a/n: I'm kind of nervous for this because it's a lot longer than I intended for it to be, but it's something I've been working on for awhile. It's a two-shot (junior year and senior year) so this is only the beginning. This story takes place after the whole Finn/Puck/Rachel/Santana fiasco. Title and lyrics are from "Center of Attention" by Jackson Waters. I hope you like it!
... ... ...
You think that you're the sun
The whole world revolves around you
The center of attention
And everything is drawn to you
But I'll take my time if you want to
And I'll give you whatever you need
And I'll wait a lifetime to give it to you
Give it to you
... ... ...
Rachel Berry can't ever bring herself to swear, not even in her head. But it's just so fu - so inconveniently wrong that you could ever bring yourself to do something like this, she reminds herself as she tightens her posture and fixates her glance on the awkward pamphlets that rest just behind Miss Pillsbury's head.
"So," Miss Pillsbury clears her throat and folds her hands, resting them on top of a stack of books. "How were your holidays?"
"I'm Jewish," Rachel answers, surprisingly quiet. "You and I are both completely aware on your changing of the subject here, Miss Pillsbury. However, as a therapist, I'm sure you've encountered a case much like mine before."
"Not a therapist," Miss Pillsbury chimes in, turning Rachel's semi-grin into an expressionless nothing. "Oh, Rachel, it isn't so much me not wanting to help you as it is –"
"Having me expelled? Transferred? Taking Finn's side in all of this and commending his public breakups – yes, break-ups meaning more than once – from myself?" She asks frantically, leaning her body upward in her chair, which freaks Miss Pillsbury out a bit.
"It's difficult," Miss Pillsbury speaks lowly, reaching her hand for Rachel's forearm which rests heavily on top of her desk. "You've always been on top of the game – why inflict something harmful on yourself?"
"Promise you won't speak of it," Rachel demands worriedly.
"You have my word," Miss Pillsbury shoots her palm up, almost as if she's making an oath - it's official in Rachel's book so she boosts up from her chair in confidence, flattening out the bottom of her patterned skirt before scheduling her next guidance appointment.
"Miss Pillsbury?" She turns around just before she closes the door and heads toward the vacant hallway. "Thank you. It's relieving to know there's one reliable person in this building."
"Anytime," she nods and shuts her eyelids for a moment before she watches Rachel look back at her nervously before strolling down the hall.
... ... ...
She walks into rehearsal six minutes late but no one seems to notice so she bows her head and takes a seat in the front row, the seat farthest from Finn because he's the last person she wants to be near right now.
"Rachel," Puck sits behind her and she feels his tap on her shoulder so she turns her head in surprise. "Where've you been?"
"I'm shocked you care an ounce, but I was with Miss Pillsbury," she responds with a whisper, jerking her head once to check which direction Finn is looking in – it's not toward her.
"Still hung up on him, huh?" He asks her. "He dumped you, crazy – he's obviously moved on."
"But I haven't," she hisses. "If it weren't for your suggestion for revenge, we wouldn't be in this mess."
"Rachel? Puck?" They're interrupted by Mr. Schuester, who nods for Finn to join him in the center of the room. "Finn's about to fill his assignment for the week, it's only fair you're quiet."
"He's always been Schuester's bitch," he doesn't mean to blurt it out, but he does, and the whole entire room fills with a flood of giggles and opened jaws.
"I'm not –" Finn's still standing in the front of the room, his hands fidgeting in the pockets of his jeans as his eyes fall to the floor.
"Save it, Hudson," Puck answers. "You dumped her, dude, yet, you're still up there singing whiney little songs about never getting your love back. Is it just me or is there something wrong there?" He looks to the rest of the group as they stay silent.
"Noah, just – just leave it alone," Rachel chimes in.
"No, Rachel," Finn angrily joins in, his hands clenching to fists at his sides as he stands nervously, still in the center of the room. "Let him finish. He seems to have like, one-thousand opinions today."
"You guys are gonna have to take this outside if it doesn't stop," Mr. Schuester adds, looking once to the crowd of students who sit still in front of him. "Puck, do you really think it was necessary to start with Finn?"
"Here we go again!" Puck lifts his hands up over his head and stands up from his chair. "I'm not gonna stick around and listen to him sing some prissy ass song about her." He nods his head over to where Rachel sits and she squirms in her chair nervously.
"Puck…" Mr. Schuester chimes in once more, a tone of disappointment behind his voice as he looks onto a discouraged Finn, still front and center of the room.
"We know how they work, Mr. Schue," he sits back in his chair and folds his hands, placing them in his lap. "They breakup, they sing a few songs, they get back together. They breakup, they sing a few songs, they –"
"We get it," Finn snickers.
"Let me finish, dude," Puck demands, the burn of the glare Rachel throws at his eyelids. "It's not about which stupid song he sings, or how many times they kiss in here when they think we're not looking. I'm tired of him walking in here every day with that sorry ass frown. And Rachel, she's always depressed and shit, so that's no fun either."
"Am not!" Rachel exclaims before Santana shushes her from across the room.
"What I'm trying to say is, if you two end up getting back together, so be it," he gets an approving nod from Mercedes and Santana. "If you don't, well, don't drag your asses into this room with those stupid love songs and keep trying until you practically like, force yourselves to."
"I think that's enough for one day, Puck," Mr. Schuester scoffs.
"And you say you don't play favorites," Santana snickers toward Mr. Schuester who jerks his head back guiltily.
