A House Is Not A Home
This was another story written in response to a commented prompt in puckurt: "So, yeah, Puck mouthing "Are you gay?" to Finn made my mind overjoyed with images of Jealous!Puck and, well. Who wants to write it for me?"
I hope you like it, even if it's got more angst than my usual stuff. There isn't very much mature content-just mere mentions-so the rating's set at a tentative T.
From the first swelling notes of Kurt's impromptu performance of "A House Is Not A Home," Puck smelled trouble
Not only would this break Kurt, but it would also practically guarantee him blue balls. You see, Kurt Hummel was like top-quality beer: once you had that first teasing taste of the finest hops, you just couldn't go back to something like Natty Light. (Or, in this case, Santana-the bitch could sext like no one's business, but when it came down to it, she could handle a dick as well as she could handle her own emotions.)
His blood spiked hot and furious in his veins at the sultry looks Kurt kept shooting Finn. For once, the other jock wasn't as oblivious as he always acted, and he might've looked a bit frightened, too. Puck grimaced. What he would do to hear someone sing about him! It was always him doing the serenading, goddamnit-why couldn't someone else coo "Sweet Caroline" for him?
"Are you gay?" He mouthed when Finn, floundering, looked around at the other gleeks in the silent audience. His scowl deepened when his (ex?) friend blinked owlishly at him before ignoring his presence altogether throughout the rest of the performance. In fact, the rat bastard seemed to slip into his own little world, where there were no teenage pregnancies and pussies had hair made of cotton candy. What a jerk.
Puck found his heart unwittingly going out to Kurt, because he probably knew better than anyone else that turning toward the piano, away from the crowd, wasn't for dramatic effect like Rachel might have done. Had he been a major pansy, his eyes might have burned with sympathetic tears, but as it was, all he had to show for his reaction to Kurt's plight was a tender, aching chest, something only he knew was there.
And maybe it was for the best. Because then everyone else wouldn't know how he had seen the prismatic light, he had his own epiphany where true love was concerned. No one could judge him for wanting Kurt to sing for him, Kurt to live and breathe with a heart devoted to him.
At least Puck would do his best to care for the innocent (and kind of wonderful) heart Kurt possessed. At least he knew just how brilliant Kurt was, and not only at witty comebacks and sucking dick. Finn had never seen Kurt right after he came, how he'd glow and smile almost bashfully as his fingers did figure-eights in the beautiful mess he'd made on himself. Finn never spent a Saturday morning with a lapful of Kurt as they ate Aunt Jemima pancakes and goofed off with bananas. Finn had never had to explain to Burt Hummel what happened to an almost-full bottle of maple syrup. (And Finn would never know that, while maple syrup was sweet lapped from Kurt's navel, Kurt by himself was still sweeter.)
Puck waited until everyone else had filtered out, meeting Kurt's eyes just before they boy walked out arm-in-arm with his female counterpart. I would never hurt you like this, He conveyed with his hazel eyes.
He was left wondering how much was lost in transition, because Kurt offered him a weak farce of a smile, doing his fruity little finger-wave before turning and walking out the door with Mercedes leading the way.
Puck rolled his eyes later on at himself for his utter display of something so anti-badass, but before he switched off the choir room's lights, before he closed the self-locking door, he sang to himself in a self-conscious whisper. "But it's just a crazy game…"