My Love's Too Big for You
Baby, you've got the sort of hands to rip me apart. And baby, you've got the sort of face to start this old heart...But your eyes are warning me that my love's too big for you.
Heads, Good Day.
Tails, Bad.
Puck takes a second to hope it'll be a heads. But in the next second he's cursing himself for being such a dumbass because, duh, he's had like four Good Days this week already and he just isn't that lucky of a bastard and he should know better than to get cocky anymore. And then he wonders, just what the hell does that tell him, when he used to be the freaking king of arrogance not even a year ago?
And now Puck is suddenly standing there slightly frustrated with himself for getting stuck in this situation, and he wonders what the hell he's actually doing right now. Because Emmett has been so up and down lately that not even a two-sided coin could accurately predict his daily mood…and Puck just feels dumb because it's not even a coin, it's a button. He doesn't even know where the thing came from; he just found it earlier by his foot while sitting in Glee – it was laying there all shining and silver and begging to be picked up, so that's what he did. He picked it up.
It was so stupid.
He's around the corner from the school now, waiting for Emmett to pull up in the Audi – they both agreed months ago that picking him up in the school lot would raise too many questions, and since then, even when Emmett's out of town and leaves the Audi with Puck, he parks a couple of blocks over, walking to and from the campus. Emmett just got back from LA, after a month long shoot, and nothing has changed. So yeah. He's waiting for Emmett at the usual spot, freezing his ass off because it's the middle of December and he forgot to grab a hat this morning in his rush to leave for school.
And God, that just sounds wrong – him hurrying to school. Not so long ago, he would have scoffed at the very idea. But now, that's just how it is. Because he hadn't seen Emmett at all yesterday, but heard him stumble in after two, which would usually mean that today would be a Bad Day – and he really hadn't felt like putting up with Emmett's shit this morning, so he got his ass up two hours early to walk to school.
And now, because it's been too long of a Friday and he doesn't really feel like walking back to the house nor prolonging the inevitable, he's waiting for his boyfriend to pick him up, and trying to predict whether he'll be in a 'cuddly Emmy-bear' or 'I'm gonna fuck up your face again if you so much as cough the wrong way' kind of mood. Because nowadays, that mood determines what Puck will have to wear if he goes out tomorrow.
Deciding to just screw it, he flips the button, betting it'll be a tails. And that if it ends up being heads, it would be a lie.
The button lands with a clink on the cold sidewalk by his feet, rolling a little bit before falling to one side. After debating whether to just leave it there because, like he said, it's just a stupid two-sided non-coin, Puck crouches down to see it.
The double ring design is facing upwards. Heads it is.
Fucking lie.
"Baby?"
Puck automatically looks up from the ground, and he wonders why he hadn't noticed the car pull up to the curb. Probably because he's going crazy, crouching here on the corner glaring at a freaking button like it's to blame for him being a screw-up, wearing no hat on his head in the middle of December in Lima, Ohio all because he'd been too much of a coward to face his possibly-hung-over boyfriend this morning. Idiot.
"Aw babe, where's your hat? It's cold out here!"
Emmett is leaning out the driver's side window, with that worried furrow in his brow, like he's actually concerned. Like he isn't pissed at Puck for existing, and like he hadn't actually been out drinking 'til the middle of last night. And the look appears so genuine, and he hates to think that Em is worried about him, and Puck accidentally slips up into believing that Em actually cares, and he accidentally feels a bit guilty for leaving the house without dressing properly. Feels like it wasn't right for him to be cautious just because Em got home late last night, which was usually a sign that Puck would have gotten his ass handed to him this morning on a fucking silver platter.
He thought he'd figured out a semblance of a pattern. Of course he hadn't.
And fuck if he has any idea what's even going on anymore.
"Noah. Come on cockatiel, what are you doing down there? Are you okay? Shit…what's wrong? Are you hurt?" Em is out of the car now, how'd he get out so fast? And he's crouching right beside Puck, who's suddenly reminded of his own name. Noah. Nobody else really calls him that anymore except Rachel once last week, and Shelby.