"S'okay, San," Puck assures her.
But it's not okay, because he still feels the burn of Rachel's glance – Rachel's clearly aggravated, fierce glance – tear at his eyelids and he knows he has to fix what he's done. Sure, she's probably always gonna blame him for her and Finn's breakup ("You said he'd consider us even, Noah!") but she was part of the problem too, right? Even if she forever puts him to blame, he'll make it his goal to let her know he wasn't alone in all of it. He doesn't know how, but he will.
... ... ...
It's Friday night and Puck's just finished going down on Santana. He's sprawled out across the bed and she's sitting at the beanbag chair up against his wall, moaning about something or other.
"I'm hungry," she murmurs. "I'm restless, too. Let's get some people over here." She picks his phone up off of the floor and starts dialing, avoiding his repeated 'no's' and eye rolls.
Before he knows it, the entire glee club is at his door and he's so fucking tired – he's tired of them and he's tired of Santana and her irresistible ways, too.
He nods when Quinn and Sam walk in hand-in-hand, because sure, they're all 'cool' with each other now and from what he thinks, Sam's kind of his bro, but when he sees him holding the one thing that was supposed to be his – the one thing he was so fucking sure he'd get but didn't – he can't help but cringe a bit inside.
The feeling goes away pretty quickly when Mike enters with a six-pack and an empty bottle. "Spin the bottle, bro?" He asks as he looks for Tina, who's strolling behind him, talking with Mercedes.
"Better," Puck tells him. "Seven minutes."
"In heaven?" Mike asks.
"In these fierce ladies panties," Puck replies with a snicker.
So they sit across the hardwood floor of his living room, beers and all, and Rachel takes just about forever before she finally grips the bottle. She gulps before she spins and Santana curses at her to hurry the fuck up because really, she wants a fucking turn in the closet, too. ("You just had to be first, Berry! Vaminos!")
"Looks like you've landed on Hudson," Santana smirks as she pats Rachel's shoulder.
"We can't –" Finn hesitates, not leaving the ground even as Rachel stands right behind him, arms folded beneath her chest with coy eyes.
"But we can!" Rachel chimes in, her voice frisky.
"Get in there," Puck stands up and walks in between the two of them, pushing their bodies closer together. "Don't kill each other!" He yells as they walk away slowly, a noticeably awkward distance apart.
"They're probably gonna fuck," Santana tells him relentlessly.
He walks as if he's making way toward the closet, the hands in his pocket clenching into fists. Sure, he might be a little drunk (completely wasted) by now, but the idea of anyone getting it on in his house (besides him, of course) freaks him out just a little.
"Leave 'em," Sam hands his beer to Quinn and grips Puck's shoulder. "They're probably just talking."
They better fucking be, he tells himself as he sits down along with everyone else. Whatever they're talking about isn't important – it's all blurred and nothing makes sense to him – so he just looks down at his wrist and wishes he had a watch, because seven fucking minutes better not turn into an hour.
... ... ...
Rachel's never played seven minutes in heaven before and hell, she doesn't even know what it is until Puck explains the rules to a confused Brittany, who sits in the corner just by the coffee table, burping and laughing in between every sip of beer.
She walks in slowly, moving a few coats out of the way as she and Finn make for the back of the closet. It smells like cheap air fresheners and dust – if dust has a smell – so she tells herself she's going to choke. "It – it smells bad," she giggles tipsily.
"Are you drunk?" He asks her, trying his hardest not to laugh too, because she's like, totally giggly and maybe, just maybe, she might talk to him without shooting a glare in his direction for once.
"Not a chance," she sits her butt to the floor and folds her legs, sighing before leaning her head back against the wall of the closet. "So – so what do we do for seven minutes?"
"We talk," he gulps. "Look, I know you're like, totally pissed off at me and if I were you, I'd kind of be pissed off at me too – I think."
"You think?" She furrows her brow, letting out another giddy laugh."I'm completely past it now, Finn. Like Noah stated, if it happens, it happens and if it doesn't –"
"So now you're taking his advice?" He asks, almost offended, as he sits beside her in the corner of the closet.
"He's not too horrible," she says, fidgeting with a hand towel she's picked up from off of the floor. "Are – are we completely missing the point of this game?"
"I think we're supposed to like, kiss or something," he tells her.
"Yeah," she says after a few good minutes of pure silence.
So they do. It's completely awkward and she's fidgety and he's a complete mess, beads of sweat painted across his forehead and all because, yeah, they totally just ended things and from what they both know, you're totally not supposed to kiss your ex.
"That was… nice," she tells him as she stands up and smoothes out her now-wrinkled skirt.
"Nice and awkward," he tells her as he stands up too.
She's pretty sure their seven minutes are up, and she's pretty sure that he's pretty sure their seven minutes are up too, so she turns the doorknob of the closet and a round of chants can be heard.
"They so did it!" Santana screams over all of the noise.
Before they can walk out of the closet, Puck turns the handle and lets himself in. "That was like, ten minutes. The fuck were you two doing in here, making a baby?"
"I – we – we're done," Rachel, red in the face, exclaims before exiting the closet, Finn following behind.
"Totally," he nods.
"Good, because you two were hogging up the space. San and I want a round," he tells them in between sips.
"We are done, you know," Rachel, whispering, turns around to him once more before sitting down on the floor beside Mercedes, who's already racking up the thousands of questions she's got for her. "Completely done."
