7 Days and a Lifetime with Mr. Arrogant 1/2
Title:7 Days and a Lifetime with Mr. Arrogant 1/2
Author:dadomz
Rating:PG13 R18
Characters/Pairings:Puck/Kurt
Notes:To get a glimpse of how the Puck/Kurt dynamic worked, I had my 6’5 boyfriend kiss my 5’5 self-that made for good research. Thank you byte366 for the thorough beta work and the useful insights.
Warning:It’s R18 for a reason-so err, swearing, innuendoes, and mentions of alcohol will be present (if not, rampant). Also, for the benefit of everyone else, I’ve included several mentions of High School Musical characters in this story. Crossovers are usually not my “thing” and they may not be yours too, so I’ll totally forgive you if you decide to not bother (reading).
Disclaimer:Don’t own anything, not even those cheap Jeffrey Campbell, Balmain knock-offs.
Summary:Armed with nothing but a Louis Vuitton suitcase, a Goyard Weekender, and an obligatory vacation leave to nurse a broken heart, Kurt Hummel is now back in Lima, Ohio.
Romance is for normal people who fall under major demographics; that’s always been the unwritten rule to the unrivaled laws of human nature and emotions. There are signs of it everywhere, semblances of it in literature and visuals-Romeo and Juliet, Bonnie and Clyde-concrete proof of its intangible existence manifested in various forms.
But then one wonders, “What about me? When’s it going to be my turn?”
So people say: “You’re fairly young, barely twenty-six, give it more time.” Romances are, after all, stuff of legends and legends just don’t happen overnight. So we go through relationships like we go through shirts, enduring in each one even in the absence of romance.
Because we hope and we wait, it takes a while for us to realize that some rules have certain exceptions. Perhaps, we’re that exception. This is something people don’t tell us upfront because they’re selfish and idealistic, thinking that stating the truth will break all sorts of illusions. Instead, they persist in regaling us all with stories of love and passion.
And when the shit hits the fan, we realize, legends are what they are precisely because they don’t have that much factual evidence. Romance isn’t just dead, it probably doesn’t exist! It’s something people make up to feel good about their selves.
Kind of like the “tooth fairy” or “Santa Claus” or some equally asinine notion we all had to grow up with-say, that Dolce & Gabbana trench coat we purchased a good nine or so years ago and keep underneath our beds, hoping for a chance to wear them again just so we can appease ourselves that the eight hundred dollars we invested in to buy it won’t be put to waste. It’s the very same thought process that allows us to find small merits in every dysfunctional relationship we subject ourselves to.
And Kurt Hummel knows this. He just needs to be reminded of it.
And so, after another failed relationship, he realizes two things: one, he’s never quite internalized any of his theories, and two, a non-romantic breakup hurts just as much as every so-called romantic breakup he’s read or heard about.
And that’s how he finds himself in his father’s twenty-something-year-old garage, smack-dab in the Republican mid-west, armed with nothing but the two realizations he’s brewed up, a Louis Vuitton suitcase, a Goyard weekender, and an obligatory vacation leave to nurse a broken heart.
Burt Hummel welcomes his son with an awkward hug (because it wouldn’t help ease Kurt’s pain if he acquired grease stains all over his cream Chloe parka) and a gruff, “You’re home early for Christmas.”
No questions asked, no tête-à-têtes, and that’s how Kurt prefers it, because really, what would his father say if he went on a full-blown diatribe on how he found his infantile ex-boyfriend swapping spit with his backstabbing, two-faced best friend in the living room couch of their (joint) Manhattan apartment. Of course, he’d have to leave out the bit where he arrived an hour early from work with a big bag filled with produce fresh from the grocer’s, and was pathetically frozen in place with the unsightly scene unfolding mere inches from him. And, if it weren’t for the oranges quivering to the objectionable sequence and the brown paper bag caving in (and consequently, smashing the bottle of mustard and soiling his Prada skimmers), he would have stood there all night, dumbstruck, with neither the initiative nor the decency to reclaim whatever ridiculously miniscule pride he had left to walk out in true Barbara Streisand fashion.
And also that unbecoming bit where he went back in his said apartment to grab a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and four bottles of vodka cruisers, camping out on the rooftop, singing Madonna tunes off-key in the midst of snot and tears, waking up the next day in the same clothes and more than thirty minutes late for that extremely important lunch meeting with Robbie Myers and the entire Elle staff (thus, making him lose that coveted Burton-esque/ Angela Carter inspired fairytale-themed editorial to Jane Aldridge, the bitch) with the janitor poking him with the worn-out mop stump.
“I know.” He looks at his dad wearily and a bit petulantly, “I just needed to be back home.”
DAY 01
Four days later and three pounds heavier (with what appears to be the onset of a horrendous breakout by his hairline), Kurt finds himself kneeling on the floor and inspecting the newly installed sills on a 1991 Soccer Mom Club Wagon, clutching an MIG welder on his glove-encased right hand.
“-Probably the piston rings or the valve seals. Must be worn. Did you check the guides? Do you even know how they look-okay, fine, what the heck, I’ll just have that checked, yeah? Wait a sec, I’ll be back.”
Kurt rolls his eyes. Seriously, how could his father take this? If he had to endure ten more grueling hours of menial labor (dirt under his manicured fingernails) and being the customer shock absorber (dealing with idiots who didn’t know how to take good care of their automobiles), he’s going to throw a Grand Theft Auto and hack some bitch’s throat out with a crowbar.
“Nice piece of work you’ve done there, son.”
Kurt removes the welding helmet from his head and stands up, straightening the creases on his greasy overalls, “Would you have expected anything less?”
Instead of answering, Burt stands there with a floppy, proud smile, looking like big ol’ poppa bear with his chest puffed out. He ruffles Kurt’s hair as if he were eight and not past the age where it would be completely inappropriate.
“Wow, I’m wearing boots like yours!”
Something high-pitched and ear splitting interrupts the beautiful father and son moment; Kurt whips around and eyes the sixteen-year-old dead ringer for a skinny Idina Menzel, with knobby knees. Oh great, it’s Rachel Berry all over again. He smiles at her condescendingly, “No sweetie, these are Zanotti for Balmain. Those are Jeffrey Campbell for Urban Outfitters, overpriced Balmain cop-offs you most likely got for half the price from Net-a-Porter.”
“…Hummel?”
Kurt’s head snaps up and his eyes widen as Puckerman, currently sporting an unoriginal buzz cut (skunkhair thankfully gone), alights from a beat-up 1998 Silverado. He drops the welder out of horror and curses out loud as it hits one of his bunions; he really shouldn’t make a habit of dropping heavy, untoward things to his feet-that or he can give up wearing six-inch Alexander McQueen wedges during Thursday’s “it’s a drag” night at the Circuit.
“Oh My Madonna, are you kidding me?” Really, he just couldn’t help himself.
Burt picks the welder up from the floor and nudges Kurt with his elbows, “I see you’ve met Puckerman.”
“Met him!” Kurt scoffs, “So what, are you like fantasy basketball buddies now?”
“Not really, he’s tried to help me out sometime after you left for New York. Needed extra help and he offered-though he’s pretty darn hopeless with cars so I had him do some basic accounting. Since then, he drops by from time to time to see if he can give me a hand.”
Puckerman waggles his eyebrows, “Earns me some extra cash before I head back to camp.”
“I don’t recall you telling me any of this.” Kurt crosses his arms, “Not one word. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any worse, I chance upon the dumpster-throwing anti-Christ. This is beyond sheer irony; it’s just plain cruelty! It’s like: Dad, meet Noah Puckerman, he nailed all our lawn furniture to the roof and wrapped our car in Kleenex rolls; Puckerman, meet my father, he has a ten-wheeler stashed away in his junkyard.”
“Now, Kurt-“
He interrupts his dad with a loud gasp, “You must be dating his mother, aren’t you!”
“What?” Burt frowns, “No, of course not, I haven’t even, okay so yeah, we see each other a couple of times but it’s nothing official as there are certain barriers we need to overcome, such as our faith and-“
“Hah!”
“Now, listen, princess, I don’t think it’s any of your-“
“Are you hearing this, dad?” Kurt asks shrilly, “I don’t want to be affiliated with someone who can’t even call me by my first name! This is, I just can’t, this is imp-I don’t even know where to start!”
“How about, calming the fuck down first?” Puckerman stands in front of Kurt, towering over him imposingly. “Burt’s a big boy, fairy godmother, old enough to make his own decisions without consulting you first. Anyway, as much as I want to take part in this whole domestic soap opera, my sister’s car needs fixing. Can we focus on that? It’s been coughing out bluish smoke from the exhaust pipe and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s something wrong with it.”
Kurt shifts his gaze away sharply to his father’s retreating form. “Don’t you dare think we’re through discussing this, Dad!”
Burt freezes for a moment. Satisfied, Kurt turns his attention back to Puckerman and barks: “Turn the engine on now and let’s get this over with.”
“I know this is a bad time and all but I’ve always wanted to meet you.” The girl situates herself right next to him, “Burt tells us stories about you-how ambitious you are, how talented, how headstrong. You could tell he was real proud. I’m kind of glad I met you, even if it was under awkward circumstances.”
Kurt feels a twinge of guilt. The engine hums, smoke billows from behind.
“Anyway,” She waves a hand dismissively, “It’s been like this for over a week. You warm it up and then you get a chockfull of blue smoke. My friends won’t even ride with me anymore; they claim it’s only a matter of time before that thing blows up. My brother says it must be nothing serious but he’s only been using it for two days.”
“It's probably nothing serious.” Kurt pops the hood open.
“Well, between you and me,” She says in hushed tones, “He may have told your dad the valve pistons, whatever, are working just fine, but I’m not really sure if he knows what he’s talking about.”
“Of course not. The fact the word “shame” doesn’t exist in his vocabulary, it’s probably safe to say he doesn’t know the meaning of most words.”
She lets out a giggle.
”So Norah,” Puck slings an arm around his sister’s shoulders, “You do know you’re so not his type, right?”
“God, you’re such an asshole.” Norah pulls herself away abruptly.
“I second that.” Kurt pulls away to glare half-heartedly at Puck, “Look, I know that every ex-football player has the right to be stupid from time to time but I think you’ve abused the privilege. Moving on to more mature things, have you had your car’s compression checked?”
Puck scratches his head, “No ma’am.”
“Hopeless.” Kurt sighs and prods the engine around, “Are you sure you checked the valve guides? They look slightly worn out to me and I highly doubt you or your sister are capable of changing these-“
“Whatever dude, I’ve only been here for like two days. If it needs fixing, then fix it.” Puck shoves Norah and sidles up next to Kurt, “Listen, how long are you here for? I’ve around a week or more with no one but myself to help me reacquainted with in this town. You wanna do something?”
Kurt lets out a snort, “With you?”
“You got anything better to do?”
“No but, I’ve only been here-“
“I’ll see you tomorrow at around ten. Wear something normal.”
“Uh,” Kurt blinks, “I’ll have to see if I can squeeze you in my awfully tight schedule.”
“You do that.”
DAY 02
“I know you think, I’m like, Satan’s spawn or something, but I’m not.” Puck states as-a-matter-of-factly as he parks the Silverado lopsidedly, five slots away from, what Kurt refers to, fondly, as the “oh-so-memorable” McKinley Dumpster.
Kurt lets out a semi-vapid, partly patronizing “Mm-hmm”, if only to humor Puck and preventing him from going all O.J. on him. It was mostly morbid curiosity that got Kurt to sit an arm’s length right next to Puck-and maybe a wee bit of masochism, as clearly, his stupid brain got off on the idea that he had to sit next to his tormentor, fending off that piss-your-panties kind of feeling.
“Making everyone’s high school life a living hell is like a pre-requisite to becoming cool,” Puck explains, “The football team had this sort-of weird tradition where upperclassmen would hand out their legacies to new recruits. With like pieces of papers, symbolic for ‘passing of the torch.’ Mine had ‘token asshole’ written on it.”
“Whoever gave you that piece of paper must be so proud.” Kurt bites out.
“I guess.” Puck looks at him thoughtfully, “But you know, I’ve been through bad times and no one ever gave me shit when they could have, if they wanted to. So I thought, hey, I actually have a choice to stop being a douche and that was like, an eye-opener for me.”
“So what, you woke up one day and decided to be nice to everyone?”
“Sort of.”
“And now you think I’m your little charity case, your little good merit to earn yourself a spot in heaven?”