Oh, Shelby. Oh God he does not need to be thinking of that mess right now.
"Baby, talk to me…" Em pleads, hands hovering uncertainly just in case Noah is hurting, which he actually isn't right now, and Noah is blinking because first, the irony. Em doesn't ever seem to be concerned if he's hurting when he's punching him in the chest. Second, Em has that tone – the one that means he actually cares; that he wouldn't hesitate to kill if Noah just gives him a name. Noah doesn't really know why he's taking so long to respond.
Oh right. He probably has to open his mouth first.
Noah stares at his boyfriend's frowning face – which is really close, reminding him of just how hot his Emmy actually is. Not that he ever forgets, or that Em ever let him forget – ever. He's just suddenly reminded because Em is there, beside him. With his strong, unshaven jaw – just how Noah likes – and his perfect pink lips and his straight nose and his dark, recently arched eyebrows. His short curls are back to their natural, dark blond color, and his eyes.
God, his eyes.
They're slightly narrow in the most endearing of ways, and youthful: the color of the sky on a clear summer's day when the sun is highest, with an intriguing touch of something like cerulean.
Noah kind of has a weird fetish for eyes, and he can't ever help the shiver that tingles between his shoulder blades when he looks into Em's. Good Days are the best because he gets to spend a short forever staring into his Emmy's eyes as they make love. He's learned to read the expressions behind them well, and on Good Days, Em's eyes hide no secrets. And he's come to crave the slightly overwhelming feeling he gets when he spots the unmistakable passion in them.
On Good Days, Noah loves his Emmy's eyes.
Right now, he figures out that Em's eyes are asking him a question, and that's what reminds him that he's still staring and hasn't responded. Oh.
He has to look away before he can though, because Em's eyes have frozen his brain processes, and he reluctantly casts his gaze to the ground as he tries to form a coherent sentence because his mind is still on the fact that if it is a Good Day, they'll be making love tonight (which, score), and he can't get the prospect out of his head. So what comes out when he opens his mouth is, "I found a button," and it's true.
And as he says it, he hopes that the button wasn't lying.
Beside him, Em blinks, confused. Then, his frown eases into relief and loses the anger that had begun to gather at the thought of Noah being harmed, and Noah is suddenly aware of the subtle pulsing of something warm and heavy behind his left pectoral – because he loves how protective his Emmy-bear can be. And as sexy as Em was already, he looks even better now that he isn't frowning.
"Aw, babe." Em just sighs, but smiles a little – he looks best when he's smiling, because his smile brings out his dimples which are admittedly school-boy adorable – and gathers Noah into a hug, despite them both still being awkward on the ground. Wrapped in Em's heat that feels so much like home it clenches something in his chest, Noah is reminded of how small he is compared to the bear of a twenty-six-year old. But right now, he doesn't feel threatened by the difference. He feels safe.
Maybe the button didn't lie. Maybe it's another Good Day after all.
His Emmy plants a kiss to his left temple, and Noah remembers that they're sitting on the corner, and the car is running, and it's Friday. It's been a long week, and all he wants to do is lie down and cuddle.
"Let's get you home, cockatiel. You're freezing!" Em says, pulling away slightly, and Noah wants to beg, don't leave yet, please, but all Em does is haul Noah up with him when he stands, which is pretty easy since he isn't bothering to resist. "When we get back I'll make you some cocoa and warm you up, yeah babe?"
He kind of loves how his Emmy can sort of read his mind sometimes.
Except, right before he allows Em to unnecessarily lead him to the car, Noah remembers the button and he picks it up, shoving it into his coat pocket. It seems like it's going to be a Good Day after all, which means the thing is kind of like his new good luck charm, and Noah will take whatever reassurance he can get these days. Em totally notices, but just shakes his head fondly and makes sure Noah is in with the door closed before sliding into the driver's seat.
The drive home feels relatively short, and Noah credits that to the fact that Em talks the whole time while some pop station plays in the background. The air conditioner warms his cheeks while his Emmy's deep, slightly accented voice warms his ears. The lilt is barely there and vague in identity, but it was what attracted Noah to Em right after his blue, blue eyes. When Em speaks, when Em sings, when his Emmy whispers sweet nothings in his ear as he rocks him into the mattress – Noah cherishes all of these times.