"You say that now," Finn replies, his hands in his pockets as he takes his place on the floor.
"I do," she nods in confidence and for once, actually feels a spark of confidence brush across her body because yeah, she's completely done with Finn Hudson.
(For now.)
... ... ...
"You like her," Santana hisses at him as she sits on the closet floor, legs spread across one of his dad's old trunks no one's ever bothered to throw out.
"Say what, Lopez?" He lifts his head up from the box he's leaning it on, raising his beer with it and placing it just to his lips before chugging it.
Snickering, she lifts her beer too.
"I don't like Berry like that," he says. "Chick's crazy."
"I never said her name," Santana giggles, kicking her feet a little. "So why don't you fuck her? I mean, you've already hooked it up a few times, right?"
"It's not like that, San. I – I'm not just gonna use her for that and then kick her out on her ass. Sure, she's hot once you get past those cat sweaters and those fucking penny loafers – the same ones my Nana Connie wears – but," he sighs, "Doing that to her would make me like, Finn 2.0. No."
"So you care about her, too?" Santana, chuckling, sits up and drops her jaw. "Are you sure this is Puck? What'd they – what'd they do with the real Puck?"
"You're drunk, s'okay," he grabs her by the wrist and reaches for the doorknob, "You've got no fucking clue what you're saying."
"Shut the fuck up, Puckerman," she glares at him, still taking sips from the almost-empty bottle she holds. "All I'm saying is I've tried to make you like me for like, three years. She didn't even have to try – it just happened." She snaps her fingers and lets out a frisky laugh once more.
"You wanted me to like you?" He grins into his beer bottle. "Who would've known you had feelings?"
"Not you, asshole," she holds her hand out and he helps her hoist her body off of the closet floor.
Once the door's open, no one's chanting like they chanted for Finn and Rachel. They're just Puck and Santana, coming out of the closet where everyone's figured they did what they do best. He hates that, even though he'll never tell anyone. ("It's just Puck and Santana, who cares?") He hates being so predictable all the time – go in the closet with the girl you've messed around with for over a year, come out of the closet the same every time. He wants to be different; be unexpected, but he's got no clue in hell how to be.
By the time they reach the living room, most everyone's gone home. Quinn and Sam are sprawled out on the couch, her head in his lap. Finn babbles about hockey to Mike as he looks on indifferently and Rachel's just…Rachel. She sits on the armchair furthest away from everyone, eyes closed, hands pressed to her cheek. When Puck and Santana enter, she jerks her head a touch so he sighs loud enough for Santana to hear.
"Go get 'em tiger," Santana winks as she presses her bottle to the bottle he holds, resting right by his hip. "Don't let her bite your balls off."
... ... ...
"I know you didn't like, land on me, but would you come in the closet with me anyway?" Puck just has to ask her as she opens her tired eyes long enough to take a look at him beside the armchair, Santana not too far behind.
Ignoring the glance she's thrown from Finn who still sits across the floor with Mike and two beers, she sits up just a little and clears her throat.
"Would she like to come too?" Rachel asks. He's pretty sure the sarcasm was intended and it scares him just a little bit. Call him a wuss, but sometimes, the chick actually scares him – and he's still not sure if it's in a good way or a bad way.
"I'll skip, Berry, but thanks for the offer," Santana replies.
"C'mon," he holds out his hand. "Let's go."
Yeah, so he's not a handholding kind of guy (sue him) but he doesn't mind holding her hand. Sure, at first it's a little weird because she curls her fingers into his and all he's trying to do is lead her to the closet, but after a second or two, it's actually pretty fucking cute – not to mention her hands are pretty soft too, but no way in hell he'll ever say that out loud, because even in his head it's kind of creepy.
"Puck?" He ignores the fact that it's probably the first time she's ever called him Puck – ever – and just tries to focus on the fact that her head is kind of on his shoulder by the time they reach the closet door.
"'Sup?"
"I need to lie down," she holds her head firmly with her free hand, the hand that's not holding onto his, as he opens the closet door.
"Sure thing, Berry," he nods.
Once they're in the closet, he apologizes because really, all she's got to lay on is his dad's old trunk and a few stacked towels he says are the closest thing to a pillow.
"It's fine, really," she tells him. "I'm just dizzy; I need to lie down."
So she does – she lies down and all he does is watch because, really, he can't just leave a kind-of, sort-of tipsy Rachel Berry on the floor of his closet, stacked towels and all.
She starts to sweat and he hears her fidget a little, "Noah, can – can you help?" She points to the sleeves of her sweater – the one with the cat on it that he really fucking hates but at the same time tells himself no one other than her could pull off – so he scoots his body over next to hers and places his fingers under the sleeve.
"Shit, Berry," he pulls back his body from hers in surprise, his chest pounding as he looks down to her arm. "What happened, your freaky cats scrape your –"
But he holds back from saying anymore, because he unrolls the rest of her sleeve up her arm for her and sees scar after scar, cut after cut. He can't look the rest of the time so he runs his thumbs over the marks and feels the deepness and the roughness and suddenly a million and one questions pop inside of his head but he looks over to her tiny, sleeping body and can't bother with it now. Someday he will, but not now.
... ... ...
"Hey," he doesn't even mind that Finn's opened the door to the closet – it's not like he was doing anything besides stacking a bunch of towels anyway.
