Detention was never fun, but it could be more or less bearable – depending on which teacher was supervising it. If Puck could choose his favorite detention day, it would without doubt be Wednesdays, because then Coach Tanaka was in charge and all he ever did was sitting in his desk and stuffing his face with burritos and Cheetos. It was worse with Mr Schue, because although he was an alright teacher or whatever, he always asked Puck to do stuff and that shit just ain't right.
The day it happened was a Wednesday. Coach was too busy with wallowing in self-pity after the Ms Pillsbury-fiasco, he did not even notice when Puck came to his feet and announced loudly that he was going. He was a badass and school could not tie him down. At least not after five pm.
The parking lot was nearly empty. His truck stood in its usual spot – not too far from the dumpsters he had thrown Jewfro into when bullying him into giving his parking space up. He shoved his hand down the pockets of his grey jeans. He nearly did not hear it because of the scrambling of his key chain, the muffled noise he could not quite identify. He stopped dead in his tracks, eying is surrounding suspiciously. Those hockey jerks had been on the warpath lately, threatening constantly with wedgies and all different kinds of crap, but he knew they did not dare to take him down. Finn, sure, because he was tall and all, but as dangerous as a baby bunny. Although aware of the fact that he was too rock 'n' roll for those shitheads to even try something, he was still on his edge, listening intently after that noise again. There it was! Puck spun around, eyebrows creased in confused curiosity. His car keys still in hand, he took a cautionary step in the direction he thought he heard the weird noise come from. He noticed the bag first. Light brown leather. A messenger bag he had gotten shoved in his guts one too many times. The content had been discarded across the dark asphalt – notebooks, pens, an iPod, broken headphones, something which looked a lot like a make-up kit and a purple scarf. It had been torn in half. Dread settled low in his stomach. Something was not right. Even if the hockey team had taken Hummel's bag, it would not have been on the ground like this with no sign of the so called guy. Puck knew that if they had taken the bag, they would have ripped it from his weak lady hands and made him watch them ruin his belongings. They would have taken pleasure in the way he would have tried to look strong, nose in the air, one eyebrow raised, but his bottom lip would tremble just the slightest. That was all it took to make it worth it. Puck knew all this, because he had been there himself. He had noticed the light quiver his lip made, the small wrinkle between his eyebrows when he gleefully scattered all of his possessions across the sidewalk and it broke under the soles of his shoes. He had watched the fairy sink down upon the ground, gathering his stuff with shivering hands and gotten the hell out of there before something even worse was done to him.
Puck had not tormented Hummel for quite some time. He had been a good boy and really behaved, even sticking up for him when the other jocks got a bit too eager with their insults. They were teammates and teammates were supposed to stick together, or whatever fruity shit Mr Schue tried to teach them. Of course they bickered like an old, bitter married couple all the time, because being teammates did not mean that they particularly liked each other. They tolerated each others existence... barely.
He could hear the noise more clearly now. It almost sounded like someone sobbing and Puck knew who it was even before he walked around the dumpster and saw him. His petite body was slumped against the large garbage container and his head was lolling to the side, occasionally jerked upwards, as if fighting sleep. He caught a glimpse of his face before getting closer. Hummel is usually pale, but now his skin was white and it was pretty fucking scary because he did not quite look human anymore. Two hesitant steps closer and he got a better look at him. His otherwise bright eyes were almost hidden behind heavy eyelids, his lips parted and it sort of looked like he did not possess the strength to keep them shut. His slender fingers held onto his side and Puck did not know why, but he knew that something was off about his outfit. That sounds super gay, but it was true. He had seen him around school all day, wearing a pristine white shirt. Even though it seemed likely that fruitcake over here of all people would change outfit in the middle of the day, for maxed fabulousness or something queer like that, but Puck did not believe that even Hummel would wear something like that. It was still a white shirt, but with a red splatter across his stomach. It sort of resembled... The realization hit him hard and that was when he said it.
That exclaim seemed to be what made Hummel aware of his presence. His eyelids fluttered and hazy eyes were suddenly staring Puck down.
His voice was nothing like the smooth and crystal clear voice he usually used. This one was heavy and forced. It seemed to strum painfully at his vocal cords.
"... go away... I don't... need your help..."
Every breath was as tiring as running a marathon and climbing Mount Everest in one day. A wheezing sound left his lips when he inhaled enough to get the next words out.
"... I'm fine..."
Just fucking like Hummel. Not even when he was dying did he fancy any help. Though, Puck did not think of this. He did not think of pulling his pigtails and tease him to the brink of explosion, like he usually did. No one in their right mind would and Puck may be a jerk, but he was not deranged. Hummel needed help.
"Are you fucking crazy, Hummel?"
