the endless expanse of those brilliant eyes. Like a snowfall. Like an ocean.
“Shh,” Kurt was whispering. “Shhhh…” Puck let the tide take him out with it.
Author: xallegedlyx
Pairing: Puck/Kurt
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The happenings and musings of a cold December day. (A nice quiet winter wonderland story that has somehow spiraled out of control. Heavy use of metaphor and angst ensue.)
Author's Note: I've been sitting on this fic for almost a year! Decided to post it, put it out into the world. It's as close as I'm going to get. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Do not own, do not sue.
The sun glared blindingly into Puck’s eyes even as snow fell around him. It was the sort of day one could get lost in. The way the sun twinkled off the snow, the graceful drifts, the cold wind that whipped so bitingly, the curl of the puffy snow-heavy clouds in the sky against the brightest blue. The days the sun was out were always the coldest. Puck wanted to get lost in it, wanted to feel the power of it. Like being in a crowd of people moving together seamlessly, like the sea on the beach, you want not only to be a part of it, but to encompass all of it. As if, if you could just let go for a second, you might reach some place, some incandescent transcendent state that was above and present and entirely there. Puck wanted to be the snow, the breeze that blew it, the clouds that drop it and the sun that kissed his cheeks with warmth and sent harsh rays peering into his eyes. If he could just sit here long enough, lay in the bask of the sun and the cold of the snow, be part of it for enough time, he might become the icicles that adorn all the corners of the world, might learn to simply be like the frost on a windshield, could simply exist like the banks pushed so artfully chaotic in the edges of parking lots. But he was not. He was tied in tangibility, weighed down by his body and his heart and his own very eyes. By seeing these things, he could never be one of them. They felt no stab of cold or remorse to their fingertips or deep deep in the their chests. They were ever-present and still as a snowfall. Dogs barked, little flakes floated from the sky to gently arrange themselves in a pattern over everything, cold air entered Puck’s lungs and left them.
Puck buried his hands deeper in his pockets and sat back against the bench. The boy across the way seemed to fit with this reality more than Puck ever could. Puck had been watching him all day. For hours now he had moved with the swift grace of the wind.
It was a beautiful little rink, ovular and white, surrounded by winter-bitten trees and buildings with little shops. In the summer all the guys with skateboards would inhabit the expanse of smooth cement, Puck had seen when he came along with them. The heat would rise in waves from the sun-baked ground and almost suffocate him. Now in the winter, covered in ice, this place belonged to Kurt Hummel. Kurt took this job every winter, teaching kids to ice skate. Where the skateboard guys would trip and stumble, depend on the wood of the board and the wheels that turned, Kurt seemed to move across the same space as if he were floating. As if the skates were as much a part of him as his own feet.
In this lovely space, on this bright bright day, Kurt would take out across the ice with a little youngster, pull them by the hand, steady their arms, turn around and lead them across the frozen span, if only for a few feet. Puck could see in his eyes, the easiness of his smile, the carefree swinging of his legs and his arms and his laugh that out there Kurt was free. Free in a way Puck didn’t know if he would ever be.
So he watched. He watched Kurt with the little girl dressed in pink first thing in the morning, he watched Kurt lead the unsure boy with the big red parka across the rink for the first time, he watched Kurt show off for the twelve-year-old who’d been skating all her life, he watched Kurt and wished to be the one that got to hold his hand. Oh to be that glove. Puck could punch himself knowing that he had that chance. It was right there.
Like anything Puck ever touched, it got fucked up.
It was about noon that day when Puck thought he saw Kurt maybe notice him there. About four when he was sure Kurt glanced his way. It wasn’t until his shift ended at five-thirty that they talked.
“What are you doing here, Puck?”
The lights were shutting off around the rink as the early winter night set in. The edges of the sky were turning inky and Puck could almost imagine the air itself had turned blue, lit briefly a brilliant white by buildings outlined in Christmas lights and gold by the lamps lighting the street. The air Kurt breathed out as he stood in front of Puck was a lighter blue, the shadows on his face even reaching dark navy hues. Puck could almost feel the warmth that radiated from Kurt’s body, tried not to think about the heartbeat, the warm crook at the inside of Kurt’s knee, the tender stretch of skin across the small of Kurt’s back. It all seemed so foreign now. As he slouched against his frosty bench, his wind-chapped lips struggled into a smile.