"She fell asleep?" Finn asks with curious eyes, kneeling down to the ground. "I'll take her home if you need me to."
"No one's going home," Puck says. "We're all fucking shot, dude."
"So you want us to like, sleep in the closet?"
"No, you asshat," Puck shoots his head up. "I want us to like, sleep in the fucking living room until we're sober enough to function. Help me get Rachel up."
Before he lets Finn lift her (he's obviously bigger and Puck's obviously wasted) he's sure to roll down the sleeves of her sweater – twice.
... ... ...
It's still dark out and he wakes up before everyone. Santana's passed out across the floor, four beer bottles surrounding her body. Quinn and Sam take up the entire couch, their bodies meshed together under one giant blanket. Mike's sprawled across the coffee table with a beer bottle across his abs and for a second, Puck thinks he should move him, but he tells himself he'll keep him there because he's just got to get a picture of that later. Finn and Rachel aren't anywhere to be found, so Puck goes with his instincts and runs up the stairs, tripping on a beer cap on his way up. "Fucking animals," he curses under his breath, not quite knowing whether he means the animals that left the beer bottles all over his living room or the animals that are nowhere to be found. He goes with the second choice – easy.
He tiptoes into his room, turning the doorknob roughly. She's sprawled out across his beanbag chair and Finn's beside her on the floor, but they're covered in the same sheet – Puck's sheet.
"I mean it," he hears her whisper, running her hand across his cheek. "I'm sorry."
"The fuck are you apologizing for this time, Berry?" They both jump as Puck walks closer to them, an annoyed glance painted across his face. "He's the asshole that dumped you – twice."
"I – nothing," she responds.
"Good."
"I was just going," Finn hoists himself off of the floor, lifting the sheet off of his body and throwing it over hers. "I'll see you later, Rach. You too, Puck."
"Out, bro," Puck waves his hand, practically pushing Finn out of his bedroom until he hears a sigh come from Rachel.
"Still hung up on him, huh?" He turns his head to her, his eyes small and curious.
She nods her head sheepishly.
"Any way I could convince you to stop?" He asks seriously.
"Sing to me," she's clearly still tipsy, and it makes him laugh a bit, so he walks over to where she sits and places his hand over the spot – the cuts and the scrapes and the scars – and can't help but want to sing to her. He doesn't know what he'd sing or how he'd do it but maybe all she needs right now is a song – any song.
... ... ...
She leaves Miss Pillsbury's office one Monday morning, self-conscious in her sleeveless spring yellow dress as she strolls down the hallway.
"Hey," he's turning the corner with Santana and she figures they're headed to the same place she is – the auditorium's rightfully theirs for the month with Regionals coming up.
"Later," Santana walks away and into the bathroom as he nods his head to her.
"Were – were you talking to me?" Rachel's stuttering, folding her arms tightly below her chest.
"Is there anyone else in this hallway?" He asks. "You okay?"
"Again, your gestures are very nice, but…" she breathes, closing her eyes for a moment. "Noah, did someone pay you to be kind to me? Are – are you partaking in some sort of bet with Finn? Mike?"
"No one's got to pay me to treat the ladies the way the ladies deserve to be treated," he smirks.
"You're up to something, Noah," she hisses, pointing her finger right in his face as he tries his hardest to keep a straight face; tries his hardest not to laugh at her (cute) insanity.
He's up to something, but the only one who'll be paying for it is her.
... ... ...
He's Jewish and she's Jewish, so they must be together. According to his mom, things work like that, they do. Only, his mom is a crazy, traditional Jew that grew up around all of that – you're Jewish so it's only right you marry someone just like you. She's kind-of, sort-of friends with the Berry's; he guesses temple can do that to you, make you friends. She's kind-of, sort-of in love with the idea of her little Noah marrying their little Rachel. ("People make fun of her nose, huh? I think it's beautiful – imagine the noses your children'll have!")
"Ma, keep on begging me to make grandchildren with Rachel Berry and I'll have to marry a Christian," he jokingly tells her as he watches her eyes bulge.
"You're not marrying Quinn, if that's what you're thinking," she warns him, shuddering. "And you're not marrying that Santana girl – she's bad news. No, no, no."
"And I'm not marrying Rachel Berry either," he tells her.
"She'd be quite a prize to bring to temple every Saturday, Noah! Think about that."
"I have," he answers. "The answer is no."
"So you have thought about it?" She says with a smirk plastered across her face as she rips a piece of Matzo (such the traditional Jew) and places it in her mouth.
Shit.
... ... ...
"Rachel?" He pulls her aside one day after an intense, hour-long rehearsal because after taking Regionals, they're determined to prove themselves yet again at Nationals so it's only fair they work their asses off – every single day.
"Yes, Mr. Schuester?" She's panting because dancing in a cardigan's got to be hard. "If this is about the set list, I can always rearrange the songs so everyone's harmonies are included and –"
"This isn't about the harmonies or your song selections; your song selections were amazing," he tells her with a grin. "Can we talk in the hallway?"
She gulps as she feels eleven pairs of eyes follow hers, the music getting lower and lower as her heart races faster and faster. "Did I do something?"
"To me, no – to yourself, yes," he says, almost disappointed. "Rachel, I know things are hard for you – you've been through a lot, but self-harm isn't the answer."
If her heart isn't already racing fast enough, it drops – it just drops and never finds its' way back up again. "I – I –"
"You don't need to apologize, Rachel. I know it's hard on you, I get it."