“Look, I was a horrible person-not just to you but to everyone. If I had to make it up to each and every one of them, I would. But as it is, you’re here and so I want to make the most out of it.”
“By what?” For a moment, Kurt panics. “Shoving me back in the dumpster? For old time’s sake?”
On hindsight, Kurt thinks it’s serendipitous that he’s chosen to wear all black, plebian Michael Kors today. After all, he had actually considered donning on those vintage Margiela trousers he got from Butler & Wilson from his last trip to London. What would Martin Margiela think if his creation came into contact with banana peels and grape syrup? Sacrilege.
“Is that what you want to happen?” Puck scratches his head, “Like is it some sort of kink? -Because I wasn’t really planning that far ahead. I was thinking more along the lines of letting you push me to the dumpster just to get even.”
“Please, I’m not that spiteful.” Kurt rolls his eyes.
“Well, yeah, I know. I mean, I just want to earn your trust. Our parents are kind of dating and it won’t do well if we’re out there trying to kill each other. Plus, you’re not that bad Hummel, in fact, you’re very interesting.”
There’s something with the way Puck says the word ‘interesting’ that makes Kurt want to run for the hills.
“My point is,” Puck leaves the door open as he brandishes two cans of aerosol paint from the back of the pick-up, “Let’s have fun.”
“Spray paint.” Kurt reads the label out loud, “Spray paint?”
Puck grins and heads towards the dumpster. Kurt follows suit-halfway through, he realizes his stupidity and mentally kicks himself in the balls, only, to realize, once again, he’s taken a rather “Puck” way of approach to admonishing himself.
Puck shakes a can and writes: “Property of Kurt Hummel” on the lid in bold white letters.
“Oh my God, what if someone sees this!” Kurt reaches for Puck’s can.
“What’s the worse they can do? Put us in detention?” Puck leers and reaches for the can in Kurt’s hand and pops the purple lid open. He shoves it back and nods encouragingly, “Your turn.”
“Were you dropped in the head as a baby?” Kurt screeches, toeing the lid from the floor, “It’s like an open invitation for trouble!”
Puck grabs his wrist and poises the can upright. Kurt’s still a bit skittery and his hands shake a bit underneath Puck’s. It would have been sort of okay, if it weren’t for Puck’s car stereo bleating the Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ in bad taste (poor quality sub-woofer and appalling timing).
Kurt lets out a snort-it’s cosmic irony, there’s no other rational explanation for it.
“You’re so fucking edgy, live a little.” And with that, Puck guides Kurt’s hand to write: “And Noah Puckerman” on the dumpster’s front. He eases Kurt’s hand gently afterwards and takes his own bottle propped up against the dumpster’s legs.
“Do you think I should add a heart?” Puck shakes his own can.
Kurt looks up at him in horror.
Before he could say anything scathing or witty, he hears a sharp whistle from somewhere, sees a rush of fabric, and smells a whiff of cheap, drugstore deodorant before everything turns black.
DAY 03
“My dad’s not answering his phone.” Kurt grumbles as he enters the tiny cell, trying his best to avoid both the hustler, squatting by the bunk, and the drug dealer, leaning against the wall at the rightmost corner. He grabs the ice pack from the stool he was previously sitting on and presses it against the small cut on his temple.
Puck doesn’t bother to respond; instead, he continues to press his face against the steel bars, engrossed in whatever it was officer Karofsky (yes, that Karofsky) was playing on his laptop.
“Dude, it’s fly! It’s better than spankwire cause it doesn’t log in your history and it sort of skews your IP. It’s like: click, stream, play, and download-full screen, high quality, all for your discreet viewing pleasure.”
Kurt frowns and stands next to Puck.
Puck’s jaw hangs open, “No way!”
“Yes way!”
“Yes!” Puck pumps his fist, “Dude, I haven’t seen good porn since high school. There’s like a firewall in all our computers at the military camp.”
“This one worms its way past firewalls.”
“Sweet.” Puck’s brows furrow and he points at the screen, “Dude, this, old school Haley Wilde video. Play it!”
“Dude, she’s old now.” Karofsky presses the button anyway.
“You know how I feel about cougars.”
Kurt’s eyes widen at the sound of muffled moans and groans.
“Oh dear Dolce!” He shrieks, smacking Puck’s shoulder, “Talking about porn is already disgusting enough, now you’re watching it in public! What is wrong with you?”
“She’s hot!”
“And you!” Kurt glares at Karofsky, “You’re a police officer! Act like one! I don’t know if this qualifies for public indecency but it’s pretty close-isn’t that punishable by law also?”
Karofsky shrugs.
“Chill, princess.” Puck shifts his gaze and grins at Kurt, “It’s not exactly porn-porn.”
“My eyes are telling me otherwise.”
Puck clucks his tongue, “It’s really hard to explain-Haley Wilde is classy. She’s not a porn star, okay? She’s in a committed, exclusive relationship with her boyfriend and she doesn’t ever star in big-budget sex productions with different partners. She’s not Stoya and she’s far from Sasha Grey. So what she does is she uploads videos of herself fucking her boyfriend and all you have to do is pay with your credit card to access the website.”
“Oh, so she’s making you pay to watch her amateur porn.”
“It’s more than that, it’s as if, she makes you feel like you’re a part of it.”
“Oh, so now it’s sublime because you get to be a part of this virtual, make-believe threesome?” Kurt scoffs, “You’re sick.”
“There’s a certain charm to it, okay? I don’t even know why I’m explaining this to you, it’s not as if you’d get it anyway.”
“Oh, so this is because I’m gay!”
“This, all this, is ruining the mood.” Karofsky shuts the lid of his laptop and glares at the both of them.
Puck grins, “Well, it hasn’t ruined mine.”
Out of curiosity, he sneaks a peek at Puck’s crotch. True enough, there’s a boner the size of Antarctica showing through the thick denim Levi’s. Kurt looks away as fast as he can and gives Karofsky a pleading look.
“Listen,” He grips the metal bars tightly, “Can we talk about this? It’s two AM and it’s not as if we’ve caused any serious damage. In fact, I was just coerced to participate. Every pore in my body is screaming for innocence, don’t you hear them? Come closer.” He tugs on to Karofsky’s wrist harshly, “Here’s a Benjamin, now can we put everything behind us?”
“Man, I’ll even hand you over my twenty bucks.” Puck pulls out the only bill in his wallet, and gives Karofsky a really, really sad face, “Please?”
Forty-eight minutes later and two Big Macs after, Kurt finds himself standing in front of his house. Puck sips obscenely on to the last remaining droplets of his soda and hands the empty plastic cup to Kurt.
“Thanks.” Kurt says sarcastically.
“Dude, don’t mention it.” Puck leans against Kurt’s mailbox, “That wasn’t so bad now was it?”
“Not what I expected.” Kurt crosses his arms, “I hope this doesn’t go to our personal records.”
“Nah. Karofsky’s cool, he was probably just shitting with us.”
“I thought he was going to beat me up.”
Puck gives him a strange look, “Why would he?”
Kurt feels a bit stupid, “Because I’m gay?”
“I don’t see the logic.” Puck shoves his hands deep in his pockets, “Karofsky has a tendency to be a dick but he’s not, you know, as evil as you make him out to be in your head. He took a shot for an innocent old lady two years ago in the middle of a bank heist. People change Hummel, sure they make mistakes but they’re all good deep down.”
Kurt wants to tell Puck the profundity astounds him. Instead, he opts to stay silent.
“So,” Puck makes a grand gesture to the porch. “You going in or not? You’re not expecting a kiss, are you?”
Kurt lets out a huff and says: “You. Are. Unbelievable!” He stomps all the way to the front door, ignoring Puck’s outrageous barks of laughter.
DAY 04
“Where are we exactly?”
“The Port Clinton lighthouse.” Puck leans against the railings and traces the image of the coast with his index, “That’s lake Erie. The sun is supposed to rise in like two hours or so.”
“Normally, I’d be pissed off by the fact that you drove me all the way to Port Clinton at three AM in the morning just so you could catch the sun rise.” Kurt rubs his palms together and blows warm air to his frozen digits and settles himself the floor, legs dangling on the edges. “But it’s a fairly wonderful sight, so I’ll let it pass just this once.”
“You’re welcome, Princess.” Puck seats himself next to Kurt.
And so they sit next to each other in comfortable silence.
The obnoxious ring of Kurt’s celphone (a song from Lady Gaga’s nth album) cuts through the calm air. Without thinking, Kurt fishes out his celphone from his pocket and checks the caller ID.
Ryan.
He ends the call almost immediately.
“Never would’ve pegged you for a Knicks fan.” Puck looks pointedly at the celphone charm dangling from his iPhone’s orange case, “I mean, they’re picking up this season but they still suck ass.”
Kurt waves his hand dismissively, “Whatever. It’s just some stupid gift.”
“Right.”
Puck’s not really one to push people. He’s a very private person and he understands that there are just some things that are better left unsaid. Not this one though, the tone in Kurt’s voice tells him this thing, whatever it is, needs to be addressed.
So he prods some more: “Must be a special gift if you keep hanging on to it.”
Kurt’s phone vibrates momentarily before ringing, the caller ID on full display once again. He proceeds to end the call.
“I don’t know why they can’t get the hint.” Kurt rolls his eyes and turns his phone off.
“So let me guess, the dude who keeps on calling you is the same dude who’s given you the celphone charm.”
“No, my ex-boyfriend gave me my celphone charm.”
“Big fan of the Knicks?”
“No,” Kurt grits his teeth, “He’s the shooting guard.”
“You’re shitting me!” Puck kicks one of his legs high up in the air enthusiastically, “I would’ve believed you more if you said Wayne but Danforth? Guy wears neon orange with green!”
“Just because someone’s unable to color coordinate, doesn’t mean they’re less capable of being attracted to men.”
“Yeah? So what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, I mean, some other dude’s calling you and you’re hanging on to a celphone charm from your ex. What gives?”
Kurt raises his eyebrows, “Nothing gives, just the usual. You start a relationship, and you end it if it’s not working out.”
“So you ended it?”
“Well,” Kurt sighs, “Not exactly. Look, some stories are not worth telling, really.”
“I’ve got half an hour to kill, I’m up for anything.” Puck removes his sneakers and situates them next to him, “How long were you both together?”
“Three years.” Kurt answers simply, resting his chin on the railing’s lowest bar. “I met him while I was a sophomore at Parson’s.”
And that’s how the story goes.
It was entirely coincidental really, and if pressed, a bit shallow. Vogue had came up with this to-do Spring set for their loyal readers to try out and one of the tasks involved getting spanking new eyelash extensions. And Kurt had been so young and so frivolous back then that he actually skipped class for an entire day (please, he knew the history and culture of Fashion Design like the back of his hand) just to scout for the best lash bars in the whole borough of Manhattan.
By the end of his exploit, he ends up in some neo-hippie beauty salon right by Lexington Avenue. Mustering enough enthusiasm despite the cramping leg muscles from bouts of uninterrupted walking, he sashays towards the receptionist-all dimples and perfectly coiffed hair-and sets an appointment. She looks him over and glances appreciatively at his Marc Jacobs scarf and announces the whole process will take him about an hour and will cost him roughly around seven hundred dollars.
He smiles at her and chooses a six pm slot. He proceeds to sit on the only vacant seat in the salon, next to a relatively attractive man with unruly hair. Said man is oblivious of Kurt’s presence and proceeds to brutally flip through some GQ back issue.
Restless, Kurt turns to him and asks if it was his first time in the salon to which, the man replies that he’s merely accompanying a good friend and said good friend’s twin sister.
So Kurt entertains him (or rather himself as every single magazine in the Salon is crap), babbling on and on about fashion week, coming from Lima, and finding the salon’s price list a tad bit too inflated (because he’s so skipping the most recent Gucci sample sale just so he could keep his expenses afloat). The man is clearly amused; he laughs at Kurt, listens to him, and Kurt’s lapping up all the attention.
After a few minutes, two blondes emerge from the enclosed room, matching platinum highlights and Hermes scarves. The female twin pushes through the exit in a flurry of glitter and leopard, thrusting a paper bag filled with hair products to the man who has not introduced himself yet.
The male twin looks at the man sympathetically and smiles at Kurt.
The sight of his pearly whites momentarily blinds Kurt-there’s just too much teeth in the man’s mouth.