On Good Days, Noah loves his Emmy's voice.
Soon, they pull into the driveway of what has been Noah's home for the past almost-six months. He's been living here, with Em, ever since he came out to his Ma. He'd come home from New York, already kind of bummed out by Glee club's so-close-yet-so-far loss at Nationals, planning to just lay it all out on the table and tell her why, exactly, he wasn't cool with her flirting with his Emmy whenever he came around. Safe to say, it didn't turn out well.
And the worst part was, she didn't even blow up and yell or hit him like he'd been expecting. She'd just sat there at the kitchen table, silently, her dark eyes laden with the pain of déjà vu and weighing him down with Jew-guilt like only they could. Then, she'd quietly launched into the entire freaking story of why his old man walked out on them years ago. Turns out the douche chose a life in Vegas with his male, rock star lover over a wife and three children in Lima, and Puck still isn't sure whether he feels better to know the whole story or if he just hates the man even more.
Whatever.
Point is, Puck hadn't been running away, and Em is a model not a rock star, but his Ma couldn't handle the memories all the same. And one day, after coming home from a cheer-me-up-pick-me-up with the guys at Lima Bean, he'd found out his key didn't work in their door anymore. That was it. Just locked out of the house. No clothes or anything, not even a goodbye to Sarah, and he was only lucky that he'd left his guitar at school so he still had that. It fucking sucked.
But of course, Em had been the first one he called, and the older man made arrangements before Puck even had time for the stressful reality to sink in. He'd even insisted that Puck could keep all of the previous season's clothes he'd brought back from France. That's just how his Emmy had been, all sweet and considerate, and a reason why Puck fell for him. Even now, his Emmy can still be sweet like that.
At least, he can be. On Good Days.
His Emmy holds his hand as he unlocks the door, and Noah Puckerman can't help but smile.
Noah is pretty sure he's purring.
Emmy is running his hand through his mohawk, and god, if he wasn't so exhausted he'd be ready for another round, like, ten minutes ago. But they've gone through it four times already in as many hours, and Noah is perfectly content to just lay here in their bed, his head on Em's stomach, because it just doesn't get any better than this.
They're both naked and Noah feels warm. The sheets smell like the strawberry lube, and Noah knows he'll be the one to have to wash them later, but he doesn't think about that right now. All he can focus on is his Emmy's large, heated hand running gently over his head and tugging ever so lightly on the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck. Shorter, but not necessarily short. Yeah, he knows the 'hawk is getting kind of long and pretty soon it'll start looking like someone glued a trampled squirrel to his head.
But he doesn't care, because his Emmy says he loves it. Says he likes having something to hold onto when Noah goes down on him. Says he loves how soft the forming curls are. Says that he could spend forever petting Noah's head, like he is now. And it's not like Noah is going to ever complain because yeah, his mohawk is his weakness, but not because it's some symbol of his badassness or whatever. He's a badass without the mohawk, and he actually hates the thing. It's juvenile, a symbol of all his mistakes, and although he's gotten used to the dirty looks, it hurts every fucking time he's judged before even talking to somebody.
No, his mohawk is his weakness because, believe it or not, his scalp is pretty sensitive. And Em knows this, and he takes advantage of the erogenous zone whenever he can. Like now – reducing "Puck" to a puddle of buzzing, clingy mess of Noah-goo-pudding on the bed.
Noah turns his head slightly to look up at his boyfriend, and his bright hazel eyes outline the jawbone before flicking upward to meet Em's gaze. The blue, blue eyes are warm.
"Hey you."
"Hey yourself, babe." Em laughs a little, and it travels down from Em's chest into Noah's brain and humming heart. Em's hand moves to caress the side of Noah's face, which leans into it and makes a content little noise that earns an endearing smile from his Emmy.
Noah loves Emmy's smile. Good Days are the best.
