Old Dogs (or, Of Matzo Balls and Kleenex Mountains)

To those who knew him, Kurt Hummel might seem high and mighty, holier-than-thou, and above all detestable human behavior. And Kurt encouraged this image everyone had of him, because who didn't want to seem close to perfect?

But here he was, home sick for the first time in a long time, wallowing in his misery and yesterday's clothes. Used Kleenex mountains are scattered about his basement living room, and he shudders to think of how much Lysol he'll have to wield once he feels up to cleaning.

His father went to work that day, because Kurt had said he "didn't need to be doted over like a baby. Oh, and could you pick me up some more Halls?"

So now he was home alone, kind of wishing he'd asked his father to stay--even though he didn't know how much his dad could do for him, it would still have been nice to not feel completely abandoned and isolated.

He told himself crying wouldn't help him at all, not when he was already congested.

The clock on the TV mantle read 3:55 and Kurt thought about what his classmates had done in glee without him. Maybe Mr. Schue had finally caved and let them sing some Rent--oh, he'll be so pissed if that happened.

He burrowed further into his collection of afghans--the old ones his mom had knit--and let his thoughts drift to Noah. Kurt wondered what his boyfriend was doing in his absence, kind of prayed that he didn't make out with Santana during lunch.

Although Noah had proven loyal thus far, Kurt knew it was hard to teach an old dog new tricks (though Noah had picked up pretty fast on some of their more deviant sexual activities). He wasn't waiting for Noah to slip up and cheat on him, but he didn't expect their little relationship to last all that long.

Still, Kurt found himself wishing Noah was here, not out "cleaning" pools. He wanted to have warm, muscled arms surrounding him from behind; to stroke that fuzzy mohawk until he forgot about his roiling stomach--

Speaking of roiling stomachs…

Kurt sprang up into a sitting position, and grabbed the trash bin next to the couch just in time.

Once the painful heaving dwindled, he set the garbage aside and wiped his tearing eyes on the back of his hand. It was times like these that he wished his mother were still around, to tend to his messes and rub his pounding temples. To make him soup and force Gatorade down his throat.

He took a few gulps of bottled water, whimpering as he settled back into his warm cocoon of blankets.

"Noah…" He whispered, for no other reason but to voice his wishes. He closed his watery eyes, ready to try to take another catnap.

"Kurt?" A familiar voice called, and his eyes snapped open. "I hope this is cool--I used the spare key to get in."

Heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase, and he poked his head out just in time to see Noah walk down the last few stairs and enter his abode.

Kurt groaned. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"What?" He asked, making his way around the dirty tissues to sit at the foot of the couch. "Sick?"

"I'm all… disgusting and snotty and…" He groaned again. "Please, it's better if you just left."

"Kurt," Noah said, and he caught onto a hint of fondness in that baritone voice. "You realize that everyone catches a bug now and then, right? And besides, I've taken care of my sister when she was so sick she hurled every ten-fifteen minutes."

His stomach jerked unpleasantly at the mention of vomit. "I'm not your sister, Noah. I'm the one who gives you blowjobs and makes out with you--"

"Uh, I think I know all that." Noah snickered as he adjusted the covers to cover Kurt's exposed feet. "But that doesn't mean I can't take care of you, right?"

"You don't have to," Kurt insisted. "All I'm going to do is sleep and do disgusting sick things you don't need to be here to witness."

"I don't care if I don't have to," Noah got up and took off his Letterman jacket. "I want to."

Kurt watched from the couch as Noah went about straightening up messes and (God bless him) disinfecting the once tissue-covered coffee table. He felt so humiliated, even as he drifted in and out of consciousness, when he noticed the trash bin was clean and vomit-free. He couldn't really complain, though--the acrid stench of bile just made him feel even more sick to his stomach.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but when Noah was finished straightening up, a fold-up TV tray was set next to him, a tall Tupperware filled with something liquid-y and pale gold. A waft of steam passed by, and through his clogged nose, he caught the faint whiffs of chicken broth and vegetables.

"My mom makes matzo ball soup whenever I feel bad," Noah offered. "I asked her if she could make some this morning when Mercedes told me you were home sick today." He laughed. "She said it's a good thing matzo meal is a staple in a Jewish household."

Kurt felt his heart swell with some unnamable, almost-painful emotion, and he sat, frozen, until Noah gave him a gentle nudge. "You have to eat something, even if you're not up to it."

Once he forced down about half of the soup (it was really good, but his stomach definitely protested eating), the container and tray were put off to the side and Noah grabbed the TV remote. "What d'you wanna watch?" He asked.

Kurt smiled at his consideration. "Put on anything," He murmured drowsily, "I'm probably just going to sleep."

He listened to the faint noises of a screaming crowd as Noah watched a football game, gently lulled to sleep by the soft commentary of his boyfriend and the feel of those large, warm hands massaging his feet and calves through the many layers of blankets.

Noah stayed with him for the rest of the day, only leaving around ten when Kurt's dad reminded them it was a school night.

"I can take care of him from here," He heard his dad whisper to Noah. A gentle slap--a pat on the back--and then, "And… uh, thanks."

"No problem, sir," Noah responded, taking his car keys out of his jacket pocket. "There's leftover soup in the fridge upstairs."

Kurt felt bad for not being able to rouse himself enough to say goodbye, but then again, he didn't think he was in any condition to make out.

He stayed home on Friday, and because the team had after-school practice until five, Noah was walking down his stairs, smelling fresh and clean, quarter to six.

Kurt had been feeling dramatically better around noon, but he didn't strain himself, only getting up to shower and clean everything up a bit.

He was able to enjoy the remainder of Mrs. Puckerman's matzo ball soup, and he could taste the hearty, comforting flavors better now that his sinuses were clearing up.

Noah found him sitting up on the couch, embraced in only two of the colorful afghans, watching NCIS reruns on the USA channel. Kurt paused the show, smiling as Noah plopped down next to him on the couch. "Hi."

"Hey," Noah greeted, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "You look better. How're you feeling?"

"Better."

They rearranged themselves so Kurt was nestled in-between Noah's legs, his back to that warm, toned chest.

He ran his smaller, whiter fingers over Noah's hand in his grasp, alternatively massaging and petting as they watched the end of the episode.

Later on, as he woke from a catnap in a sleeping Noah's loose but protective embrace, he smiled to himself and thought that maybe Noah was that metaphoric old dog, but he seemed to be harnessed tight on Kurt's leash.

Maybe he had to learn to trust more, and accept that this… thing between him and Noah was a real relationship. Because, Kurt figured, anyone who sticks around when you're at your absolute worst--sniffling, stinking of sick and unable to be even remotely sexy--they're the real deal.

Author's Commentary: I wrote this today, and I got inspiration for it because at the moment, I am sick, and I wish I had a Noah of my own.
...And soup.