There is a demon stirring in his veins.

He grunts as he stretches his arms, grabbing at his cleats. Grass tickles his back where his shirt rides up. He can hear the distant chatter of the team across the football field, but his mind is too full of fire to understand.

Leaning to the side, he frowns as his stomach tightens and relaxes. He can already feel bruises forming on his shins from today's practice. Still he cools down, straining his muscles, reveling in the pain. It's almost enough to distract him from his mind. Almost.

With a sigh, Mike glances up. The last of his teammates are idling away from the practice field, and he straightens back to stare at the sky. His eyes burn under the harsh sunlight but he blinks away the watering. He sighs once more, shoulders tense.

Suddenly he tears off his cleats and grabs his uniform top by the shoulder pads, worming his way out. He tosses it unceremoniously on the ground. His legs begin moving on their own accord, and before he knows it, he is dancing in the middle of the muddy field, mind streaming a steady improv of thoughts and beats.

'Why is he so important to you?' Mike ignores his own question, spinning sharply on his heel. 'He acknowledges your existence, sure - you're that football kid he hangs with sometimes that likes to dance. So why do you need to know anything more about him?'

Angrily he locks his shoulder, twisting and popping from his hips. The music between his ears is faster now, desperate. He slips into the sound, humming. Mud kicks up from his sock-feet.

'Why do you need to understand him?' One, two; he drops and swivels from his waist. 'He shows his thoughts on his face. You can read him like a book.' Three, four; his arms flow to a syncopated rhythm coming from somewhere more primal than his bones. 'He's a superficial dumbass. Let it be.'

He manages a bitter laugh. This...obsession? No. He cannot admit to that. This...intense curiosity has been wearing at him for - hell, months now. Sometimes dancing distracts him. Sometimes it is all he can think of to survive. He chuckles again, a choking sound. Sweat pours down his golden skin and his breath runs ragged, but the music is relentless and he moves with it, within it, caught in the riptide. He feels a swelling in his ribcage, like lava building beneath a mountain.

'How deep do his secrets run?'

He collapses onto the ground. Behind his eyes, notes whir by, but he cannot bring himself to appease them. He rests his head on his knees and laughs, laughs until he sobs and no longer knows the difference.

"Chang?"

He gasps and tries to recover quickly, scrubbing his face with his gloved hand. The owner of the voice sits beside him but he refuses to turn his head to see him.

"What's wrong with you?" There is no malice, and somehow that makes it worse. He bites his lip. Blood is pounding in his ears and he breathes sharply, trying to slow his heart. "Chang, what's up? Chang?...Mike."

He finally looks over and he feels his stomach freeze. He knew, absently, that it is Puck who is sitting confusedly next to him, but the shock still hurts. "Nothing's wrong," he mumbles, glaring at Puck's jaw.

"The fuck it isn't. You're out here dancing one moment and crying the next. What happened?"

And Mike looks him in the eye and sees warmth, familiarity. He wants to punch Puck, he wants to rip him to shreds, he wants to taste his mouth and his dreams. He wants to feel the skin on Puck's chest. He wants to vomit. He wants to crawl beneath the music staff in his head and hide forever, where love and anger and joy can all be minor chords and nothing matters but the snaps of his body.

'I hate you,' he wants to say. 'You invaded my thoughts and you make me dance. Ever since summer when you looked so sad, I wanted to lie against you and hear your heart beat. I wake up thinking of you and I feel lost. Can you just leave me the hell alone?' Instead his eyes flick back to the ground. "I'm just stressed right now," he hears himself say. His ears roar.

Puck looks unconvinced at best, but stands up to leave. "Whatever, man." He reaches down awkwardly to mess up Mike's hair. "Just, uh, keep dancing. You've got something special going." He smiles a little, something sad and wilting, before walking away.

Mike doesn't watch Puck leave. His knuckles clenched white across his forearms, he stares at the sun, melting slowly into song and cold fire and the lingering scent of Puck's cologne. He stares at the sun and cannot cry.

i wish we knew more about Mike than "shy, likes to dance, afraid of being alone in the world." oh well. no i don't ship this, no i don't think Mike is gay, it was 3am and i wanted some angst. PuckMike = Puke :D