He watches Em's lips as he continues speaking. "You hungry, babe? I'm thinking breakfast for dinner, my treat." A corner of Em's pink lips turns up in a smirk. "You don't even have to get up. I'll bring in the laptop and put on a movie. Maybe get you some waffles?" And Noah has to smirk too.
Because, oh yeah. Good Days are fucking boss.
But of course, in order to recognize Good Days, you have to know the Bad.
Noah tries not to get his hopes up or let his guard down. He really does. He knows that a few Good Days can't fix or just erase months of erratic behavior. But…two Good Weeks of sweet love-making and waffles in bed? They kind of dull the memory of harsh fists' bruises and the sting of sharp words, and he forgets about the Fortune Button in his coat pocket.
The bruises are given time to disappear, Em's words maintain their honey-dripping sweetness, and Noah's biggest concern once again becomes avoiding Shelby until Winter Break. Artie's Christmas Spectacular thing is fun, but he has this nagging feeling of guilt until they go to the homeless shelter, where he wears the mohawk hat from Em (despite his dislike for his own mohawk, it's an awesome hat) for the first time. And then he celebrates the rest of Chrismukkah with Em, since his ma doesn't let him see Sarah until the last day to give her their presents – but when he does see her, his world is complete. He forgets about being careful and accidentally gets caught up in the seasonal happiness like everybody else.
Two days later, when it all comes rushing back – the reality of his situation – it's a literal slap to the face.
Noah doesn't see it coming.
He isn't expecting it – he's so stupid – and he teeters, catching his hip on the edge of the counter (which, ow). Then he just kind of stands there in shock…but only for a second before he hurriedly pulls his walls back up and becomes Puck, resident-badass again. It's practically instinctual. And he's cursing himself, because he really should've known he couldn't stay in the paradise of high-school drama forever.
This is real life. And he's standing in the kitchen, his secret element, where his familiar cooking utensils are currently potential weapons to be used against him. Puck had been singing as he washed the dirty dishes from last night, so he didn't hear Emmett until the older man stormed into the kitchen and slapped him across the face. He doesn't know what pissed Emmett off, but he knows he needs to watch the bigger man's hands.
Because this is a sign of a Bad Day, and he's learned to hate Emmett's hands on Bad Days.
His own only hold a sudsy sponge, which isn't much of a defense. Not that he even bothers to fight back anymore.
"Don't even try to fucking lie to me, Puck. Did. You sleep. With that bitch?" The cold anger in Emmett's blue, blue eyes is unmistakable. They're an icy blue.
Puck's default scowl is in place as his brain registers, too slowly, what Emmett just said. Emmett wants to know if it's true that he slept with someone. A woman. Well, that's a huge freaking duh. Emmett knows better than anyone about his track record from before they started dating, and he hadn't ever went off on Puck for it even though he was a possessive bastard – which Puck admittedly found hot. Besides, Puck had stopped sleeping around when he and Emmett became secretly official. So whatever this sudden deal is with 'that bitch', it's an eighth month's delayed reaction, and he wants to know just who the fuck Emmett thinks he is coming in here and…
Oh.
Oh. Oh shit, oh.
Shelby.
In real time, it only takes him a few seconds for all of this to compute, and when he makes the sudden connection to which 'bitch' Emmett is referring to, his expression must give away the guilt. And the fear. Because like he said before, Emmett can read him almost just as well as vice versa and in situations like this, that ability gets Puck in trouble. He can see the clicking of his own mental pieces reflected in Emmett's eyes, which harden once Emmett realizes that Puck knows exactly what he's talking about.
He's screwed. But he's wearier of what Emmett would do if he lies than if he tells the truth, so he opts for the latter. It's not like he'd want to lie to Emmett anyway.
"If you mean Shelby, then yeah."
He had. After his big freak out over Beth's bottom lip.
Emmett had beaten him as some sort of sadistic parting gift before heading to LA (the nerves made it a Bad Day), so Puck was left bruised, lonely, and unloved for the duration of the separation. He didn't miss a single class because he couldn't stand the isolation and shouting silence of their house – it reminded him of how much of a Lima Loser he was, and made him once again doubt how much he truly meant to Emmett, who was obviously way more successful and would do just fine without Puck around. He'd felt unnecessary. A waste of space.
