“You know, I think technically, we’re not even supposed to be burning these in the apartment,” Kurt whispered, for no real reason other than that it was quiet and dark and he felt like he should be whispering. “Fire hazard, probably.”
Still staring at the flickering light, Puck smiled. “It’s the last night; we’ve made it this far without being caught.”
Kurt curled himself more tightly around the back of the couch, legs brushing against Puck’s as he leaned his head onto his folded arms. “You make it sound much sneakier than I meant it.”
“You’re a rebel now, Kurt,” Puck said, as though kneeling backwards on a couch watching illicit candles burn was the very height of crime. “Embrace the life.”
“Does the life always involve such dramatic mood lighting?”
It played across Puck’s face when Kurt turned to look, chasing shadows in all directions. Nine points of light from the table and the diffuse glow of the city filtering through the window. Sound from the streets came through, too, but it still felt quiet, even more so when Puck didn’t answer with more than a tiny shrug.
“Is there anything else?” Kurt asked, then. “Besides the candles.”
Puck shrugged again, but this time followed with, “There’s prayers and stuff. I dunno, we never did much of that. I just liked the lights.” The way he hadn’t taken his eyes off the candles in at least ten minutes told Kurt it meant a little bit more, but he’d believe it when Puck said this was enough.
“Me too,” Kurt said, softly.
He shifted, just barely, and Puck’s hand took the opportunity to reach across a few inches and close over his own, twining their fingers together. His thumb traced over the back of Kurt’s hand, and Kurt sighed, sinking his head lower into the cradle of his arms, breathing little puffs of warm air onto skin, watching the lights.