I’m Ryan, he says, extending a hand for Kurt to shake. Truthfully, Kurt’s eyes weren’t fixed anywhere near Ryan’s hands but rather, on his Prada oxfords.
The man next to Kurt groans and mutters something along the lines of: “I’ll wait outside” and leaves.
Ryan then grabs Kurt’s phone from his grasp, and Kurt’s so stunned he is unable to protest. Wow, his first encounter with a socialite kleptomaniac. Perhaps he can barter his phone for Ryan’s oxfords.
Kurt’s dreams are short-lived. Ryan returns his phone with a new contact on display.
Of course, Kurt doesn’t bother reading the name. He simply says: “You’re so not my type.”
Sure, Ryan was sort of good looking-if you know, big teeth and a slight paunch is your thing but Kurt couldn’t just get past that ridiculous cable knit beanie he’s sporting and the size 27 True Religion women’s jeans he’s donning.
Ryan lets out a demure giggle and explains that the number isn’t his.
“It’s Chad’s,” he says, “He just moved in from LA and is very unattached. I think he might want to date you. My sister’s leaving for New Mexico tomorrow and I’ve an extra invite for Bendel’s exclusive sale. You want in?”
And that little get-together turned into something frequent, and that something frequent turned into something daily once Ryan coerced him into moving in to his lofty Upper East Side apartment.
“So who were you dating really?” Puck stifles a yawn.
“Chad!” Kurt says exasperatedly, “Ryan’s my best friend. We just had a lot of things in common-we were both into musicals, we were both crazy about designer, and we both grew up in some stink-hole harassed for being the only fancy fruitcakes in town. Except, you know, he was better at everything-he could sing and he could dance and he could play the piano wonderfully. He was everything I aspired to be. A Julliard’s graduate with a Tony after his first year in theater-the world worshipped him and everyone loved him.”
“Everyone including your boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Kurt scrounges his nose, “I’ve always suspected Chad was a little bit in love with Ryan and I guess, his being in a relationship with me was like reaching for the next best thing. I know I’m not as fabulous or as pretty as Ryan is but I hoped there was something in me that he truly liked.”
Puck straightens his toes, “Maybe he’s just stupid. Relationships are stupid.”
“Yeah they are.” Kurt affirms, “I like how you’re not making an effort to console me.”
“I always aim to please.” Puck bares all his teeth.
Kurt lets out a small laugh, “What about you? Fair share of heartbreaks go your way?”
“Not really. You can’t be heartbroken if you don’t do relationships, right?”
“Maybe, I don’t really know.”
“Good answer.” Puck pulls a pack of cigarettes from the back of his jean pocket, “I don’t like relationships in general. I don’t like investing in them. I go off to camp eleven months a year, I train alongside others, and sometimes, I get thrown off to God-knows-where. I don’t want to burden someone with the possibility of not being able to return.”
“That’s such a morbid way of looking at things.” Kurt puts his hands on his lap, “Also very selfless and very noble-congratulations Noah Puckerman, you’re no longer an asshole.”
Puck lights up a cigarette, “But just because I’m not into relationships doesn’t mean I’ve given up on love. I’ve loved a few. I still love them.”
“That’s a very tricky sentiment.” Kurt swings his legs, “If you love someone-romantically, that is-then wouldn’t you want to be with them, even if it means you’re not sure of your future together? Feel free to correct me though, it’s not as if I’ve fallen in love with someone yet.”
“But you believe in love.”
“Well, yes.” Kurt sighs, “I mean, if it’s there, for me, why not? What idiot would deny themselves that?”
“I think,” Puck inhales from the cigarette stick, “you don’t have to be in a relationship to love someone.”
Kurt nods, “Do you think there’s a type of love that would compel you to want to be in a relationship with someone?”
Puck shrugs, “Maybe, maybe not. If there is, then I’ll look forward to it.”
And they sit there in silence once again, watching the sun as it begins to rise.
DAY 04 PT 2
Kurt sips on his strawberry drink and waits for Puck to come out of the makeshift dressing room at ‘Sheets and Things.’ Kurt lets out a happy sigh; Kool-aid is like crack for the soul, especially when it’s served ice cold.
He proceeds to stuff an ice cube in his mouth.
“So what do you think?” Puck emerges from the curtain wearing a vintage, knee-length polka-dot sack dress with a frilly apron on top.
Kurt nearly chokes on his ice cube.
“It’s shapeless.” Brittany hums and elbows Kurt, “What do you think?”
Kurt swallows the half-melted ice cube.
“Makes you look frumpy.”
“So not this.” Puck frowns, “So should I just wear the striped one?”
Kurt nods as Puck re-enters the cubicle.
Brittany turns to Kurt, “You guys are lifesavers. The two performers we hired? They got into some accident yesterday and I didn’t really know who else to call but Puck.”
“Lucky you I was there then.”
“Lucky me!” Brittany titters.
“Where’d you get this anyway?” Kurt fingers the hem of the pinstripe tuxedo he’s wearing (that is two sizes too large), “It smells a bit… funky.”
“I got it from some costume shop downtown.” Brittany shrugs, “I thought about showing a gay couple on the window since, you know, most of our customers are gay, so I got matching tuxedos. Then I thought about, like, how gay couples are like married couples, and saw Stepford Wives on Cinemax, and wouldn’t it be so cool if one of the guys wore a dress? Though I never really would have expected Puck to wear the dress but it’s all in good taste.”
“It’s not as if he’s going to wear anything old and inexpensive.” Puck emerges from behind the curtain, “Besides, I look hot in anything.”
Kurt stage whispers, “Very modest too.”
Brittany lets out a giggle. “You’re both so cute. Anyway, like, on the left window, there’s a kitchen. So Puck, you’ll have to like, pretend you’re cooking or baking something in the oven, preparing the table, waiting for Kurt to come home from work. Then you both have like fake dinners with plastic food, act like the Brady Bunch. Then you’ll have to cross to the right window and settle in for bed.”
“I thought we were keeping this PG 13.”
Brittany looks at Puck, puzzled. “Yeah, just put on a robe and jump into bed and pretend to sleep.”
“But married couples don’t just sleep in bed.” Puck wiggles his eyebrows, “They make babies.”
“But you can’t make babies. You’re both guys.”
“But I thought we were playing pretend husband and wife.” Puck argues.
Watching Puck and Brittany argue was like watching two penguins butting heads with each other. Kurt hangs his head and waits for things to be over.
INTERLUDE
“So…”
“So?”
“Uh. I haven’t seen you around in the past few days.” Burt says casually, eyes trained on the television set. Mike Rowe is conducting a seaweed cleanup over at Lake Erie-of all ironic things to pop up on National television.
Kurt fiddles around with the popcorn tub on his lap. “Puck’s been showing me around town.”
“Why aren’t you out with him now?”
“We saw each other a few hours ago, I think we’ll both live spending the night to ourselves.”
“Right.”
“Dad, are you pimping me out to Noah Puckerman?” Kurt raises both his eyebrows.
“No, no. I just like Noah. I think he’s a nice boy.”
“I bet you think his mother’s nice too.”
Burt grunts.
“Look dad, what you do with your life is your choice.” Kurt sighs, “Just be careful, okay? I’ve got no professional experience in consoling people and I’d be totally useless in helping you get through some breakup.”
Burt exhales deeply and looks at Kurt, “You’re so much like your mother.”
DAY 04 PT 3
Kurt hears a knock on his bedroom window. He thinks little of it and goes back to sleep, must be some squirrel trying to worm its way in.
DAY 05
The knock becomes more frantic, more aggressive. Kurt scrounges his nose and reaches for the switch of his bedside lamp-after all, no tiny woodland creature would be able to smash its head right through the glass.
He squints at the digital clock and reads the bold twelve-forty seven sign.
Great, barely three hours of sleep and he’s up once again.
He makes his way blindly towards the tiny window situated near the ceiling of his basement. He pulls a chair and climbs on top of it for better leverage. He is greeted by the sight of a torso clad in a faded Guns N’ Roses t-shirt.
He opens the window and sighs, “Puckerman. You should really try my front door out for a change.”
Puck crouches down a little and offers a lopsided smile, “You sleep like the dead.”
A cold draft enters. Kurt readjusts his thermal sweater, “So how may I help you?”
“The drive-in theater over at Bellefontaine is showing some old James Dean movie.”
Kurt doesn’t know why he’s eagerly waiting for a proper invitation. To mask said eagerness, he rolls his eyes and says: “That’s nice.”
“The second showing starts in an hour so go get dressed.”
Kurt is too tired (or maybe too giddy) to argue, so he shuts the window and makes a mental note to send his dad a Puck-has-kidnapped-me-so-please-don’t-expect-me-for-breakfast text.
DAY 05 PT 2
Kurt stifles a yawn as he gets off the front seat of the truck. Puck has parked his pickup with the back facing the screen, opting to watch the movie from behind. Luckily, only two other coupes were within the area so they didn’t really cause that much of an inconvenience to anyone.
He climbs gracelessly and settles in one corner. Puck hands him a light blue tuxedo jacket borrowed from Brittany’s costume junk pile, “Did you ever attend the senior prom?”
Kurt puts on the offending jacket on top of his ruffled Comme des Garcon top. “I’ve never attended one ever. They’re kind of overrated. Besides, I’ve got a book full of Hallmark memories to last me a lifetime so adding prom memories might be a little bit unnecessary.”
“Me too.” Puck dons a larger black tuxedo jacket, “I couldn’t get a cheerio to bring to the ball and I didn’t have the guts to go stag. Funny thing is, I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like If I actually went.”
Kurt does not say anything. There’s a hint of truth to what Puck is saying; there were days when Kurt would wonder what it would have been like had he attended the prom. Sure, a lot of kids before him and after him had ditched prom and survived and had become successful but it would have been nice if he’d gotten over it.
Puck smiles at him cheekily, “So what do you say about going to the prom with me?”
Kurt is snapped out of his sleepiness, “We’re certainly not gate-crashing some poor high school class’ prom!”
“Dude, I was just thinking up of themes for tonight.” Puck scoots a bit closer, “How about we pretend to be a couple from the sixties?”
“Haven’t you had enough pretending for today?”
Puck pulls a sad face-this is something Puck is clearly an expert of.
Kurt is unable to resist. “Fine. We did married couple from the seventies over at Sheets and Things, let’s be prom dates tonight.”
Kurt is ashamed to admit he’s actually leaning next to Puck-and liking it, at that. Puck who’s currently splayed improperly on top of several ratty blankets and pillows, sipping on a bottle of Miller. He’s rigid and uptight for the first few minutes and finally settles down as Puck loops an arm around his neck, pulling him closer.
“You know what? You remind me of her.”
“Who?”
“The girl, Judy.” Puck says simply.
Kurt turns to Puck and frowns, “Well, Natalie wood is pretty and I’ve definitely fallen down drunk quite a number of times but thankfully, never off a yacht yet.”
“Obviously, you’re a lightweight.” Puck straightens up a bit, “But for the record, I meant Judy the character. She’s so cold to Jim.”
“That’s cause she’s unimpressed by him-I’ll bet you’re a real Romeo.” Kurt recites the line airily, “But trust me, she’ll be all over him later. I mean, who can resist someone like James Dean?”
“Who indeed.” Puck winks and imitates Dean’s brooding face, “Do you see the resemblance?”
“You don’t want to be James Dean.” Kurt pulls away slightly, “He was speculated to be a homosexual. He got into this purported sexual relationship with his very male roommate.”
“Whatever, he’s the epitome of male bravado, he’s a motherfucking stallion! Who the fuck cares if he’s gay?” Puck pulls him closer, “Besides, I went to the fucking military, being gay-temporarily or permanently-isn’t anything new.”
“So okay, maybe a bit closer to James Dean since he’s like, poster boy for sexual experimentations.”
Puck licks his lips, “So, are you going to be all over me now?”
Kurt scowls, “What?”
“Cause if I’m Jim and you’re the girl, then you’re supposed to be all over me. Aren’t you attracted to my dashing good looks and arrogant personality? Because I’ve been trying to woo you for the past few days and I’m beginning to think there must be something wrong with what I’m doing because if you were a chick, then at this rate, you should’ve at least fallen in love with me already.”
“Puck, that’s a tasteless remark.”
“Okay, sorry.” Puck chews on his bottom lip, “But I’m sort of serious. Like, if you’d shut up for one moment, I’d kiss you.”
