The overturned tables, smashed furniture, and cracked vases brought to a boil the full extent of his fury. "What are you trying to tell me? That you're some… some… homo? Jesus, Puck, are you kidding me? This better be some kind of joke, because if it's not, like hell if you're going to be living under my roof anymore."
Puck backed up, hands out in front of him in a 'God, just don't kill me' sort of way. This, the way this look in his dad's eye made him feel, was the closest thing to fear that he had ever known. Well, the second-closest; the realization that Kurt wanted him (and that he maybe sort of wanted him back) was the closest thing.
"Dad, hold on- where did you even get this idea?" The back of Puck's knees hit the sofa, and his hands went out behind him to stop himself from falling.
Puck's father's lip curled in disgust, his fist flying out and smashing a picture on the wall. The shattered glass slid to the perfectly-polished hardwood floor with a clatter, and Puck felt himself cringe at the idea of how mad his mom would be when his dad told her it was all Puck's fault. Because he knew that would be how it went down. That was just how his dad was.
"Your little boyfriend called your cell phone. You were in the shower, so he apparently texted you instead. Your mother was passing by when- lo and behold- she heard the beep. She thought it was Finn, or one of the guys calling to see if there was practice or something. But no! I think you know where I'm going with this, Puck."
Grimacing, Puck felt an odd twinge when he heard Finn's name. Puck knew that he'd given the guy a hard time when he found out he was doing Glee Club (or as he'd so tastefully put it then, Homo Explosion), but really, he felt an odd sense of gratitude now.
If Puck hadn't gone to see where the hell Finn was right after he missed another practice, or if Finn hadn't joined show choir at all, then maybe Kurt wouldn't have been so damn cute when he thought he would try out for football. Or when Finn thought it was a good idea to bring the Glee freaks to that start-of-season party.
Puck hated himself for having to pretend that he was into Quinn or any of the other cheerleaders when all he wanted was to grab Kurt by the collar of his Marc Jacobs jacket (or Ralph Lauren, which he happened to be wearing the day of the party) and press him against the wall.
"Dad, dad, I'm serious-"
"Tell me it was a joke, son. Tell me that and it'll be fine. Just tell me that it was one of your football buddies trying to psych you out, or get you in trouble, or something. Tell me. Because I know you're no sissy homo." Puck clenched his fists behind his back, where his calves were still glued firmly to the leather upholstery of the living-room couch.
He knew he couldn't lie to his dad, but what else could he do? His dad knew. Puck has gone so far as to punch Kurt's name into his phone and put that little girly-ass thing that Quinn did when she texted Finn at the end so it looked like "Kurt Hummel 3".
He felt pathetic and spineless. He felt his nails carving half-moons into his palms, his knuckles locking into place. Three… two… In a flash, Puck felt his fist connect with his father's jaw. His heart pounding, Puck ran like lightning upstairs and locked the door to his bedroom.
Slamming his fist against his bed frame, Puck pressed himself into the corner of his room where his closet met the outer wall. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Kurt and slipped into his closet, closing the door behind him.
"H'lo? Hld'n-" Kurt answered. His voice was garbled; it sounded as if he were underwater, or brushing his teeth. Puck couldn't help but smile a little, but he bit his lip to keep himself from saying anything too loudly. He could hear his father screaming downstairs and hoped he wouldn't come up too soon.
Puck wanted to stay alive for a while yet, especially now that Kurt was on the phone. He heard the sound of a running tap and knew that Kurt was brushing his teeth. "Okay, hello?"
"God, Kurt, I am so glad you picked up."
"Hey, hon, what's up? Oh, did you talk to your dad yet?" Puck's face contorted involuntarily. He had no idea how to put what just happened into words. He decided to start with, "Um. Sort of. My mom found the text you sent me earlier, and, um-"
"PUCK! JESUS, PUCK, IF YOU'RE STILL HERE I'M GOING TO-" His father's voice rang out clearly in Puck's room, reverberating in his closet. God, he had no idea what to do. If he ran, where the hell would he go? If he stayed, his dad would beat his ass for clocking him in the jaw. There wasn't much choice he had, but talking to Kurt might help a little bit.
Kurt's voice was strained now, and Puck could hear wind or a blow-dryer or something in the background- something making a whooshing noise. "I get it. I take it that he's not reacting so well? Don't worry, my dad totally flipped out too. I mean, I guess he always knew- there's no way a kid who listens to Elton John and idolized Billy Elliot could be straight, you know? But what are you going to do? I mean, he knows now."