"But you don't," she doesn't bother wiping the tears that form around her eyes. "No one gets it, Mr. Schuester; no one."
Before he can answer, Finn and Santana find their way into the hallway because they totally need Rachel's vocals for Open Arms – "She's like, the lead," is Finn's excuse for getting her back inside the auditorium.
... ... ...
"How could you tell him?" She's pretty sure she's yelling but hey, she should be allowed to yell, right? Miss Pillsbury betrayed her – she knows she's betrayed her and she's completely and utterly guilty.
"He figured it out, Rachel," she waves her hands frantically, telling Rachel to calm down as she paces back and forth throughout the office, her hands on her hips as tears fall down her cheeks. "If you keep wearing outfits like those," Miss Pillsbury scans her pink and white dress a few times, "it'll become apparent to not just him but to everyone – your friends in glee club, especially."
"He only knows because you led him to figure it out," she answers harshly. "I – I knew I was right when I said no one I've ever spoken to was trustworthy."
"I'm your guidance counselor," she fights back.
"You're also Mr. Schuester's mistress," she ignores the jaw drop Miss Pillsbury throws at her as she continues her frantic pacing around the office. "I – I shouldn't have –"
"It's fine, really," Miss Pillsbury clutches her throat, nervously stroking her thumb over the skin on her neck a few times.
"It isn't. None of this is fine," Rachel tells her.
For the first time since the beginning of their sessions, they agree on one thing.
Maybe it isn't so fine after all.
... ... ...
"Hey," Rachel's shocked to hear the voice on the other end is whose it is; she's never called before – not once.
"Hello…" she responds.
"You and me, Breadstix – sound good?"
She doesn't say yes but she doesn't object either because really, she's in no place to put off friends right now.
"I'll need a ride."
"Done," Santana says almost giddily.
... ... ...
They get there at around seven-thirty and she's got no clue who Santana could be waving to (she's pretty sure she didn't just imagine the 'you and me' part) but she folds her arms and just follows.
"Hudson, Puckerman," Santana greets them with a nod as they stand in front of her, their hands in their jean pockets. "Where are we sittin'?"
"Hi," Rachel whispers to Finn and Puck leads them to where their table is.
"Hey," he answers. "You look…pretty."
"I don't," she tells him. "Not with the millions of scars on my arms."
"You – what?"
Puck and Santana jerk their heads from the booth they're already seated in, piercing their eyes toward Finn and Rachel as they stand in the middle of the floor of the restaurant.
"I – we'll be right back," he grips her wrist as they head for the door.
"I'm going with," Puck rises from his seat as Santana throws a snicker in his direction. "Stay there, San."
By the time he gets close enough to them, Rachel's head's already buried in his shoulder as he shushes her. "It's not your fault," he tells her. "It's completely mine."
"God," he's not sure if he says it out loud, but he thinks he does because she turns her head and moves away from Finn as if she was doing something wrong.
"S'okay," Finn tells her. "I'm gonna go inside with Santana. She's probably like, super lonely."
He walks up to her, his hands in his pockets as he huffs a bit, "She's not lonely – Breadstix is her fucking kingdom."
"I figured," she doesn't even comment on his swearing.
"They still talk, y'know – Finn and Santana," he feels guilty, but he'd feel worse if he kept his mouth shut, something he's making out to be a pro at lately.
She stands calmly and nods, "I know."
"And you're cool with that?"
"Finn and I are never going to be together again, Noah," she sounds disappointed, and for the first time, he takes a second to think and actually understands why she might be so all he does is nod and put his hand on her shoulder a little bit.
"What does it feel like to like someone like – like that?" He can't believe he's asking her this but he is.
He can't believe she actually answers him, either. "Tiring," she giggles.
"He loves you, too, y'know."
"I never said I loved him," she answers.
"You didn't have to."
... ... ...
"Do you think you'll ever be over him one day?" Puck can't help but ask her as he's walking her back to the booth where Finn and Santana sit.
"One day," it's more of a promise to herself then an answer to his question, but it'll have to do – for her and for him.
Because if Rachel knows anything, she knows a little piece of him is asking for himself.
(It makes her just a little bit happy inside – and she doesn't know why.)
... ... ...
Finn still texts her sometimes, and even though they've talked things through and decided not to take their complicated mess of a relationship anywhere as of now, she still can't help but smile just a little whenever she knows it's him.
Did the cuts go away?
It isn't the usual 'good morning' or 'hey', so she can't help but bear a small frown as she types out a reply.
They won't ever go away.
She warned him not to tell anyone ("You're not only putting me at jeopardy, but your chances of ever gaining my trust back will be slim to none, Finn Hudson.") so he gulped and told her he wouldn't – not a word.
Sometimes she wishes he wasn't the one to know; she wishes she hadn't told him that night in the parking lot of Breadstix because really, she can't ever take it back.
She can't take any of it back.
The scars prove that much, though.
... ... ...
"Why'd you stop?" Santana digs her hand into a bowl of barbecue chips that sit on his bed and looks onto him as he throws his football to the wall and back.
"Why'd I stop what?"
"Caring," she tells Puck bluntly. "You completely gave up on Berry because you're just letting him have her."
"They gave up on the whole relationship bullshit," he tells her, rolling his eyes.
"Nuh-uh," she shakes her head, "And besides, this isn't about them. This is about you."