Kurt’s unsure of what to say so he stays silent. It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss Puck, because he does, Puck is adorable and stupid and charming. He’s just not sure if Puck is being serious because Puck is hardly serious about anything. At the same time, he’s not sure as to where all this will lead, the past few days had been exhilarating, memorable, confusing, and he certainly didn’t need to have his world turned upside down by some stupid kiss. It’ll just break every single principle he’s invented, not that he hasn’t broken a few before but-
He lets Puck kiss him anyway. Puck’s kiss is shy and tentative, yet aggressive and sure; Kurt’s never been kissed like it. It’s a feeling like no other, like hearing weird buzzing noises on his ears, feeling warm all over but encased in some weird wet heat. The world seems to spin faster, and faster and all he smells is the aroma of homemade cocoa and cinnamon.
Puck’s shadow chafes his upper lip and he wonders if this is how he’s supposed to be kissed. His lips are swollen and dry and he knows he’s been kissed stupid. In fact, he’s quite impressed by the very miracle that urges him to say: “Try harder.”
Try harder at wooing him. Try harder at kissing him. Whatever it is, Puck smirks and obliges. He bends down and kisses Kurt. Hard. Like there’s no tomorrow. No verbal metaphor equivalent to whatever’s happening. So Kurt kisses back with equal fervor.
And it’s a spell of legs and fabric with Puck’s erection pressed on his inner thigh. Kurt understands the logic behind wanting casual sex and one-night-stands, it’s exhilarating and it’s a type of attraction you just want to get over with.
He’s had sex with his, now ex, boyfriends. Occasionally. The whole shebang was a bit awkward and contrived and a wholly unpleasant experience however, this progression seemed right, if not, necessary. He finds himself pressing his body closer, wanting to drown himself with the feeling.
And it seems like forever with Puck pinning him underneath. And he opens his eyes and sees the dusky sky, sees it speckled with tiny stars, and he sighs.
Puck presses his lips on Kurt’s temple and says: “There’s a motel down the road. We can, you know, if you want.”
And Kurt finds this endearing, so he replies with a simple: “Hurry.”
DAY 05 PT 3
Kurt has always hated sex. If only because he’s been told that he’s really frigid in bed. He thinks: ‘how can I relax if it feels like I’m taking a big shit.’ Chad was the nicest when he told Kurt, “Loosen up a little, you seem like you’re not comfortable with this.”
And Kurt hates the fact that people think he’s bad in bed because he’s supposed to be very good; he was a decent dancer at some point in his life so he’s supposed to be limber and flexible and able to deliver each and every one of his partner’s contortionist-related fantasies.
However, he knows for a fact he has the tendency to be overbearing. Like how, he would pause every five minutes to complain about his back, his ass, his calves, etc. He just concluded that perhaps, as gay as he was, he just wasn’t a sexual being. In fact, he hated sex. He hated it so much that he was actually relieved when Chad doesn’t demand sex from him at all. Their sex life had been close to non-existent, once a month kind of thing that Kurt scheduled on his iPad, if only to oblige a very patient, very understanding Chad.
But with Puck, he’s beyond shameless. Splayed on his back, with his knees pressed against his jaw, and he’s unable to stifle mewls as Puck eases his forearm underneath the small of his back, pulling him upwards and hitting some strange beautiful spot deep within.
It’s all about long strokes and his body moving in rhythm with Puck’s.
It’s so good; he actually doesn’t complain when Puck readjusts their position, pulling Kurt upwards and guiding his hips back and forth as fast as he can. Forcefully, enough to leave bruises and welts.
And they’re sweaty and gross, and Kurt’s still being pounded hard and deep.
And they come, once, twice, thrice until he’s lost count. They’ve probably christened the sheets, the walls, the chairs, the balcony, the bathroom, the carpet, and every fucking surface they could get their asses on.
Kurt wakes up when the sun is setting. The room is bathed in pinkish-orange hues and his cheeks are pressed against Puck’s arm; he pushes himself upwards slowly (his limbs are indeed tender) and gazes dotingly at Puck’s half-opened mouth and wayward eyebrows.
He fluffs the pillows on his side and settles back, tucking his head underneath Puck’s chin.
And he wonders if it’s possible to fall in love with someone you never really thought you’d like just after a mere span of days.
DAY 06
Kurt doesn’t know when exactly he’d come to terms with the fact that he had fallen head over heels in love with Noah Puckerman.
Kurt was certain though, it had something to do with Puck coming out of the shower that afternoon with nothing but a tiny towel slung low on his hips, barely covering his privates, and kissing Kurt awake with a simple invitation for a late afternoon breakfast.
And there weren’t fireworks or anything cosmic, just an ode to Donatella Versace. Something along the lines of: “Damn Donatella, I think I’m in love.”
And now they’re in a diner, eating pancakes and sausages, sipping on fresh orange juice while everyone’s having burgers and fries, and Kurt could care less that the carbs are going straight to his thighs. It’s unbecoming of him but whatever, he likes watching Puck, likes watching the other man make an ass out of himself by pouring too much maple syrup on his pancakes, thus creating a deep murky puddle around his plate with slices of strawberries and kiwi floating.
Kurt’s never been this obsessive, save for Finn, but that was different, Finn didn’t have his cock up Kurt’s ass.
And Kurt knows he’s acting like a lovesick schoolgirl-detestable and out-of-character but the things Noah Puckerman can do to you, it’s unexplainable.
“Drizzle would love this.” Puck shoves a chunk of pancake into his mouth. Kurt continues to watch Puck, just watch, and marvel, and fiddle with his fork. “Drizzle loves strawberries-she used to call them Stow-berries.”
“Who’s Drizzle?”
“My daughter.” Puck shrugs, “Rather, Quinn and Finn’s daughter with half my DNA.”
Kurt slices a bit of the pancake neatly, “Do you still get to see her?”
“Yeah, once in a while, when I’m back home. I don’t really try to impose myself, that would be unfair to Finn.”
“But she is your daughter.”
“Technically, but she grew up with Finn.” Puck says nonchalantly, “Finn is more her father. I know people think I’m, like, cold for not putting up a fight but honestly? I just want her happy and subjecting her to legal battles, well, that would be unfair to the child. Besides, Finn is a great father, he loves that kid more than life itself to actually put aside animosity and I respect him and Quinn for that. Drizzle recognizes me as one of her other fathers and she’s beautiful and happy, and we spend time together, and that’s enough for me.”
Kurt does not understand fully. He’s never had a child after all, but whatever this is that’s turning Puck into a sensible, sensitive, and responsible person, it’s a very beautiful thing.
“She’s lucky to have you as a part of her life.” Kurt means this.
DAY 06 PT 2
They’ve made out for the past two hours in a deserted street across his house. Kurt is only hoping Burt doesn’t get off early from the garage as the older man had this uncanny ability to see past twenty-four feet and really, that would just be awkward.
So Kurt pulls away, cheeks still flushed. “That was one hell of a goodbye.”
“What, you’ve never been kissed like that?”
Kurt doesn’t even attempt to be modest. “Never.”
Puck smiles at him, “Well, if you’re going to be gone for the next twelve weeks then you’re most inclined to make the most out of your remaining days.”
And Kurt frowns a little, wondering what Puck is referring to because, last he checked, he’s filed an indefinite amount of leaves, after all, he has over seventy cumulative paid leaves from the past few years he’s worked at Elle without so much as a single absence.
Puck’s smile falters, “I’m leaving tomorrow for a twelve week training program. I’ve enlisted myself with the Marines.”
Kurt is slightly dumbfounded, “And then?”
“I don’t know.” Puck shrugs. “Serve the country, protect the people, and maybe keep everyone safe?”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
And reality’s a right bitch. Kurt’s not even in love for two full days yet and he’s being forcefully pried away from it.
“Oh.”
Because what else could he say?
He’s not angry, not with Puck at least. Puck had never promised him anything, never deceived him. Puck had told him the first time they saw each other that he was leaving in a matter of days. It just sort of slipped from his judgment-time flies when you’re having fun, and ninety-eight percent of the time, you don’t want that time to ever end.
So he musters a smile and tells Puck, “So I’ll see you someday?”
Puck looks at him with wide, unblinking eyes-unable to respond. Perhaps Puck expected him to throw the mother of all bitch fits, cry and shout obscenities, and act immature. Nope, Kurt had always been a pushover, a doormat, and nothing’s going to change that. Kurt figures, the merit is in heaven anyway, God will reward him for his eternal patience and restraint. Hopefully in kind, like Wang, Rodarte, Chanel, YSL, Bottega, and Tiffany.
When Kurt is about to close the door and head over to his house, he hears Puck mutter: “I think someday is good.”
INTERLUDE
Kurt didn’t know when American Idol had turned into a complete sob fest. The show was an emotional rollercoaster presenting contestants from all walks of life-contestants trying to live their dream, contestants wanting a better life for themselves and their family, and contestants with their sheer desire to make a difference in the world.
The judges were currently weeding out a group of sixty and it would be a complete understatement to say that the environment is tense-even for the audiences. Some of the good ones made it, some of them didn’t and that was life.
C’est La Vie.
Kurt knows this too well.
“Is everything all right here?”
Kurt looks up at Burt, his eyes rimmed red. “I feel so bad for the contestants getting axed. Some of them are truly good, just not cut out for the competition. Like this one, he’s a single father who’s supporting his twin daughters after his girlfriend died of an overdose. He’s working as a handyman in the morning, a janitor in the afternoon, and a bar tender at night. He sees American Idol as like a pedestal or a solution to his problems and it could be, if they gave him the chance.”
Burt shoves the pile of tissues and sits next to Kurt, “That shouldn’t be the type of entertainment we should foster for the nation. We can’t just let people depend on something like American Idol to ease their selves out of their hardship. They have to find more creative ways and work for it.”
Kurt nods and shuts the television off, “Have you eaten?”
“I had takeout, I didn’t think you’d be home.” Burt fidgets, “I’ve got a few leftovers if you want.”
“No, thank you. I don’t feel like eating.”
Burt hesitates and says, “If you want something, you have to work for it. It doesn’t have to be instant; it’ll come to you when you’re ready.”
“You tell Damon McKinley that.” Kurt chokes out.
“Damon who?” His father gives him a confused look.
“The single father who’s working three jobs a day to support his family.”
Burt sighs, “He’ll see better days.”
“Will he?” Kurt wonders out loud.
“Yes.” And Burt says this with more conviction than he’s supposed to.
“Dad?” Kurt’s voice sounds too small, “Can you fall in love with someone after spending only a couple of days with them?”
“I married your mother after two weeks, what do you think?”
DAY 07
“For a second there, I thought Burt was going to beat me into a bloody pulp.”
Kurt adjusts the seatbelt and bites his lips, “I wouldn’t put it past him, like I said, he’s got a ten-wheeler stashed somewhere in his junkyard.”
“Look, I can’t stay really long, I’ve got a Greyhound to catch.” Puck turns and hands him a package, “But I wanted to give you something.”
“What’s this?” Kurt opens the package neatly, tugging on to each adhesive one by one. The package opens to reveal a William Rast utilitarian jacket from what, thirty seasons ago? It looks somewhat familiar but Kurt’s worked in a fashion magazine so every designer piece is inexorably familiar to him.
“I stole it from you during junior year while you were in Cheerio’s practice.”
“I…” Kurt twists the fabric with his fingers, “Why?”
Puck shrugs, “Uh, have you ever seen that ‘Hey Arnold’ cartoon from back when we were kids?”
“I don’t know what that has to do with this but yes, I have.”
“Well, you know how Helga tried to make Arnold’s life hell because she secretly likes him?”
Kurt’s breath hitches, “Yeah?”
“I’m kind of like Helga.” Puck looks at him sheepishly.
Kurt is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. There’s this sense of absurdity and inanity when Puck starts to pull metaphors out of his ass much more compare himself to some 2D female cartoon with a uni-brow holding an undying torch for some foot-ball headed male cartoon. At the same time, he’s tired and confused, and what is Puck trying to imply?
“So what now?” Kurt asks.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t think I’m ready for any of this. Like I said, I’ve never really been in a serious relationship before. When I got the chance to try it out with someone I truly cared about, I fucked it up but I do want to try it out with you someday.” Puck sighs and holds his hand up in an attempt to silence Kurt, “Because I’m sort of in love with you, had been for so long and I thought it would go away but I guess things like that just don’t. Will you trust me to sort things out on my own and wait for me to come around? Even if someday might take a while?”