There was an anger within which he had never experienced before, which was weird, because if someone knew anger, it was Puck. It was flaring, burning intensely deep inside when he promptly dropped his bag to the ground and yanked his shirt off his body. At that time, he did not think of how he had a towel in the bag next to him. All he could think was stop the blood from flowing. His knees hit the ground hard, but he could not feel a thing except for the worry which made him want to puke his guts out. He needed to pry Hummel's hand from the blood soaked fabric just to be able to press his own shirt to the open wound. Hummel hissed, pain visible all across his face and it sent a jolt of panic throughout Puck's body. He was doing this right... right? He was going to be fine, right? The cellphone nearly slipped out of his hand when he pulled it out of his jeans pocket. His fingers just barely obeyed him in his rush to press the three necessary digits. Slow, beeping signals went through, but Puck almost did not hear them over his thundering heartbeat. Pick up pick up pick up. Something crackled in the other end and then there was just this calm, collected voice and words just gushed out of him, all in a hazy blur as he clutched Hummel tighter to his chest. The fairy whimpered, but hell, he had all reasons to.
"An ambulance is on its way. Please stay on the line, Noah."
Instructions went into his ear and out through the other. It was too much. Check his breathing, stop the bleeding, don't let him fall asleep, is he dozing off? All the while this woman kept talking, small murmurs left Hummel's blueish looking lips. Puck only managed to pick up fragments.
"... my new shirt... it's ruined... cashmere..."
He seemed totally out of it, eyelids fluttering dangerously as he quietly complained over the state of his shirt. Puck wanted him to shut up, stop sounding so fucking normal and at the same time, not normal at all. He kept naming all the fancy pansy drag queens or designers or what the fuck they were under his breath, whispered them out into the crisp spring air like a mantra or some cheesy shit like that. Puck would have felt completely useless, if not for the fact that his hand was pressed against Hummel's side and he swore that he could feel the warm blood pulsate beneath his fingertips.
"The ambulance will be here soon", he managed to mutter and his voice was so not a girly, high-pitched and heartbroken whisper filled to the brim with panicking concern. Hummel did not reply, just kept murmuring the same things over and over again.
"... Gucci, Alexander McQueen, Armani, Coco Chanel, Versace..."
Where was that damn ambulance? Could they not hurry? Time was ticking away in the same rate as blood started pooling around them. Puck wanted to scream. Call for some kind of help. He had never felt more alone in his entire life than in this moment, because he knew that he was the last one on the scene. The parking lot was empty, except for his own truck and Hummel's fancy Navigator. He bit down on his lower lip to stifle a sob. His throat burned viciously and he tried his very best to ignore the oncoming, helpless tears, because studs does not cry and he was Puckzilla. Puckzilla did not cry.
Two great pools of vacant blue and green suddenly bore into his eyes. Hummel's fingertips trembled when they connected with Puck's cheek. They were so cold. It was meant as some kind of reassurance, a calming gesture, but hell to calm and collected when Hummel could not even steady his hand enough to cup someone's cheek!
"... I'm cold..."
Those two words were heartrending. Wasn't that what all the movie heroes said before they died in their lover's arms? Oh fuck, Hummel did not deserve to die in Puck's arms. Where was that lover? He should hurry up and get there soon, before it was too late. Puck forgot all about the woman on his cellphone when Hummel had spoken, all the instructions he had been given. He simply reached out after his bag and wrenched it open. The zipper tore, but he could not care less, because soon enough he did pull out his letterman jacket. It probably smelled like shit; old pizza, sweat, cologne and awesomeness, but it was warm and Hummel was cold.
"Here you go..." he murmured when wrapping it awkwardly around his hunched body. "Feeling better? You're feeling better, right? The ambulance will be here any minute now, 'kay?"
He did not reply. A petite, almost invisible smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and it looked so sad, so out of place that Puck wanted to bawl his eyes out. Then his eyelids simply fluttered shut.
Next thing he knew, it was people everywhere. People in uniforms. Bright blue and red lights, voices echoing in and out of his vacant mind. Someone told him to let go. No. He did not want to. Hummel needed him. He was cold. The lighter boy was forced out of his arms, still enveloped in his smelly letterman jacket and he might have screamed and yelled, he can not remember the exact details. Hands gripped after him, pushed him forward and Hummel was on a bunk next to him and all these people used stuff that made his limp body convulse and then sag. Convulse and sag, convulse and sag, all over again. The same hands held him now, asked politely after his name and Hummel's. How they knew each other. What they were doing in the parking lot. Puck could not speak, his entire attention stuck on all the pale skin and red blood before him. Machines beeped, people shouted directions and he did not belong there. Neither of them did. Just a few hours ago, he had been royally insulted by the then vibrant, ice cold queen of Fairy Town. He was still cold, but for an entire different reason.
Not once did Hummel cry.
Author's note: I promise; this is not the end of this fic! I'll update as soon as possible.
I just wanted to point out, if I did not get it across; the part where Kurt murmurs designers and labels is not some weird exaggeration of his persona. I figured that when you've gotten stabbed and are trying not to panic, you need to remind yourself of something safe, something normal to keep calm. That was what he did. Rambling about familiar things like the state of his shirt or different designers that he likes helped him keep his cool.
Don't you forget to review! They're like crack to me. I need them to live (or at least to continue with this story).