"I thought you'd be like, jealous if anything," he tells her honestly as she furrows her brow, biting into chip after chip as she looks down to him and waits for him to say something – anything. "You were like, in love with me at one point, right?"
"Just because you totally dig Berry now doesn't mean you have to get all romantic on me, Puckerman," she yells.
"That's a yes."
So, Santana Lopez was in love with him at one point. If he felt up to it, he'd probably make fun of her for a few hours as she spat some names out at him, hit him once or twice with a football and then whine until he went down on her. Since he doesn't feel up to it, he nods his head and tells her it's cool, because he was probably in love with her at one point too.
... ... ...
It's the first time he's kissed her since the last time – the time when he kissed her so badly her boyfriend totally didn't want her anymore.
They're in the those two seats in the auditorium farthest from the stage and closest to the lights – the ones in the back he really likes because hell, sleeping throughout those dumb school plays is awesome and the ones in the back she really hates because well, why be in back when you can be front and center and not missing a second of the action?
(So, they're really different people – really, really different.)
"So this is why," she tells him once their lips pull apart, his hand still cupping the back of her neck. "This is why you had all of those questions – when I'd get over Finn; how it felt to be in love –"
"Hey, slow your roll," he tells her harshly, causing her to jerk her head away from his grip and fix her posture so she's facing forward. "Just because I kissed you for like, three seconds doesn't mean I'm in love with you."
"Four seconds."
"You counted?" He's laughing now and he's pretty sure she's laughing too.
"You always did call me the crazy one," she responds.
"Hey," he tells her. "At least you can admit it. I've never seen a chick so open about that kind of shit before."
"Believe me," she laughs. "I'm not open about it at all. As a matter of fact, Noah, I'm probably the most insecure person you've ever met."
"You're a liar now, too?" He says with a smirk as she playfully nudges his arm. "I'm just messing with you, Berry. It's just that Santana's got real issues admitting stuff like that; you're a change, I guess."
"Funny how all of our conversations wander back to Santana," she tells him.
He gets quiet and she doesn't have to ask why.
... ... ...
"Hey," she's filing her nails and she's probably got no idea he's talking to her, either. "Okay, so if we still know each other when we're forty and by some miracle we're both unmarried, would you ever consider marrying me?"
"Are you drunk again?" She tilts her head up only a little bit and nudges Brittany, who begins to giggle beside her.
"I don't think so…" He looks embarrassed and it's so fucking rare for him to look embarrassed so she decides she'll look embarrassed for him too.
(Damn you, Berry. Damn you, damn you, damn you.)
... ... ...
It's fast and it's kind of awkward – they can both agree on that – when Finn and Santana make it somewhat 'official'. He's not allowed to namely refer to her as his girlfriend in public ("You might as well staple me with a fucking label gun if you wanna call me that, Hudson.") and she promises him she won't do the same, not that he'd really mind.
Puck sees her – he sees the jealousy and the rage and sometimes all he wants to do is lift up the sleeves of the sweaters she wears because well, he never knows if she'll do it again. He knows he shouldn't think like this, but sometimes, he sees Finn and Santana do something one moment, and the next all he can picture is a betrayed, hurt Rachel doing something stupid to herself once more.
"Hey," he finds her after rehearsal in the back of the auditorium, her legs folded as she skims a book. "I thought you hated the back row."
"Not anymore," she tells him, not once removing her glance from the book.
All he can say is, "cool", and he knows it's super lame but all of his focus is on the thick sleeve of that ugly cat sweater and for some reason, he wants to roll it up like never before and just check – just make sure she's okay because really, sometimes she scares him (in more ways than one.)
... ... ...
If Finn and Santana have made it official, they should be able to, too, right?
Wrong.
He knows, sure, that she probably wants him as bad as he wants her but she does a real horrible fucking job at showing it. Especially when he's over practicing his guitar as she sings to some crappy Streisand song – he learns Streisand for her – but she takes a break in the bathroom so naturally, he picks up the journal that rests on her night table.
The name Rachel Hudson across three entire pages in big, loopy handwriting kind of makes him want to vomit.
He saves it for the Streisand song – that'll be his excuse this time.
... ... ...
They stay in a hotel in New York because it's Nationals and they've earned it – but they haven't earned it enough to share rooms with people of the opposite sex. Puck brings that factor up at least sixteen times during dinner, earning fist bumps from Artie and Mike and a nudge in the elbow from Rachel.
It's eight-thirty now and Santana's made it official – pillow fight in the downstairs lobby, be there or be square. Brittany and Puck are first downstairs, because well, it's the one game Brittany's a champ at and Puck…he knows seeing the girls toss around pillows at each other is a better prize then winning some singing competition anyway.
Brittany goes nuts when Puck's pillowcase opens and he starts pouring a shitload of feathers on top of Santana because she swears they've let a bird into the hotel. Santana begins to laugh and Puck likes that because, well, when's the last time he's seen her laugh, anyway?
Stopping short of her laughter, Santana turns to him for just a second, whispering, "I haven't seen Finn."
"I haven't seen Rachel."
"I'm going up there," Santana exclaims.
"No you're not," he holds her back, gripping her shoulder as she tries to break his hold. "It's always gonna be them, y'know."
She's silent, her gaze falling to the floor as she drops the pillow she clutches onto.
"And it's always gonna be us too, San." It's like a promise when he says it; she likes that, even if she'll never admit it.