Kurt nods and says, “Okay.”
Part 2: Over here
Author:dadomz
Rating:PG13 R18
Characters/Pairings:Puck/Kurt
Notes:To get a glimpse of how the Puck/Kurt dynamic worked, I had my 6’5 boyfriend kiss my 5’5 self-that made for good research. Thank you byte366 for the thorough beta work and the useful insights.
Warning:It’s R18 for a reason-so err, swearing, innuendoes, and mentions of alcohol will be present (if not, rampant). Also, for the benefit of everyone else, I’ve included several mentions of High School Musical characters in this story. Crossovers are usually not my “thing” and they may not be yours too, so I’ll totally forgive you if you decide to not bother (reading).
Disclaimer:Don’t own anything, not even those cheap Jeffrey Campbell, Balmain knock-offs.
Summary:Armed with nothing but a Louis Vuitton suitcase, a Goyard Weekender, and an obligatory vacation leave to nurse a broken heart, Kurt Hummel is now back in Lima, Ohio.
Romance is for normal people who fall under major demographics; that’s always been the unwritten rule to the unrivaled laws of human nature and emotions. There are signs of it everywhere, semblances of it in literature and visuals-Romeo and Juliet, Bonnie and Clyde-concrete proof of its intangible existence manifested in various forms.
But then one wonders, “What about me? When’s it going to be my turn?”
So people say: “You’re fairly young, barely twenty-six, give it more time.” Romances are, after all, stuff of legends and legends just don’t happen overnight. So we go through relationships like we go through shirts, enduring in each one even in the absence of romance.
Because we hope and we wait, it takes a while for us to realize that some rules have certain exceptions. Perhaps, we’re that exception. This is something people don’t tell us upfront because they’re selfish and idealistic, thinking that stating the truth will break all sorts of illusions. Instead, they persist in regaling us all with stories of love and passion.
And when the shit hits the fan, we realize, legends are what they are precisely because they don’t have that much factual evidence. Romance isn’t just dead, it probably doesn’t exist! It’s something people make up to feel good about their selves.
Kind of like the “tooth fairy” or “Santa Claus” or some equally asinine notion we all had to grow up with-say, that Dolce & Gabbana trench coat we purchased a good nine or so years ago and keep underneath our beds, hoping for a chance to wear them again just so we can appease ourselves that the eight hundred dollars we invested in to buy it won’t be put to waste. It’s the very same thought process that allows us to find small merits in every dysfunctional relationship we subject ourselves to.
And Kurt Hummel knows this. He just needs to be reminded of it.
And so, after another failed relationship, he realizes two things: one, he’s never quite internalized any of his theories, and two, a non-romantic breakup hurts just as much as every so-called romantic breakup he’s read or heard about.
And that’s how he finds himself in his father’s twenty-something-year-old garage, smack-dab in the Republican mid-west, armed with nothing but the two realizations he’s brewed up, a Louis Vuitton suitcase, a Goyard weekender, and an obligatory vacation leave to nurse a broken heart.
Burt Hummel welcomes his son with an awkward hug (because it wouldn’t help ease Kurt’s pain if he acquired grease stains all over his cream Chloe parka) and a gruff, “You’re home early for Christmas.”
No questions asked, no tête-à-têtes, and that’s how Kurt prefers it, because really, what would his father say if he went on a full-blown diatribe on how he found his infantile ex-boyfriend swapping spit with his backstabbing, two-faced best friend in the living room couch of their (joint) Manhattan apartment. Of course, he’d have to leave out the bit where he arrived an hour early from work with a big bag filled with produce fresh from the grocer’s, and was pathetically frozen in place with the unsightly scene unfolding mere inches from him. And, if it weren’t for the oranges quivering to the objectionable sequence and the brown paper bag caving in (and consequently, smashing the bottle of mustard and soiling his Prada skimmers), he would have stood there all night, dumbstruck, with neither the initiative nor the decency to reclaim whatever ridiculously miniscule pride he had left to walk out in true Barbara Streisand fashion.
And also that unbecoming bit where he went back in his said apartment to grab a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and four bottles of vodka cruisers, camping out on the rooftop, singing Madonna tunes off-key in the midst of snot and tears, waking up the next day in the same clothes and more than thirty minutes late for that extremely important lunch meeting with Robbie Myers and the entire Elle staff (thus, making him lose that coveted Burton-esque/ Angela Carter inspired fairytale-themed editorial to Jane Aldridge, the bitch) with the janitor poking him with the worn-out mop stump.
“I know.” He looks at his dad wearily and a bit petulantly, “I just needed to be back home.”
DAY 01
Four days later and three pounds heavier (with what appears to be the onset of a horrendous breakout by his hairline), Kurt finds himself kneeling on the floor and inspecting the newly installed sills on a 1991 Soccer Mom Club Wagon, clutching an MIG welder on his glove-encased right hand.
“-Probably the piston rings or the valve seals. Must be worn. Did you check the guides? Do you even know how they look-okay, fine, what the heck, I’ll just have that checked, yeah? Wait a sec, I’ll be back.”
Kurt rolls his eyes. Seriously, how could his father take this? If he had to endure ten more grueling hours of menial labor (dirt under his manicured fingernails) and being the customer shock absorber (dealing with idiots who didn’t know how to take good care of their automobiles), he’s going to throw a Grand Theft Auto and hack some bitch’s throat out with a crowbar.
“Nice piece of work you’ve done there, son.”
Kurt removes the welding helmet from his head and stands up, straightening the creases on his greasy overalls, “Would you have expected anything less?”
Instead of answering, Burt stands there with a floppy, proud smile, looking like big ol’ poppa bear with his chest puffed out. He ruffles Kurt’s hair as if he were eight and not past the age where it would be completely inappropriate.
“Wow, I’m wearing boots like yours!”
Something high-pitched and ear splitting interrupts the beautiful father and son moment; Kurt whips around and eyes the sixteen-year-old dead ringer for a skinny Idina Menzel, with knobby knees. Oh great, it’s Rachel Berry all over again. He smiles at her condescendingly, “No sweetie, these are Zanotti for Balmain. Those are Jeffrey Campbell for Urban Outfitters, overpriced Balmain cop-offs you most likely got for half the price from Net-a-Porter.”
“…Hummel?”
Kurt’s head snaps up and his eyes widen as Puckerman, currently sporting an unoriginal buzz cut (skunkhair thankfully gone), alights from a beat-up 1998 Silverado. He drops the welder out of horror and curses out loud as it hits one of his bunions; he really shouldn’t make a habit of dropping heavy, untoward things to his feet-that or he can give up wearing six-inch Alexander McQueen wedges during Thursday’s “it’s a drag” night at the Circuit.
“Oh My Madonna, are you kidding me?” Really, he just couldn’t help himself.
Burt picks the welder up from the floor and nudges Kurt with his elbows, “I see you’ve met Puckerman.”
“Met him!” Kurt scoffs, “So what, are you like fantasy basketball buddies now?”
“Not really, he’s tried to help me out sometime after you left for New York. Needed extra help and he offered-though he’s pretty darn hopeless with cars so I had him do some basic accounting. Since then, he drops by from time to time to see if he can give me a hand.”
Puckerman waggles his eyebrows, “Earns me some extra cash before I head back to camp.”
“I don’t recall you telling me any of this.” Kurt crosses his arms, “Not one word. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any worse, I chance upon the dumpster-throwing anti-Christ. This is beyond sheer irony; it’s just plain cruelty! It’s like: Dad, meet Noah Puckerman, he nailed all our lawn furniture to the roof and wrapped our car in Kleenex rolls; Puckerman, meet my father, he has a ten-wheeler stashed away in his junkyard.”
“Now, Kurt-“
He interrupts his dad with a loud gasp, “You must be dating his mother, aren’t you!”
“What?” Burt frowns, “No, of course not, I haven’t even, okay so yeah, we see each other a couple of times but it’s nothing official as there are certain barriers we need to overcome, such as our faith and-“
“Hah!”
“Now, listen, princess, I don’t think it’s any of your-“
“Are you hearing this, dad?” Kurt asks shrilly, “I don’t want to be affiliated with someone who can’t even call me by my first name! This is, I just can’t, this is imp-I don’t even know where to start!”
“How about, calming the fuck down first?” Puckerman stands in front of Kurt, towering over him imposingly. “Burt’s a big boy, fairy godmother, old enough to make his own decisions without consulting you first. Anyway, as much as I want to take part in this whole domestic soap opera, my sister’s car needs fixing. Can we focus on that? It’s been coughing out bluish smoke from the exhaust pipe and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s something wrong with it.”
Kurt shifts his gaze away sharply to his father’s retreating form. “Don’t you dare think we’re through discussing this, Dad!”
Burt freezes for a moment. Satisfied, Kurt turns his attention back to Puckerman and barks: “Turn the engine on now and let’s get this over with.”
“I know this is a bad time and all but I’ve always wanted to meet you.” The girl situates herself right next to him, “Burt tells us stories about you-how ambitious you are, how talented, how headstrong. You could tell he was real proud. I’m kind of glad I met you, even if it was under awkward circumstances.”
Kurt feels a twinge of guilt. The engine hums, smoke billows from behind.
“Anyway,” She waves a hand dismissively, “It’s been like this for over a week. You warm it up and then you get a chockfull of blue smoke. My friends won’t even ride with me anymore; they claim it’s only a matter of time before that thing blows up. My brother says it must be nothing serious but he’s only been using it for two days.”
“It's probably nothing serious.” Kurt pops the hood open.
“Well, between you and me,” She says in hushed tones, “He may have told your dad the valve pistons, whatever, are working just fine, but I’m not really sure if he knows what he’s talking about.”
“Of course not. The fact the word “shame” doesn’t exist in his vocabulary, it’s probably safe to say he doesn’t know the meaning of most words.”
She lets out a giggle.
”So Norah,” Puck slings an arm around his sister’s shoulders, “You do know you’re so not his type, right?”
“God, you’re such an asshole.” Norah pulls herself away abruptly.
“I second that.” Kurt pulls away to glare half-heartedly at Puck, “Look, I know that every ex-football player has the right to be stupid from time to time but I think you’ve abused the privilege. Moving on to more mature things, have you had your car’s compression checked?”
Puck scratches his head, “No ma’am.”
“Hopeless.” Kurt sighs and prods the engine around, “Are you sure you checked the valve guides? They look slightly worn out to me and I highly doubt you or your sister are capable of changing these-“
“Whatever dude, I’ve only been here for like two days. If it needs fixing, then fix it.” Puck shoves Norah and sidles up next to Kurt, “Listen, how long are you here for? I’ve around a week or more with no one but myself to help me reacquainted with in this town. You wanna do something?”
Kurt lets out a snort, “With you?”
“You got anything better to do?”
“No but, I’ve only been here-“
“I’ll see you tomorrow at around ten. Wear something normal.”
“Uh,” Kurt blinks, “I’ll have to see if I can squeeze you in my awfully tight schedule.”
“You do that.”
DAY 02
“I know you think, I’m like, Satan’s spawn or something, but I’m not.” Puck states as-a-matter-of-factly as he parks the Silverado lopsidedly, five slots away from, what Kurt refers to, fondly, as the “oh-so-memorable” McKinley Dumpster.
Kurt lets out a semi-vapid, partly patronizing “Mm-hmm”, if only to humor Puck and preventing him from going all O.J. on him. It was mostly morbid curiosity that got Kurt to sit an arm’s length right next to Puck-and maybe a wee bit of masochism, as clearly, his stupid brain got off on the idea that he had to sit next to his tormentor, fending off that piss-your-panties kind of feeling.
“Making everyone’s high school life a living hell is like a pre-requisite to becoming cool,” Puck explains, “The football team had this sort-of weird tradition where upperclassmen would hand out their legacies to new recruits. With like pieces of papers, symbolic for ‘passing of the torch.’ Mine had ‘token asshole’ written on it.”
“Whoever gave you that piece of paper must be so proud.” Kurt bites out.
“I guess.” Puck looks at him thoughtfully, “But you know, I’ve been through bad times and no one ever gave me shit when they could have, if they wanted to. So I thought, hey, I actually have a choice to stop being a douche and that was like, an eye-opener for me.”
“So what, you woke up one day and decided to be nice to everyone?”
“Sort of.”
“And now you think I’m your little charity case, your little good merit to earn yourself a spot in heaven?”
