Disclaimer - sighhhh.

Possibly the last chapter of Shameless. :)

Mostly likely.

As in...this IS the last chapter.

So, read slowly.

Thanks for reading and the support, guys. I couldn't have done it without the motivation!

xoxo, Chuck.

Puck rolled over, eyes finding the small window that looked out onto the street. It was about three in the morning, and he couldn't sleep. Heavy rain was falling, making that familiar pattering sound on his tin roof and obscuring his view of the outside world. The house was drafty and cold from the November weather. He pulled his flannel sheet up further on his chest.

It had been three days.

Three days, no answer.

Did no answer just mean...no?

Puck sighed and pushed the blankets away from him. Suddenly, they were just too heavy. He wasn't sure how this had all happened.

One minute, he just wanted to make out with the dude. The second, he was proclaiming his love and stomping away like an idiot.

Who did that? The people in movies?

He groaned, slapping a hand over his face. He hated himself, suddenly, for being stupid.

Because making out with Kurt was probably better than no Kurt at all.

Under his pillow, his phone vibrated. He flipped over and dug it out with searching fingers, before squinting at the bright screen.

It's extremely cold out here.

Puck titled his head to the side, re-reading the text. It was cold...?

Carefully, he pulled himself out of bed and walked to his window, placing his forehead against a cold pane of glass as his eyes searched the rain.

And then he saw it.

The small figure leaning against the light post, without an umbrella for protection, waving feebly up at him.

Kurt rolled over, blue eyes finding the only window in his basement room.

It had been three days.

Three tortuous, terrible days in which Kurt racked his brains for a reason not to love Puck. Other than the obvious he's-only-going-to-break-your-heart-and-make-you-look-stupid reason.

Rolling over, he smoothed his silk pajamas, eyes traveling along his room. He was looking for something. Something familiar, something to give him a sign.

His eyes passed several empty paint cans, the Springsteen tee shirt, the little note that had been left on his doorstep, and found a picture of his mother.

He sighed. How cliche it was, to be asking your dead mother for advice about a boy.

He climbed out of bed with soft, padding feet and gently took the picture from his vanity. Setting himself carefully on the edge of his make-up chair, he smiled at his mother, who's head was bent over sheet music, and asked silently for some type of guidance.

There was only the soft hum of the heat, which Burt must have turned on before he went to bed.

Kurt swallowed another sigh and kissed the tips of his fingers, placing them softly on the glass that separated him from the glossy picture paper.

Tucking the picture back into it's normal spot, he sat back in his chair and wondered how he had gotten there. He blamed it wholly on his teenage hormones.

Making out with Puck wasn't something Kurt was proud of, not in the slightest, but he had definitely wanted to. Wanted him. Now, Puck wanted him, too. It was just in an entirely different way.

Kurt spread his fingers out on the arm of his chair.

A sudden glint of glass caught his eye; he blinked twice and found the thin cobalt vase sitting on his bedside table.

In it, a small daisy was withering.

Kurt distinctly remembered his father finding it on the front steps after Puck had fled the scene.

At the sight of it, he was suddenly drowned in abrupt motivation. He pulled himself out of his make-up chair and stomped toward his closest.

He was going to fix things, if it was the last thing he ever did.

Puck threw on a pair of sweatpants and a Nirvana shirt, shoving his feet into a ratty pair of converse.

He nearly fell down the stairs and his shoulder bounced off the door frame when he tried to wrestle his way out the front door.

The icy rain hit his face and the back of his neck, but he kept going, his long strides bringing him closer and closer to the figure. He was leaning against the light post across the street, slumped in such a way that, for a second, Puck doubted himself. As he neared, though, he recognized his own Bruce Springsteen shirt hanging off the thin frame, soaked.

He stepped closer, finally able to see the wet face. "Didn't think to bring an umbrella?

"I was in a slight hurry."

Puck jerked his head noncommittally and shuffled his feet, shoes squeaking over the heavy pounding of the rain. Water was already permeating the old canvas. There was an intense emotion in Kurt's eyes, churning in the bright irises, but Puck couldn't quite place it. "How'd you find my house?"

"My extraordinary detective skills." Kurt pushed his soaked bangs out of his eyes. "Namely, Facebook and MapQuest."

Puck didn't have the energy to laugh. He managed a small, crooked smile. Kurt looked down at his shoes, ignoring the rain that was pelting his newly exposed neck. As he did, Puck caught a little glimpse of the love mark he'd left near the soprano's ear. He cleared his throat. "Kurt, as much as I love standing out in the rain, I-"

"I love you."

The words in Puck's throat died immediately. He blinked, unable to think of a response. Kurt paraded onward.

"That sounded a lot less dramatic than I wanted it to be." He mused quietly, pressing his knuckles to his lips. "But honestly, it's true. I'm not exactly sure why. You're stubborn and vulgar and most of the time, you have no idea what I'm talking about. You mess up my hair and listen to Country music. You have a disgusting sense of humor and I absolutely hate the way you drive."

Puck raised his eyebrows. Kurt didn't stop.

"But for some reason, God thought it would be funny if I fell in love with you." Kurt's eyes found the sky above them. He shook his head and looked down again, meeting Puck's hazel eyes. "So here I am, Noah. Ardently, stupidly, additively, strangely, absolutely smitten."

Puck smirked as Kurt's cheeks flushed. He placed one hand on his hip, one eyebrow arching into his dripping hair. "Noah Puckerman, say something. I didn't get out of bed at three in the morning and ruin my hair for silence! I refuse to be -"

Puck took his face in both his hands, pulling him close, shivering when Kurt's fingers pressed into his wet chest.

When he kissed him, when their lips met, Puck got the rush, the thrill, the heart-pounding, firework-bursting, tear-jerking feeling that seeped through his entire body, flooding him. His nerves exploded, his hands dropped from Kurt's face to explore the familiar territory and, very suddenly, Noah Puckerman was inexplicably, ridiculously happy.

And Kurt Hummel was utterly shameless.

Since I ran my hands over you, nothing else will ever do now. To cool me down.

END. :)

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