“My dad’s back in town.” They stayed silent for a long moment.
Kurt shifted his weight. He adjusted the strap of the bag across his shoulder, pulled his zipper up closer around his neck.
“It’s freezing. What, were you going to stay out here all night?”
Puck just shrugged. He had, with purpose, not planned any farther than this afternoon. Trying to decide what to do with his day would only remind him that there was nothing for him to do with his day. He had no place to go, really. With his dad back, it was best for everyone if he stayed out of the house for a while.
Puck guessed he could go catch a movie. Maybe go to the diner. He wasn’t really sure. Anything that would take up a few hours. He could slip back home later, after everyone had gone to bed, and be out again before the sun rose.
Kurt sighed. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.” His voice was weary. Puck didn’t meet his eyes. He turned to walk away and didn’t wait for Puck to follow. Didn’t turn his head to make sure Puck was there. And really, Puck knew he deserved it.
Kurt’s car always smelled like fabric softener. It was one of those things that Puck kind of loved. It was a good fabric softener. Maybe lavender or vanilla. It smelled like warm clothes fresh out of the dryer. It smelled like purity and cotton. It smelled like comfort and protection. Puck was pretty sure it had turned him on a time or two. Even now, empty and hollow, that old fabric softener smell filled him up a little. Even if it was just for a second. He loved that smell more than ever when it wafted from the heating vents. When it came to his car, like everything about Kurt, perfection seemed ingrained in its design.
Kurt was still shivering after they had both climbed in and started the engine. The radio station immediately went to NPR and the defrosters blasted first thing. Kurt rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers. Puck knew that even under those fancy charcoal-grey knitted gloves, Kurt’s fingers were shaking and blue with the chill. After a minute Kurt put his hands on the steering wheel.
“Okay,” he said. “Where to?”
When Puck was like seven and his sister was just a baby, his mom would drive them around in the car a lot. It was the only way to calm them down sometimes. The baby would only sleep if she was being cradled by the gentle rolling of their old sedan across asphalt. Puck would sit in the back next to his baby sister in his car seat and watch the whole world roll past his window. He imagined he must be seeing the most wonderful things. His mom would tell him stories about all the places in Ohio they’d been, all over Lima and Columbus and one time they even made it all the way to Cleveland and back. It was easy for Puck to imagine that Ohio was the center of the world.
It was only a couple years later when he found a stack of National Geographics in the school library that he realized it wasn’t. When he gazed at photographs of Egypt and Syria and Rome and Brazil, he knew he hadn’t been anywhere. For years since then he’d collected all the National Geographics he could find, gotten good at slipping them under his coat, into his book bag, in with another stack of books, and out the door. He’d wait until he was home where he’d sit on his bed and just look and long for Jerusalem and Paris, Stockholm and Shanghai. That was where he wanted to be. Not fucking Lima. He wanted to get lost in the world the same way he wanted to get lost in a snowfall. He just wanted to be, wanted to go, wanted to see. Didn’t want to have to think anymore.
Almost ten years later, and Puck still hadn’t even left Ohio. He felt more caged than ever when he looked at Kurt sitting there, waiting for directions. Puck didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, for Kurt to decide for them where they were going, maybe? For Kurt to kick him out?
“Oh god, Noah.” He said. But put the car in drive and let the wheels turn.
Puck knew where they were going before they got there. He could feel the familiar streets as they passed him by, the old stop signs and turn signals he was used to, the yards of houses that he always noticed, the old recognizable tar streaks over blacktop. It was a déjà vu he’d felt a hundred times over. He knew this way as well as he knew the way to his own home.
The light above the garage greeted them as they pulled into the driveway. It painted everything a canary gold against the ever-darkening blue hues of the night. Kurt didn’t say anything when he hopped out of the car, when he grabbed his bag, when he headed for the front door.