“Look, I was a horrible person-not just to you but to everyone. If I had to make it up to each and every one of them, I would. But as it is, you’re here and so I want to make the most out of it.”
“By what?” For a moment, Kurt panics. “Shoving me back in the dumpster? For old time’s sake?”
On hindsight, Kurt thinks it’s serendipitous that he’s chosen to wear all black, plebian Michael Kors today. After all, he had actually considered donning on those vintage Margiela trousers he got from Butler & Wilson from his last trip to London. What would Martin Margiela think if his creation came into contact with banana peels and grape syrup? Sacrilege.
“Is that what you want to happen?” Puck scratches his head, “Like is it some sort of kink? -Because I wasn’t really planning that far ahead. I was thinking more along the lines of letting you push me to the dumpster just to get even.”
“Please, I’m not that spiteful.” Kurt rolls his eyes.
“Well, yeah, I know. I mean, I just want to earn your trust. Our parents are kind of dating and it won’t do well if we’re out there trying to kill each other. Plus, you’re not that bad Hummel, in fact, you’re very interesting.”
There’s something with the way Puck says the word ‘interesting’ that makes Kurt want to run for the hills.
“My point is,” Puck leaves the door open as he brandishes two cans of aerosol paint from the back of the pick-up, “Let’s have fun.”
“Spray paint.” Kurt reads the label out loud, “Spray paint?”
Puck grins and heads towards the dumpster. Kurt follows suit-halfway through, he realizes his stupidity and mentally kicks himself in the balls, only, to realize, once again, he’s taken a rather “Puck” way of approach to admonishing himself.
Puck shakes a can and writes: “Property of Kurt Hummel” on the lid in bold white letters.
“Oh my God, what if someone sees this!” Kurt reaches for Puck’s can.
“What’s the worse they can do? Put us in detention?” Puck leers and reaches for the can in Kurt’s hand and pops the purple lid open. He shoves it back and nods encouragingly, “Your turn.”
“Were you dropped in the head as a baby?” Kurt screeches, toeing the lid from the floor, “It’s like an open invitation for trouble!”
Puck grabs his wrist and poises the can upright. Kurt’s still a bit skittery and his hands shake a bit underneath Puck’s. It would have been sort of okay, if it weren’t for Puck’s car stereo bleating the Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ in bad taste (poor quality sub-woofer and appalling timing).
Kurt lets out a snort-it’s cosmic irony, there’s no other rational explanation for it.
“You’re so fucking edgy, live a little.” And with that, Puck guides Kurt’s hand to write: “And Noah Puckerman” on the dumpster’s front. He eases Kurt’s hand gently afterwards and takes his own bottle propped up against the dumpster’s legs.
“Do you think I should add a heart?” Puck shakes his own can.
Kurt looks up at him in horror.
Before he could say anything scathing or witty, he hears a sharp whistle from somewhere, sees a rush of fabric, and smells a whiff of cheap, drugstore deodorant before everything turns black.
DAY 03
“My dad’s not answering his phone.” Kurt grumbles as he enters the tiny cell, trying his best to avoid both the hustler, squatting by the bunk, and the drug dealer, leaning against the wall at the rightmost corner. He grabs the ice pack from the stool he was previously sitting on and presses it against the small cut on his temple.
Puck doesn’t bother to respond; instead, he continues to press his face against the steel bars, engrossed in whatever it was officer Karofsky (yes, that Karofsky) was playing on his laptop.
“Dude, it’s fly! It’s better than spankwire cause it doesn’t log in your history and it sort of skews your IP. It’s like: click, stream, play, and download-full screen, high quality, all for your discreet viewing pleasure.”
Kurt frowns and stands next to Puck.
Puck’s jaw hangs open, “No way!”
“Yes way!”
“Yes!” Puck pumps his fist, “Dude, I haven’t seen good porn since high school. There’s like a firewall in all our computers at the military camp.”
“This one worms its way past firewalls.”
“Sweet.” Puck’s brows furrow and he points at the screen, “Dude, this, old school Haley Wilde video. Play it!”
“Dude, she’s old now.” Karofsky presses the button anyway.
“You know how I feel about cougars.”
Kurt’s eyes widen at the sound of muffled moans and groans.
“Oh dear Dolce!” He shrieks, smacking Puck’s shoulder, “Talking about porn is already disgusting enough, now you’re watching it in public! What is wrong with you?”
“She’s hot!”
“And you!” Kurt glares at Karofsky, “You’re a police officer! Act like one! I don’t know if this qualifies for public indecency but it’s pretty close-isn’t that punishable by law also?”
Karofsky shrugs.
“Chill, princess.” Puck shifts his gaze and grins at Kurt, “It’s not exactly porn-porn.”
“My eyes are telling me otherwise.”
Puck clucks his tongue, “It’s really hard to explain-Haley Wilde is classy. She’s not a porn star, okay? She’s in a committed, exclusive relationship with her boyfriend and she doesn’t ever star in big-budget sex productions with different partners. She’s not Stoya and she’s far from Sasha Grey. So what she does is she uploads videos of herself fucking her boyfriend and all you have to do is pay with your credit card to access the website.”
“Oh, so she’s making you pay to watch her amateur porn.”
“It’s more than that, it’s as if, she makes you feel like you’re a part of it.”
“Oh, so now it’s sublime because you get to be a part of this virtual, make-believe threesome?” Kurt scoffs, “You’re sick.”
“There’s a certain charm to it, okay? I don’t even know why I’m explaining this to you, it’s not as if you’d get it anyway.”
“Oh, so this is because I’m gay!”
“This, all this, is ruining the mood.” Karofsky shuts the lid of his laptop and glares at the both of them.
Puck grins, “Well, it hasn’t ruined mine.”
Out of curiosity, he sneaks a peek at Puck’s crotch. True enough, there’s a boner the size of Antarctica showing through the thick denim Levi’s. Kurt looks away as fast as he can and gives Karofsky a pleading look.
“Listen,” He grips the metal bars tightly, “Can we talk about this? It’s two AM and it’s not as if we’ve caused any serious damage. In fact, I was just coerced to participate. Every pore in my body is screaming for innocence, don’t you hear them? Come closer.” He tugs on to Karofsky’s wrist harshly, “Here’s a Benjamin, now can we put everything behind us?”
“Man, I’ll even hand you over my twenty bucks.” Puck pulls out the only bill in his wallet, and gives Karofsky a really, really sad face, “Please?”
Forty-eight minutes later and two Big Macs after, Kurt finds himself standing in front of his house. Puck sips obscenely on to the last remaining droplets of his soda and hands the empty plastic cup to Kurt.
“Thanks.” Kurt says sarcastically.
“Dude, don’t mention it.” Puck leans against Kurt’s mailbox, “That wasn’t so bad now was it?”
“Not what I expected.” Kurt crosses his arms, “I hope this doesn’t go to our personal records.”
“Nah. Karofsky’s cool, he was probably just shitting with us.”
“I thought he was going to beat me up.”
Puck gives him a strange look, “Why would he?”
Kurt feels a bit stupid, “Because I’m gay?”
“I don’t see the logic.” Puck shoves his hands deep in his pockets, “Karofsky has a tendency to be a dick but he’s not, you know, as evil as you make him out to be in your head. He took a shot for an innocent old lady two years ago in the middle of a bank heist. People change Hummel, sure they make mistakes but they’re all good deep down.”
Kurt wants to tell Puck the profundity astounds him. Instead, he opts to stay silent.
“So,” Puck makes a grand gesture to the porch. “You going in or not? You’re not expecting a kiss, are you?”
Kurt lets out a huff and says: “You. Are. Unbelievable!” He stomps all the way to the front door, ignoring Puck’s outrageous barks of laughter.
DAY 04
“Where are we exactly?”
“The Port Clinton lighthouse.” Puck leans against the railings and traces the image of the coast with his index, “That’s lake Erie. The sun is supposed to rise in like two hours or so.”
“Normally, I’d be pissed off by the fact that you drove me all the way to Port Clinton at three AM in the morning just so you could catch the sun rise.” Kurt rubs his palms together and blows warm air to his frozen digits and settles himself the floor, legs dangling on the edges. “But it’s a fairly wonderful sight, so I’ll let it pass just this once.”
“You’re welcome, Princess.” Puck seats himself next to Kurt.
And so they sit next to each other in comfortable silence.
The obnoxious ring of Kurt’s celphone (a song from Lady Gaga’s nth album) cuts through the calm air. Without thinking, Kurt fishes out his celphone from his pocket and checks the caller ID.
Ryan.
He ends the call almost immediately.
“Never would’ve pegged you for a Knicks fan.” Puck looks pointedly at the celphone charm dangling from his iPhone’s orange case, “I mean, they’re picking up this season but they still suck ass.”
Kurt waves his hand dismissively, “Whatever. It’s just some stupid gift.”
“Right.”
Puck’s not really one to push people. He’s a very private person and he understands that there are just some things that are better left unsaid. Not this one though, the tone in Kurt’s voice tells him this thing, whatever it is, needs to be addressed.
So he prods some more: “Must be a special gift if you keep hanging on to it.”
Kurt’s phone vibrates momentarily before ringing, the caller ID on full display once again. He proceeds to end the call.
“I don’t know why they can’t get the hint.” Kurt rolls his eyes and turns his phone off.
“So let me guess, the dude who keeps on calling you is the same dude who’s given you the celphone charm.”
“No, my ex-boyfriend gave me my celphone charm.”
“Big fan of the Knicks?”
“No,” Kurt grits his teeth, “He’s the shooting guard.”
“You’re shitting me!” Puck kicks one of his legs high up in the air enthusiastically, “I would’ve believed you more if you said Wayne but Danforth? Guy wears neon orange with green!”
“Just because someone’s unable to color coordinate, doesn’t mean they’re less capable of being attracted to men.”
“Yeah? So what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, I mean, some other dude’s calling you and you’re hanging on to a celphone charm from your ex. What gives?”
Kurt raises his eyebrows, “Nothing gives, just the usual. You start a relationship, and you end it if it’s not working out.”
“So you ended it?”
“Well,” Kurt sighs, “Not exactly. Look, some stories are not worth telling, really.”
“I’ve got half an hour to kill, I’m up for anything.” Puck removes his sneakers and situates them next to him, “How long were you both together?”
“Three years.” Kurt answers simply, resting his chin on the railing’s lowest bar. “I met him while I was a sophomore at Parson’s.”
And that’s how the story goes.
It was entirely coincidental really, and if pressed, a bit shallow. Vogue had came up with this to-do Spring set for their loyal readers to try out and one of the tasks involved getting spanking new eyelash extensions. And Kurt had been so young and so frivolous back then that he actually skipped class for an entire day (please, he knew the history and culture of Fashion Design like the back of his hand) just to scout for the best lash bars in the whole borough of Manhattan.
By the end of his exploit, he ends up in some neo-hippie beauty salon right by Lexington Avenue. Mustering enough enthusiasm despite the cramping leg muscles from bouts of uninterrupted walking, he sashays towards the receptionist-all dimples and perfectly coiffed hair-and sets an appointment. She looks him over and glances appreciatively at his Marc Jacobs scarf and announces the whole process will take him about an hour and will cost him roughly around seven hundred dollars.
He smiles at her and chooses a six pm slot. He proceeds to sit on the only vacant seat in the salon, next to a relatively attractive man with unruly hair. Said man is oblivious of Kurt’s presence and proceeds to brutally flip through some GQ back issue.
Restless, Kurt turns to him and asks if it was his first time in the salon to which, the man replies that he’s merely accompanying a good friend and said good friend’s twin sister.
So Kurt entertains him (or rather himself as every single magazine in the Salon is crap), babbling on and on about fashion week, coming from Lima, and finding the salon’s price list a tad bit too inflated (because he’s so skipping the most recent Gucci sample sale just so he could keep his expenses afloat). The man is clearly amused; he laughs at Kurt, listens to him, and Kurt’s lapping up all the attention.
After a few minutes, two blondes emerge from the enclosed room, matching platinum highlights and Hermes scarves. The female twin pushes through the exit in a flurry of glitter and leopard, thrusting a paper bag filled with hair products to the man who has not introduced himself yet.
The male twin looks at the man sympathetically and smiles at Kurt.
The sight of his pearly whites momentarily blinds Kurt-there’s just too much teeth in the man’s mouth.
I’m Ryan, he says, extending a hand for Kurt to shake. Truthfully, Kurt’s eyes weren’t fixed anywhere near Ryan’s hands but rather, on his Prada oxfords.