"I know. God, I wish I had a little more time. I wish I could have just had the balls to tell him straight out."
"Trust me; you have enough balls for the both of us," Puck smirked at Kurt's laugh as it echoed wherever he was, "But really, what's the worst that can happen now? Hon, it's out in the open. You're going to have to take care of it sometimes."
"Kurt, I punched him in the jaw. He was breaking things, and- Jesus- I was scared, man. I was so damn scared." Puck's voice had dropped to a shaky whisper, and he paused, wondering if his dad was still out there. Hearing nothing, he exhaled. "I can't take it anymore."
Through the phone, Puck heard a car whizz by Kurt as he inhaled sharply at his confession of violence. Kurt waited a few seconds before saying, "Open your window."
"God, Puck, do you have ears? Open your window. Empty your school duffel and put some clothes in, and toss it down to me. And for Chrissakes, do not forget your damn car keys this time. You know I don't have a car."
Surprised, Puck crawled out of his closet as quickly and as stealthily as possible. Opening his window quietly after looking back at his still-silent door, he stuck his head out the window. "For Chrissakes, Kurt, what the hell?" he hissed, his eyes frantic as he looked back towards his doorway, as if his dad would come barging through any second.
Kurt was looking at his hand. Or rather, his nails. Apparently picking at a cuticle. Damn it, it was Kurt's fault Puck even knew what the hell a cuticle was! But he had to admit, he still looked pretty damn cute. Taking his sweet time to turn his head up at Puck, he opened his hand, palm up, gesturing for Puck to throw something down at him. Presumably his supposed-to-be-packed football bag. "Hello? Let's go!" He curled his fingers in twice, obviously becoming very impatient with Puck.
"One second, one second," Puck stage-whispered (damn it, that was Kurt's fault too) as he stuck his head back inside. Dumping the content of his bag out, Puck haphazardly shoved in a few pairs of jeans, boxers, a shirt or two, and- hell, what was he missing… socks! Oh… whatever.
Oh, Jesus. He quickly zipped up the bag and rummaged through his backpack for his car keys… damn it, he knew he should have let Kurt buy him the damn keychain from Coach… there they were! "Okay, fine, I have it here, you ready?" When Kurt nodded distractedly, Puck dropped the bag out the window, hissing, "What the-" when Kurt, instead of catching it like Puck thought he would, stepped back and let the duffel tumble to the ground. "Jesus, Kurt, what are you doing?"
"Do you want to come with me or not?" Kurt frowned, wrinkling his nose at the condition of the football bag. Puck closed his eyes. Yes, he wanted to come with him. So badly. His dad would never let him in the house again. Grabbing his wallet on a last-second whim, Puck swung one leg out the window, trying to find his footing on the shingles of the tiny ledge outside. He slid the glass shut after he was fully out, and tried to clamber down without hurting himself.
Unfortunately, that dream was short-lived, as Puck slipped and landed on all fours about two inches from the grass, landing instead in a bush. "Damn it!" Puck scrambled up and glared at Kurt. "Let's just go then." Storming towards his truck, Puck unlocked the bright red Ford F150 and climbed into the drivers' seat. "God, just get in."
Kurt sauntered over to the truck, lazily dragging Puck's bag along behind him. He hoisted the bag inside the truck, resting it at his feet as he put one foot on the floor of the truck. Getting fed up, Puck seized Kurt's Armani-clad arm and dragged him into the bed of the truck, pulling him so his face was less than two inches away from Puck's. "Are you going to tell me where we're going or what?"
Smirking a little bit, Kurt leaned forward and pressed his lips against Puck's, tracing his eyebrow with two fingers. "In a minute, hon. You don't mind?" He smiled gently.
"Not at all," Puck smirked, tugging on Kurt's lapels so as to bring him closer. He smashed his mouth against Kurt's open one, pressing one hand to the back of the designer-clad boy's head. Puck nipped at Kurt's bottom lip, and Kurt let out a breathy gasp. After a minute or so, Kurt pulled away. "My house; it's on Maple Grove," he gasped.
Puck grinned cheekily. "Sure. Just one question, though." He punched Kurt's upper arm. "Damn it, why did you act like that earlier?" Wincing, Kurt made a face at Puck.
"God, ow! Did you hear yourself thinking about how horrible your dad is? No, you didn't. That was why. Now can we drive?" Kurt stuck his tongue out at Puck, buckling his seatbelt and crossing his arms over his chest.
Smiling softly, Puck leaned over and gave Kurt a quick peck on the lips. "You said Maple Grove?"