Puck knew he could be as pathetic as he wanted, as dramatic as he fancied, as sullen as he felt, but Kurt wouldn’t sit around and coddle him. If there’s anything he’d learned, that was it.
Kurt was just setting his things down when Puck got to the threshold. He was stamping his boots, unzipping his coat, brushing the snow from his head when he heard the sound of a football game is drifting from the kitchen, the sound of whistles and canned cheering. Sports commentators announced the score to the tune of the NFL background music. Puck could see only by the light of the kitchen filtering into their dark front all. Kurt was a smudge of charcoal moving in front of the large dark closet, outlined only by the highlight on the side of his face, the curve of his shoulder, the rustling of his coat as it was hung up and put away. With the scrape of a chair and a grunt at the screen, Puck could hear Kurt’s father make his way in their direction.
“Hey there Noah.” Kurt had never introduced Puck as Puck. Puck was pretty sure the nickname was something Burt had never been aware of. Puck had always liked it that way. It was like a clean slate. He wasn’t Puck, the bully, or Puck, the guy with daddy issues, or Puck, the jerk. There was none of the baggage. Noah was a normal guy. In Burt Hummel’s eyes, Noah was nice and caring with his son. A winner. Not like real Puck at all.
“Hi Dad,” Kurt said and brushed past him before Puck could even properly respond, leaving only a swish of air in his wake. Burt didn’t move. Puck didn’t move. For a second Puck felt like he was always being left in the stir of Kurt’s air. It was something he and Burt had in common. They were the ones who felt Kurt flit in and out of their lives, like Kurt was the waves and the tide that drew in and out, and they were the small stones of sand on the beach, forever in his wake. They watched in stillness as he came and went, leaving his presence behind even after he was gone. For a second they just stood.
“You two get in a fight?” Mr. Hummel broke the silence, “I thought maybe it was all the stress from school, or you know, this time of year’s real hard on both of us. Look Noah, I would really appreciate it if you could talk to him. Kurt’s been real quiet lately and I - I just don’t know what…” Puck could see him struggle. He knew because it’s a struggle he always had himself. “I think he’s been fighting with some of his friends at school. And he’s always had a hard time making friends. Always alone. Ever since his mom…” Puck nodded again. “It’s not a role I know how to fill.”
“Yeah Mr. Hummel.” Puck couldn’t tell him the truth, wouldn’t dare shatter the trust in Burt’s gaze. So he didn’t say anything. Let the silence wash over him. His mind was blank.
“Are we going to eat dinner or what?” Kurt huffed from behind the doorway. Puck could hear him moving things around, changing the channel, opening and closing the oven.
“Yeah, we’ll be right there.” Burt gave Puck one long last look before turned away, opened the door, let the bright light from the kitchen pour into Puck’s eyes.
“Here, son. Let me grab you a plate.” The table was set for two. Pastel-colored paper plates with a knife and a fork to each side, a paper napkin under each fork. Puck remembered the first evening he spent here with the Hummels. Seeing Kurt in such a setting had been a revelation. He hadn’t been sure why, but at the time everything about Kurt had seemed golden. The way he brushed his hair aside, the constant perfection of his clothes and his handwriting, his smooth voice, kind smile. He’d seemed like something from some higher plane. But that night he sat down with Puck and his dad and ate off a paper plate, smiled while he chewed, smeared some pasta sauce on his cheek. Instead of deterring Puck at all, it made his heart soar. Kurt was perfect even when he wasn’t. Puck had vowed then not to fuck it up. Not to let anything get in the way. He could scoff at the thought now.
“Dinner’ll be ready in just a minute Noah.” Mr. Hummel informed him. Puck stood awkwardly in front of that table as Burt moved to Kurt who had begun to toss a salad. “Why don’t you go wash up?”
Being here, watching the remnants of their relationship, was like seeing the carcass of a road-kill. The hollow memories like an empty skeleton. They were there, and he knew they had been sweet and warm and wonderful, but now they were vacant. Cold. Just a shell.