The man next to Kurt groans and mutters something along the lines of: “I’ll wait outside” and leaves.
Ryan then grabs Kurt’s phone from his grasp, and Kurt’s so stunned he is unable to protest. Wow, his first encounter with a socialite kleptomaniac. Perhaps he can barter his phone for Ryan’s oxfords.
Kurt’s dreams are short-lived. Ryan returns his phone with a new contact on display.
Of course, Kurt doesn’t bother reading the name. He simply says: “You’re so not my type.”
Sure, Ryan was sort of good looking-if you know, big teeth and a slight paunch is your thing but Kurt couldn’t just get past that ridiculous cable knit beanie he’s sporting and the size 27 True Religion women’s jeans he’s donning.
Ryan lets out a demure giggle and explains that the number isn’t his.
“It’s Chad’s,” he says, “He just moved in from LA and is very unattached. I think he might want to date you. My sister’s leaving for New Mexico tomorrow and I’ve an extra invite for Bendel’s exclusive sale. You want in?”
And that little get-together turned into something frequent, and that something frequent turned into something daily once Ryan coerced him into moving in to his lofty Upper East Side apartment.
“So who were you dating really?” Puck stifles a yawn.
“Chad!” Kurt says exasperatedly, “Ryan’s my best friend. We just had a lot of things in common-we were both into musicals, we were both crazy about designer, and we both grew up in some stink-hole harassed for being the only fancy fruitcakes in town. Except, you know, he was better at everything-he could sing and he could dance and he could play the piano wonderfully. He was everything I aspired to be. A Julliard’s graduate with a Tony after his first year in theater-the world worshipped him and everyone loved him.”
“Everyone including your boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Kurt scrounges his nose, “I’ve always suspected Chad was a little bit in love with Ryan and I guess, his being in a relationship with me was like reaching for the next best thing. I know I’m not as fabulous or as pretty as Ryan is but I hoped there was something in me that he truly liked.”
Puck straightens his toes, “Maybe he’s just stupid. Relationships are stupid.”
“Yeah they are.” Kurt affirms, “I like how you’re not making an effort to console me.”
“I always aim to please.” Puck bares all his teeth.
Kurt lets out a small laugh, “What about you? Fair share of heartbreaks go your way?”
“Not really. You can’t be heartbroken if you don’t do relationships, right?”
“Maybe, I don’t really know.”
“Good answer.” Puck pulls a pack of cigarettes from the back of his jean pocket, “I don’t like relationships in general. I don’t like investing in them. I go off to camp eleven months a year, I train alongside others, and sometimes, I get thrown off to God-knows-where. I don’t want to burden someone with the possibility of not being able to return.”
“That’s such a morbid way of looking at things.” Kurt puts his hands on his lap, “Also very selfless and very noble-congratulations Noah Puckerman, you’re no longer an asshole.”
Puck lights up a cigarette, “But just because I’m not into relationships doesn’t mean I’ve given up on love. I’ve loved a few. I still love them.”
“That’s a very tricky sentiment.” Kurt swings his legs, “If you love someone-romantically, that is-then wouldn’t you want to be with them, even if it means you’re not sure of your future together? Feel free to correct me though, it’s not as if I’ve fallen in love with someone yet.”
“But you believe in love.”
“Well, yes.” Kurt sighs, “I mean, if it’s there, for me, why not? What idiot would deny themselves that?”
“I think,” Puck inhales from the cigarette stick, “you don’t have to be in a relationship to love someone.”
Kurt nods, “Do you think there’s a type of love that would compel you to want to be in a relationship with someone?”
Puck shrugs, “Maybe, maybe not. If there is, then I’ll look forward to it.”
And they sit there in silence once again, watching the sun as it begins to rise.
DAY 04 PT 2
Kurt sips on his strawberry drink and waits for Puck to come out of the makeshift dressing room at ‘Sheets and Things.’ Kurt lets out a happy sigh; Kool-aid is like crack for the soul, especially when it’s served ice cold.
He proceeds to stuff an ice cube in his mouth.
“So what do you think?” Puck emerges from the curtain wearing a vintage, knee-length polka-dot sack dress with a frilly apron on top.
Kurt nearly chokes on his ice cube.
“It’s shapeless.” Brittany hums and elbows Kurt, “What do you think?”
Kurt swallows the half-melted ice cube.
“Makes you look frumpy.”
“So not this.” Puck frowns, “So should I just wear the striped one?”
Kurt nods as Puck re-enters the cubicle.
Brittany turns to Kurt, “You guys are lifesavers. The two performers we hired? They got into some accident yesterday and I didn’t really know who else to call but Puck.”
“Lucky you I was there then.”
“Lucky me!” Brittany titters.
“Where’d you get this anyway?” Kurt fingers the hem of the pinstripe tuxedo he’s wearing (that is two sizes too large), “It smells a bit… funky.”
“I got it from some costume shop downtown.” Brittany shrugs, “I thought about showing a gay couple on the window since, you know, most of our customers are gay, so I got matching tuxedos. Then I thought about, like, how gay couples are like married couples, and saw Stepford Wives on Cinemax, and wouldn’t it be so cool if one of the guys wore a dress? Though I never really would have expected Puck to wear the dress but it’s all in good taste.”
“It’s not as if he’s going to wear anything old and inexpensive.” Puck emerges from behind the curtain, “Besides, I look hot in anything.”
Kurt stage whispers, “Very modest too.”
Brittany lets out a giggle. “You’re both so cute. Anyway, like, on the left window, there’s a kitchen. So Puck, you’ll have to like, pretend you’re cooking or baking something in the oven, preparing the table, waiting for Kurt to come home from work. Then you both have like fake dinners with plastic food, act like the Brady Bunch. Then you’ll have to cross to the right window and settle in for bed.”
“I thought we were keeping this PG 13.”
Brittany looks at Puck, puzzled. “Yeah, just put on a robe and jump into bed and pretend to sleep.”
“But married couples don’t just sleep in bed.” Puck wiggles his eyebrows, “They make babies.”
“But you can’t make babies. You’re both guys.”
“But I thought we were playing pretend husband and wife.” Puck argues.
Watching Puck and Brittany argue was like watching two penguins butting heads with each other. Kurt hangs his head and waits for things to be over.
INTERLUDE
“So…”
“So?”
“Uh. I haven’t seen you around in the past few days.” Burt says casually, eyes trained on the television set. Mike Rowe is conducting a seaweed cleanup over at Lake Erie-of all ironic things to pop up on National television.
Kurt fiddles around with the popcorn tub on his lap. “Puck’s been showing me around town.”
“Why aren’t you out with him now?”
“We saw each other a few hours ago, I think we’ll both live spending the night to ourselves.”
“Right.”
“Dad, are you pimping me out to Noah Puckerman?” Kurt raises both his eyebrows.
“No, no. I just like Noah. I think he’s a nice boy.”
“I bet you think his mother’s nice too.”
Burt grunts.
“Look dad, what you do with your life is your choice.” Kurt sighs, “Just be careful, okay? I’ve got no professional experience in consoling people and I’d be totally useless in helping you get through some breakup.”
Burt exhales deeply and looks at Kurt, “You’re so much like your mother.”
DAY 04 PT 3
Kurt hears a knock on his bedroom window. He thinks little of it and goes back to sleep, must be some squirrel trying to worm its way in.
DAY 05
The knock becomes more frantic, more aggressive. Kurt scrounges his nose and reaches for the switch of his bedside lamp-after all, no tiny woodland creature would be able to smash its head right through the glass.
He squints at the digital clock and reads the bold twelve-forty seven sign.
Great, barely three hours of sleep and he’s up once again.
He makes his way blindly towards the tiny window situated near the ceiling of his basement. He pulls a chair and climbs on top of it for better leverage. He is greeted by the sight of a torso clad in a faded Guns N’ Roses t-shirt.
He opens the window and sighs, “Puckerman. You should really try my front door out for a change.”
Puck crouches down a little and offers a lopsided smile, “You sleep like the dead.”
A cold draft enters. Kurt readjusts his thermal sweater, “So how may I help you?”
“The drive-in theater over at Bellefontaine is showing some old James Dean movie.”
Kurt doesn’t know why he’s eagerly waiting for a proper invitation. To mask said eagerness, he rolls his eyes and says: “That’s nice.”
“The second showing starts in an hour so go get dressed.”
Kurt is too tired (or maybe too giddy) to argue, so he shuts the window and makes a mental note to send his dad a Puck-has-kidnapped-me-so-please-don’t-expect-me-for-breakfast text.
DAY 05 PT 2
Kurt stifles a yawn as he gets off the front seat of the truck. Puck has parked his pickup with the back facing the screen, opting to watch the movie from behind. Luckily, only two other coupes were within the area so they didn’t really cause that much of an inconvenience to anyone.
He climbs gracelessly and settles in one corner. Puck hands him a light blue tuxedo jacket borrowed from Brittany’s costume junk pile, “Did you ever attend the senior prom?”
Kurt puts on the offending jacket on top of his ruffled Comme des Garcon top. “I’ve never attended one ever. They’re kind of overrated. Besides, I’ve got a book full of Hallmark memories to last me a lifetime so adding prom memories might be a little bit unnecessary.”
“Me too.” Puck dons a larger black tuxedo jacket, “I couldn’t get a cheerio to bring to the ball and I didn’t have the guts to go stag. Funny thing is, I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like If I actually went.”
Kurt does not say anything. There’s a hint of truth to what Puck is saying; there were days when Kurt would wonder what it would have been like had he attended the prom. Sure, a lot of kids before him and after him had ditched prom and survived and had become successful but it would have been nice if he’d gotten over it.
Puck smiles at him cheekily, “So what do you say about going to the prom with me?”
Kurt is snapped out of his sleepiness, “We’re certainly not gate-crashing some poor high school class’ prom!”
“Dude, I was just thinking up of themes for tonight.” Puck scoots a bit closer, “How about we pretend to be a couple from the sixties?”
“Haven’t you had enough pretending for today?”
Puck pulls a sad face-this is something Puck is clearly an expert of.
Kurt is unable to resist. “Fine. We did married couple from the seventies over at Sheets and Things, let’s be prom dates tonight.”
Kurt is ashamed to admit he’s actually leaning next to Puck-and liking it, at that. Puck who’s currently splayed improperly on top of several ratty blankets and pillows, sipping on a bottle of Miller. He’s rigid and uptight for the first few minutes and finally settles down as Puck loops an arm around his neck, pulling him closer.
“You know what? You remind me of her.”
“Who?”
“The girl, Judy.” Puck says simply.
Kurt turns to Puck and frowns, “Well, Natalie wood is pretty and I’ve definitely fallen down drunk quite a number of times but thankfully, never off a yacht yet.”
“Obviously, you’re a lightweight.” Puck straightens up a bit, “But for the record, I meant Judy the character. She’s so cold to Jim.”
“That’s cause she’s unimpressed by him-I’ll bet you’re a real Romeo.” Kurt recites the line airily, “But trust me, she’ll be all over him later. I mean, who can resist someone like James Dean?”
“Who indeed.” Puck winks and imitates Dean’s brooding face, “Do you see the resemblance?”
“You don’t want to be James Dean.” Kurt pulls away slightly, “He was speculated to be a homosexual. He got into this purported sexual relationship with his very male roommate.”
“Whatever, he’s the epitome of male bravado, he’s a motherfucking stallion! Who the fuck cares if he’s gay?” Puck pulls him closer, “Besides, I went to the fucking military, being gay-temporarily or permanently-isn’t anything new.”
“So okay, maybe a bit closer to James Dean since he’s like, poster boy for sexual experimentations.”
Puck licks his lips, “So, are you going to be all over me now?”
Kurt scowls, “What?”
“Cause if I’m Jim and you’re the girl, then you’re supposed to be all over me. Aren’t you attracted to my dashing good looks and arrogant personality? Because I’ve been trying to woo you for the past few days and I’m beginning to think there must be something wrong with what I’m doing because if you were a chick, then at this rate, you should’ve at least fallen in love with me already.”
“Puck, that’s a tasteless remark.”
“Okay, sorry.” Puck chews on his bottom lip, “But I’m sort of serious. Like, if you’d shut up for one moment, I’d kiss you.”