But then, Shelby called him in the middle of Trig., and he'd actually felt needed. Storming into that waiting room at the hospital and demanding a plastic surgeon see his daughter's face? The highlight of his fucking month. Caring for Beth, comforting Shelby, he hadn't felt so lonely; the ache was relieved for just a little while, and he'd felt the need to thank Shelby though she wouldn't know what for. But, he'd still been with Emmett, so he hadn't wanted to do anything too romantic that might've sent the wrong message or gotten somebody too attached – him to Shelby, because of that hero-complex thing, or Shelby to him, because that sometimes happened with cougars.
And that's when it had hit him: cougars. How many had he ever had meaningless sex with? Enough to prove his point, anyway. So that's what he figured he'd do with Shelby, express his gratitude via Puckzilla Experience. It felt a little weird at first, being the one to administrate after so long, but soon muscle memory kicked in and he'd been able to forget that Emmett was going about his own life in LA at the time. And speaking of Emmett, Puck's timing had been perfect, since apparently, his bruises had faded enough by then to go unnoticed. He'd been able to seduce Shelby and make her feel special enough to practically sing (which had reminded him that she was Rachel's mother, which kind of made him take a little longer than usual to finish because too many faces had been in his head and…just ugh).
To make it easier, he'd even tried to imagine that they were together, with little Beth asleep in the other room. And for the shortest while, he'd convinced himself that he belonged there, as part of a family. That he wasn't actually lonely as hell; that he wasn't reverting back to his man-whorish ways. That he'd actually mattered. And you know, it had actually worked.
At least, until Shelby told him he'd been a mistake.
And fuck, that had hurt just as much as Emmett's punch to his gut.
So after that, he'd taken to ignoring Shelby and her attempts to take back her words. He'd still wanted to see Beth of course, but he just hadn't been able to see the older woman's face for a while – it'd have been too much. But he'd still needed some way to alleviate the loneliness, so he hadn't protested much when Quinn latched onto him. Her mood swings kept him distracted.
He should've known that she'd be stuck on Shelby and Beth though. So it had been really fucking stupid on his part to be surprised when she'd tried to seduce him.
It had hit him, then, that Emmett couldn't ever find out about Shelby. Because as much sense as it made in Puck's head, Emmett would probably see Puck's platonic 'gratitude' as cheating. And based on Emmett's previous, unexpected temper flares, Puck hadn't doubted that Emmett could seriously kill him. And it had hit him then that he should probably have told somebody about the abuse before something tragic happened. And Quinn had been right there, so what the hell, right?
Except, seeing as how it had been the root of his distress at the moment, he'd ended up spilling about Shelby instead. And after violently shoving it down that once, Puck's opportunity to open up about Emmett never seemed to come again. So afterwards, by the time Emmett came home, with the alternation and distinction between Good and Bad Days increased dramatically, Puck still hadn't had anybody to go to for help.
And now, facing a fuming Emmett who actually looks ready to pick up the knife that Puck unfortunately hasn't washed yet, Puck curses himself for being such a stupid fuck that he didn't consult the Button this morning.
Because, maybe, it would've been a tails.
Maybe, he would've been more prepared for everything to go to shit.
A/N: Posted first at my LJ account, writer786. The title and lyrics are from Ingrid Michaelson's "Sort of", so I don't own that. I also don't own Glee. I do, however, now own the entire Season 2 and two of the original novels based on the series (okay, well actually I checked them out of the library last summer and never returned them so my library card was suspended but hey, whatever; I own 'em now suckas! Pardon that terrible English.)
Also, I apologize for the lack of updates to each of my other fics. I have not abandoned any of them, so please, forgive me for taking so long. I've actually started on the next chapters for all of them, but looking back, I felt like they could've been better so they're being rewritten. Please bear with me beloved readers, because I want to see them posted more than any of you do.
And that is a fact, not an opinion.
~'Taku786