... ... ...
"So you like him?" Finn asks her, and he's not mad either, so she places her hand on his knee and keeps it there for awhile.
"Not like I liked you," she answers.
"You said liked," he tells her. "I'm pretty sure that's like, past tense."
"You have a girlfriend now, Finn."
"And you have…a Puck," he laughs.
"But I'll always have a Finn, right?" She laughs into his sweatshirt and he smiles, feeling her hair with his hands.
She doesn't remember how the rest happens, but they fall asleep together under a mound of blankets in his and Puck's hotel room and she thinks his hand's stroking her backside but she doesn't feel for it because it's wrong to – it's wrong, wrong, wrong even though everything about this feels right, right, right.
... ... ...
They walk around the hotel and they don't yell – they just talk. He thinks he should grab her hand when she gets a little tired but he doesn't because it's wrong to – it's wrong, wrong, wrong even though everything about that would be right, right, right.
"So, remember that one night sophomore year I wrote you that dumb song and blamed it on too many beers?" He asks her as she holds in a laugh. "I wasn't even wasted – far from it."
"Keep going," she waves her hand and giggles. "I like this side of you."
"You do, huh?"
"Mhm," she nods. "And you know who'll like it even more? Rachel."
"She's fucking Hudson in my hotel room right about now," he laughs even though it's the last thing he wants to do, really. "I'd rather not walk in on that shit."
"He's my fucking boyfriend and I'm semi-cool with it," Santana shrugs. "I mean, we all know they'll end up together anyway, right?"
"That's where you're wrong."
She was wrong, wrong, wrong and he was right, right, right – just like they were for each other; a mess of both right and wrongs and everything else in between.
... ... ...
Just the air on the bus alone is dreary, and if he wouldn't be deemed a pussy for crying, he'd be doing just that along with most everyone else.
Rachel's sitting in the seat beside him, tapping her foot unsteadily before she leans back in her seat and silences herself – it's the quietest he's ever seen her.
"Hey," he taps on her just as she's about to close her eyes. "You did a kickass job. Those judges can suck it."
"Yeah – yeah," she's restless, he can tell. "They can suck it hard."
(She's starting to talk like him and he can't lie when he says it scares him just a little – just like everything else she does.)
... ... ...
It's the last day of school and he asks Santana to come to that stupid pond by his house because he just feels like skipping rocks and she hangs up on him because she's got to find a dress for dinner at Finn's house tonight. Fuck the bitch, he tells himself as he hops in his pick-up truck and just drives.
He doesn't know how or even why Rachel ends up in his truck, but she just does – he's got no plans and she's got no plans, so they might as well have no plans together, right?
"Noah," she reaches her hand out and lowers the volume on the stereo which really pisses him off because well, it's his fucking car and Nirvana's practically his fucking band and she's just ruining all of it. "Can we talk?"
"Santana would've let me keep the radio on."
But she's not Santana – she reminds him over and over who she is until his lips are so sore from kissing her he's not sure he knows how to kiss anymore.
"'Night, Rachel," he nods his head to her and she blows a sweet kiss back.
He doesn't feel like himself because, well, usually Santana would walk out of his house with her hair teased, her shirt on backwards and he'd call her back really quickly so he could kiss her goodnight – maybe he'd bite her lip or try and feel her up; he liked to call it 'one for the road'. She'd leave and he wouldn't care when the next time would be – tomorrow, next week, a month. He'd just know there would be a next time. Nothing was planned; everything was spontaneous.
Rachel was a planner. ("Tomorrow we'll drive your car up to the mountain and picnic alongside the river.") He didn't mind her spitting out her bunches of ideas at him because he was groping her breasts all at the same time, so pretty much everything else was just a blur to him. But the funny thing is, he noticed himself actually listening a few times and made note to get a picnic basket – ("I like cheese platters and grapes. Nothing too fancy, but it has to be romantic.") – and refill the tank in his car because the drive to the mountain was usually a long one.
Two hours of hot, spontaneous sex with a fiery Latina or two hours of a car drive up to the mountains for a picnic with a blabbering, jittery Jew.
He isn't sure which way he likes it best.
But he knows that he's not buying one of those tacky planning books – that's for sure.
... ... ...
His mom actually likes her, and he's pretty sure she isn't pretending either.
"Pass the potatoes, please?" She's charming and polite and she's actually placing her napkin across her lap so she won't spill anything on the black cocktail dress (not too tight, earning a thumbs up from Finn because his mom's totally against all of that) she's showed up in.
They talk about college throughout dinner – fucking college – and she tells Carole how much she wants to attend Harvard but it's practically out of the question because of tuition and all of that junk. So Carole puts her hand on top of hers sympathetically, rubbing her thumb against Santana's rough knuckles as she nods. "If you never try, you'll never know."
Those words stick with him. He's not sure why, really, maybe because they sound like they come from an awesome poem or a totally popular song, but they stick.
"Mom," Santana's gone so he stands behind her as she's cleaning up from dinner, bending over and placing every which dish inside of the dishwasher. "I –"
"I really like your girlfriend, Finn," she says, still bending down as she scrapes the scraps off of the dishes and sighs. "You always date such lovely girls – you do. They always have such ambition; such good dreams and goals – Julliard, huh?"
"She said Harvard, ma," he looks down at the ground and he knows she looks there too.
"Oh. Right."