Kurt’s unsure of what to say so he stays silent. It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss Puck, because he does, Puck is adorable and stupid and charming. He’s just not sure if Puck is being serious because Puck is hardly serious about anything. At the same time, he’s not sure as to where all this will lead, the past few days had been exhilarating, memorable, confusing, and he certainly didn’t need to have his world turned upside down by some stupid kiss. It’ll just break every single principle he’s invented, not that he hasn’t broken a few before but-
He lets Puck kiss him anyway. Puck’s kiss is shy and tentative, yet aggressive and sure; Kurt’s never been kissed like it. It’s a feeling like no other, like hearing weird buzzing noises on his ears, feeling warm all over but encased in some weird wet heat. The world seems to spin faster, and faster and all he smells is the aroma of homemade cocoa and cinnamon.
Puck’s shadow chafes his upper lip and he wonders if this is how he’s supposed to be kissed. His lips are swollen and dry and he knows he’s been kissed stupid. In fact, he’s quite impressed by the very miracle that urges him to say: “Try harder.”
Try harder at wooing him. Try harder at kissing him. Whatever it is, Puck smirks and obliges. He bends down and kisses Kurt. Hard. Like there’s no tomorrow. No verbal metaphor equivalent to whatever’s happening. So Kurt kisses back with equal fervor.
And it’s a spell of legs and fabric with Puck’s erection pressed on his inner thigh. Kurt understands the logic behind wanting casual sex and one-night-stands, it’s exhilarating and it’s a type of attraction you just want to get over with.
He’s had sex with his, now ex, boyfriends. Occasionally. The whole shebang was a bit awkward and contrived and a wholly unpleasant experience however, this progression seemed right, if not, necessary. He finds himself pressing his body closer, wanting to drown himself with the feeling.
And it seems like forever with Puck pinning him underneath. And he opens his eyes and sees the dusky sky, sees it speckled with tiny stars, and he sighs.
Puck presses his lips on Kurt’s temple and says: “There’s a motel down the road. We can, you know, if you want.”
And Kurt finds this endearing, so he replies with a simple: “Hurry.”
DAY 05 PT 3
Kurt has always hated sex. If only because he’s been told that he’s really frigid in bed. He thinks: ‘how can I relax if it feels like I’m taking a big shit.’ Chad was the nicest when he told Kurt, “Loosen up a little, you seem like you’re not comfortable with this.”
And Kurt hates the fact that people think he’s bad in bed because he’s supposed to be very good; he was a decent dancer at some point in his life so he’s supposed to be limber and flexible and able to deliver each and every one of his partner’s contortionist-related fantasies.
However, he knows for a fact he has the tendency to be overbearing. Like how, he would pause every five minutes to complain about his back, his ass, his calves, etc. He just concluded that perhaps, as gay as he was, he just wasn’t a sexual being. In fact, he hated sex. He hated it so much that he was actually relieved when Chad doesn’t demand sex from him at all. Their sex life had been close to non-existent, once a month kind of thing that Kurt scheduled on his iPad, if only to oblige a very patient, very understanding Chad.
But with Puck, he’s beyond shameless. Splayed on his back, with his knees pressed against his jaw, and he’s unable to stifle mewls as Puck eases his forearm underneath the small of his back, pulling him upwards and hitting some strange beautiful spot deep within.
It’s all about long strokes and his body moving in rhythm with Puck’s.
It’s so good; he actually doesn’t complain when Puck readjusts their position, pulling Kurt upwards and guiding his hips back and forth as fast as he can. Forcefully, enough to leave bruises and welts.
And they’re sweaty and gross, and Kurt’s still being pounded hard and deep.
And they come, once, twice, thrice until he’s lost count. They’ve probably christened the sheets, the walls, the chairs, the balcony, the bathroom, the carpet, and every fucking surface they could get their asses on.
Kurt wakes up when the sun is setting. The room is bathed in pinkish-orange hues and his cheeks are pressed against Puck’s arm; he pushes himself upwards slowly (his limbs are indeed tender) and gazes dotingly at Puck’s half-opened mouth and wayward eyebrows.
He fluffs the pillows on his side and settles back, tucking his head underneath Puck’s chin.
And he wonders if it’s possible to fall in love with someone you never really thought you’d like just after a mere span of days.
DAY 06
Kurt doesn’t know when exactly he’d come to terms with the fact that he had fallen head over heels in love with Noah Puckerman.
Kurt was certain though, it had something to do with Puck coming out of the shower that afternoon with nothing but a tiny towel slung low on his hips, barely covering his privates, and kissing Kurt awake with a simple invitation for a late afternoon breakfast.
And there weren’t fireworks or anything cosmic, just an ode to Donatella Versace. Something along the lines of: “Damn Donatella, I think I’m in love.”
And now they’re in a diner, eating pancakes and sausages, sipping on fresh orange juice while everyone’s having burgers and fries, and Kurt could care less that the carbs are going straight to his thighs. It’s unbecoming of him but whatever, he likes watching Puck, likes watching the other man make an ass out of himself by pouring too much maple syrup on his pancakes, thus creating a deep murky puddle around his plate with slices of strawberries and kiwi floating.
Kurt’s never been this obsessive, save for Finn, but that was different, Finn didn’t have his cock up Kurt’s ass.
And Kurt knows he’s acting like a lovesick schoolgirl-detestable and out-of-character but the things Noah Puckerman can do to you, it’s unexplainable.
“Drizzle would love this.” Puck shoves a chunk of pancake into his mouth. Kurt continues to watch Puck, just watch, and marvel, and fiddle with his fork. “Drizzle loves strawberries-she used to call them Stow-berries.”
“Who’s Drizzle?”
“My daughter.” Puck shrugs, “Rather, Quinn and Finn’s daughter with half my DNA.”
Kurt slices a bit of the pancake neatly, “Do you still get to see her?”
“Yeah, once in a while, when I’m back home. I don’t really try to impose myself, that would be unfair to Finn.”
“But she is your daughter.”
“Technically, but she grew up with Finn.” Puck says nonchalantly, “Finn is more her father. I know people think I’m, like, cold for not putting up a fight but honestly? I just want her happy and subjecting her to legal battles, well, that would be unfair to the child. Besides, Finn is a great father, he loves that kid more than life itself to actually put aside animosity and I respect him and Quinn for that. Drizzle recognizes me as one of her other fathers and she’s beautiful and happy, and we spend time together, and that’s enough for me.”
Kurt does not understand fully. He’s never had a child after all, but whatever this is that’s turning Puck into a sensible, sensitive, and responsible person, it’s a very beautiful thing.
“She’s lucky to have you as a part of her life.” Kurt means this.
DAY 06 PT 2
They’ve made out for the past two hours in a deserted street across his house. Kurt is only hoping Burt doesn’t get off early from the garage as the older man had this uncanny ability to see past twenty-four feet and really, that would just be awkward.
So Kurt pulls away, cheeks still flushed. “That was one hell of a goodbye.”
“What, you’ve never been kissed like that?”
Kurt doesn’t even attempt to be modest. “Never.”
Puck smiles at him, “Well, if you’re going to be gone for the next twelve weeks then you’re most inclined to make the most out of your remaining days.”
And Kurt frowns a little, wondering what Puck is referring to because, last he checked, he’s filed an indefinite amount of leaves, after all, he has over seventy cumulative paid leaves from the past few years he’s worked at Elle without so much as a single absence.
Puck’s smile falters, “I’m leaving tomorrow for a twelve week training program. I’ve enlisted myself with the Marines.”
Kurt is slightly dumbfounded, “And then?”
“I don’t know.” Puck shrugs. “Serve the country, protect the people, and maybe keep everyone safe?”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
And reality’s a right bitch. Kurt’s not even in love for two full days yet and he’s being forcefully pried away from it.
“Oh.”
Because what else could he say?
He’s not angry, not with Puck at least. Puck had never promised him anything, never deceived him. Puck had told him the first time they saw each other that he was leaving in a matter of days. It just sort of slipped from his judgment-time flies when you’re having fun, and ninety-eight percent of the time, you don’t want that time to ever end.
So he musters a smile and tells Puck, “So I’ll see you someday?”
Puck looks at him with wide, unblinking eyes-unable to respond. Perhaps Puck expected him to throw the mother of all bitch fits, cry and shout obscenities, and act immature. Nope, Kurt had always been a pushover, a doormat, and nothing’s going to change that. Kurt figures, the merit is in heaven anyway, God will reward him for his eternal patience and restraint. Hopefully in kind, like Wang, Rodarte, Chanel, YSL, Bottega, and Tiffany.
When Kurt is about to close the door and head over to his house, he hears Puck mutter: “I think someday is good.”
INTERLUDE
Kurt didn’t know when American Idol had turned into a complete sob fest. The show was an emotional rollercoaster presenting contestants from all walks of life-contestants trying to live their dream, contestants wanting a better life for themselves and their family, and contestants with their sheer desire to make a difference in the world.
The judges were currently weeding out a group of sixty and it would be a complete understatement to say that the environment is tense-even for the audiences. Some of the good ones made it, some of them didn’t and that was life.
C’est La Vie.
Kurt knows this too well.
“Is everything all right here?”
Kurt looks up at Burt, his eyes rimmed red. “I feel so bad for the contestants getting axed. Some of them are truly good, just not cut out for the competition. Like this one, he’s a single father who’s supporting his twin daughters after his girlfriend died of an overdose. He’s working as a handyman in the morning, a janitor in the afternoon, and a bar tender at night. He sees American Idol as like a pedestal or a solution to his problems and it could be, if they gave him the chance.”
Burt shoves the pile of tissues and sits next to Kurt, “That shouldn’t be the type of entertainment we should foster for the nation. We can’t just let people depend on something like American Idol to ease their selves out of their hardship. They have to find more creative ways and work for it.”
Kurt nods and shuts the television off, “Have you eaten?”
“I had takeout, I didn’t think you’d be home.” Burt fidgets, “I’ve got a few leftovers if you want.”
“No, thank you. I don’t feel like eating.”
Burt hesitates and says, “If you want something, you have to work for it. It doesn’t have to be instant; it’ll come to you when you’re ready.”
“You tell Damon McKinley that.” Kurt chokes out.
“Damon who?” His father gives him a confused look.
“The single father who’s working three jobs a day to support his family.”
Burt sighs, “He’ll see better days.”
“Will he?” Kurt wonders out loud.
“Yes.” And Burt says this with more conviction than he’s supposed to.
“Dad?” Kurt’s voice sounds too small, “Can you fall in love with someone after spending only a couple of days with them?”
“I married your mother after two weeks, what do you think?”
DAY 07
“For a second there, I thought Burt was going to beat me into a bloody pulp.”
Kurt adjusts the seatbelt and bites his lips, “I wouldn’t put it past him, like I said, he’s got a ten-wheeler stashed somewhere in his junkyard.”
“Look, I can’t stay really long, I’ve got a Greyhound to catch.” Puck turns and hands him a package, “But I wanted to give you something.”
“What’s this?” Kurt opens the package neatly, tugging on to each adhesive one by one. The package opens to reveal a William Rast utilitarian jacket from what, thirty seasons ago? It looks somewhat familiar but Kurt’s worked in a fashion magazine so every designer piece is inexorably familiar to him.
“I stole it from you during junior year while you were in Cheerio’s practice.”
“I…” Kurt twists the fabric with his fingers, “Why?”
Puck shrugs, “Uh, have you ever seen that ‘Hey Arnold’ cartoon from back when we were kids?”
“I don’t know what that has to do with this but yes, I have.”
“Well, you know how Helga tried to make Arnold’s life hell because she secretly likes him?”
Kurt’s breath hitches, “Yeah?”
“I’m kind of like Helga.” Puck looks at him sheepishly.
Kurt is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. There’s this sense of absurdity and inanity when Puck starts to pull metaphors out of his ass much more compare himself to some 2D female cartoon with a uni-brow holding an undying torch for some foot-ball headed male cartoon. At the same time, he’s tired and confused, and what is Puck trying to imply?
“So what now?” Kurt asks.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t think I’m ready for any of this. Like I said, I’ve never really been in a serious relationship before. When I got the chance to try it out with someone I truly cared about, I fucked it up but I do want to try it out with you someday.” Puck sighs and holds his hand up in an attempt to silence Kurt, “Because I’m sort of in love with you, had been for so long and I thought it would go away but I guess things like that just don’t. Will you trust me to sort things out on my own and wait for me to come around? Even if someday might take a while?”
Kurt nods and says, “Okay.”
Part 2: Over here