He turned on the light on the stairs, leaving behind the yellow-bright kitchen for the stark florescent of the basement stairs to the bathroom. Puck had kissed Kurt for the first time on these stairs. Standing almost at the bottom, turned to look up at Kurt a few steps above him. Kurt had been looking at him with bright sparkling green eyes. He had been laughing. Every day after that Puck had thought of Kurt’s eyes like a snowfall. Clear and bright and wonderful, constant and unwavering, deep and bottomless, framed within Kurt’s irises. In that moment with Kurt, Puck was as free and all-encompassing as if he had thrown his arms out around the sea and embraced all of it, as if there was no limit to the horizon.
Kurt’s eyes. He let the thought dwell with him all the way down to the landing, but instead of letting his feet carry him to the bathroom, he found himself standing in Kurt’s bedroom. In the dim light he could see the clutter on Kurt’s desk, the schoolbooks and papers strewn across the surface. The vanity in the corner, Kurt’s perfectly arranged products glinted. Kurt’s bed, made hastily this morning but immaculate nonetheless. Puck’s heart was like a stone weighing in his chest, a dark pit that was consuming him. He swayed.
It was quiet. There was the tick of a clock somewhere, the gentle hum of the television upstairs, voices conversing in the kitchen, muted and muffled. Puck thought of Kurt’s snowfall eyes. How long he’d been able to gaze into them, how they would welcome him to a place without pain or sorrow, unfurl to expose the beauty of everything that lay behind them and shine a light on Puck that made him beautiful too. No matter how many ticks the clock made, in this very room, Puck had wanted to stay through all of them, just to look into Kurt’s eyes. To be swallowed up by their infinite expanse.
The bed rose up to meet him.
His cheek pressed into the mattress. He didn’t know what he thought he was doing. Didn’t know what right he had to be here. Had no idea. He felt his breath between his parted lips, looked at the white duvet that covered now all his vision. He remembered the times he held Kurt underneath this very blanket, the way Kurt’s breath ghosted around his ears and neck. He remembered just holding him for hours beneath the white down, melting into the warm sweet softness of Kurt’s kisses, Kurt’s gentle sighs and whispers, Kurt’s legs drawing up around his waist, the feeling of being so complete as they clung to each other.
He didn’t want to think about this right now. Didn’t want to be the one curled up and aching. Puck’s arms were so empty without him.
He brought the duvet to his face and smelled it, pulled it over his head and wrapped it around his body as if it alone could take him back. The smell of Kurt’s fabric softener, the thread count against his skin, the longing to have his Kurt back right there with him, right there with his sparkling, endless snowfall eyes and thin shoulders and pink cheeks, Kurt with their legs tangled together and his steady breathing and his funny humpf when he’s trying to concentrate on something and Puck’s distracting him. It was all he wanted.
Like that, the tears were spilling. His eyes were stinging. His chest racked with a pain he was too afraid to fully grasp.
When Kurt finds him the only sound is Puck’s own ragged breathing.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Puck was saying, trying to say, between the tears that clogged his senses, the heaves that wouldn’t let him breathe, the constricting pain in his chest. “Kurt,” he said, his hand finding Kurt’s hand.
Puck knew he could sit outside in the snow and try to freeze his heart, with sheer force of will and stubborn determination he could build up a hundred brick walls around it, fling it across the world and set it on the sights of National Geographic, let it live in the constant memory of the past, fool it into letting him sleep with Cheerios and ignore the boy waiting for his call, forget about it and cage it and diminish it. But there would always be that one moment, the weight of goose down on his chest, the smell of cotton or vanilla or lavender, the familiar way to someone else’s home, the second glance of a boy on an ice rink, that will fell it again, topple that high tower, that will drive back the old ache, that will break him all over again as surely and as deeply as it did the first time.
Puck gazed into the endless expanse of those brilliant eyes. Like a snowfall. Like an ocean.
“Shh,” Kurt was whispering. “Shhhh…” Puck let the tide take him out with it.