They both know who she really means, so she's got to say no more before he runs to his room and pulls out a piece of blank paper and a pen and just sits there for a good hour or two before a single word leaks out of his head.
His letter starts with Dear Rachel… and he's never been surer of what to write next.
... ... ...
Rachel likes the summer because ever since she was six years old, her dads would take her down to the library and let her pick out a mountain of books and take them all home. The Jewish Matilda, they'd tease her.
One minute she's sprawled across a lawn chair in her front yard, a book wide open across her abdomen as she lifted cherry after cherry to her mouth, licking the sweetness off of her lips over and over. The next, she's hand in hand with Santana, sprinting down the hallway of the emergency room, because they've got to get to those two fucking morons – the two fucking morons that ran their car into a tree because like the two fucking morons they were, they figured they'd drown their sorry love lives in three six-packs and then go shoot some paintballs at Mr. Schuester's house just because.
"Stop squeezing me!" Rachel hisses at Santana as she frantically presses the button to the elevator.
"Relax," she tells her. "Puck'll be fine. Take my word for it."
Only a gulp comes from Rachel as she focuses on the elevator button – the unchanging elevator button.
"So you wanna go in and see Finn first?" Santana rests her hand on Rachel's forearm and she doesn't even bother to move it.
"Just a little," she shrugs.
"I was kind of hoping you'd let me see Puck first, anyway," she tells her.
"Funny how it always ends up working out that way," Rachel says.
Funny, indeed.
... ... ...
He breaks up with her right before school begins because they're totally about to have hot, hot sex when she says his name – Puckerman.
Rachel bothers him for three hours about it – Santana's even sent her undercover to find out his reasoning ("I'll go to that freaky Jewish place with you one day if you find out.")– but he doesn't budge.
"Can we talk instead?"
"Why'd you do it?" She begs and begs, but she's not so sure if it's Santana's sake she's begging for now or her very own.
"I'm so stupid, Rachel," he tells her. "I wrote you that dumb letter – y'know, the one you haven't even like, bothered mentioning – and she must've found it; she must've fucking found it."
"Why – why do you say that?" Her hand trembles as she grips the phone closer to her ear because well, she should mention how many tissues she has to go through to get through the first page alone or how many times she skims a certain section – over and over and over – because every word is just there and so perfect, but she can't, because well, she doesn't want him to think that she wants him. That's not how it's supposed to work anymore. (Even though it's all she really prays for in temple nowadays – for things to work the way they should; anyway they should.)
"She finds any excuse to bring him up – Puck," he sighs and she can't tell whether he's disappointed or surprised.
"Oh," it's all she can say because well, she's not disappointed nor surprised, really.
"You knew they were in love too, right?" He asks after a few good minutes of silence.
"There's always going to be a Puck and Santana," she tells him.
He doesn't say anything, but he's still on the line because she can hear a bag of chips opening – she thinks it's chips – and giggles when she hears him start to shove them into his mouth.
"Barbecue?" She asks.
"My favorite," he responds.
It goes back to it just being him and his chips for a moment, but she stays on the line anyway because at least the sound of the crunching chips is somewhat company, right?
"Rach?" He asks, stuffing his mouth with the last bit of chips as he chomps down.
"Hm?"
"There's always going to be a Finn and Rachel too."
She smiles and just says, "I know," because really, she does.
She knows and he knows and Puck knows and Santana knows, too.
... ... ...
"Did you find out?" Santana calls her as Rachel's sprawled across her bed at around midnight and she's starting to think of it as a trend because well, she sure calls an awful lot. ("But not because we're friends. You just know a lot of things and stuff.")
"He knows, you know," she speaks softly, a part of her (just a part) feeling a little bit guilty.
"Hey," her voice is frisky, much to Rachel's surprise, "Do you think he loves me like that? Puck – not uh, not Finn."
"I knew exactly who you meant," she tells her.
"So…"
"As your friend, it's my job to find out, isn't it?" She hangs up with confidence because really, Santana can deny it all she wants, but they are completely friends and the both of them know it.
Before falling asleep, she has to lift up the sleeves of her nightgown just once because they're supposed to heal – not completely, but they're supposed to heal and they just don't so she feels like ripping every single page out of that stupid diary that sits on her carpet because she's just so damn angry.
"Hello?" Her phone rings and it's past midnight but she can't just ignore him – she's tried all week long and it can't go on much longer, it can't.
"Stop doing that shit to yourself, you hear?" He's stern and not at all what she expects; he scares her a little and he's not supposed to scare her at all – he's never scared her before.
"What do you –"
"I saw those cuts, Berry," he tells her as she can feel the pounding in her chest grow, clutching her hands to her weak stomach. "You ignoring me all fucking week long isn't easy – I thought you went all nutty and started that shit up again."
She's quiet and he's in a rage, so she figures it's best to stay so.
"When's the last time you did that bullshit?" He utters with a hiss.
"Two months ago," she answers honestly. "But – but only because I did something so ridiculously dumb."
"Having sex in my hotel room with Hudson wasn't dumb," he tells her. "We all knew it was bound to happen sooner or later."
"I gave him my virginity," she says almost guiltily.
"S'not like you were saving it for me anyway," he says honestly. "But we all knew that, too."
... ... ...
tbc.
a/n: So I feel incredibly silly even putting this upon you, but I'm most likely not going to invest my time in updating this fic unless I receive a bit of feedback. I'd love to know your opinions, really. Pretty please?