The one pen he owned rattled and echoed across the shadowed space, as he tapped it rapidly against his knee. Anyone looking at him might have thought he was nervous, but for the way he lounged on the couch, one arm outstretched across the backrest, inviting and arrogant, the other holding his pen as it tapped on the knee of a leg whose ankle was balancing precariously on the knee of his other leg. Three pairs of eyes gazed at him with wariness as they approached. He grinned, knowing he'd invaded their sacred space.
"Looks like Coach Sylvester made good on Fabray's demands," he said easily, gesturing with his head at the couch he was sitting on, and the other sitting on an uncalculated angle to it. The girls who'd approached said nothing. Not that he'd expected an answer. Not that he fucking wanted one either; he wasn't here for them - he couldn't give the slightest damn about them. The three of them piled onto the smaller couch, preferring they be too close to each other than anywhere near Puck. A chuckle escaped him, reverberating in his chest.
Shifting so he could reach his back pocket, he slid out a pack of cigarettes. Shoving it in his mouth and lighting it with a deliberate, exhibitionistic flip opening of his lighter, the one he'd quietly stolen from the convenience store when the manager was looking the other way, he made sure he blew a perfect ring of smoke before turning to the girls.
"Want one?" he asked, holding the cigarettes out to them. They stayed mute. "Whatever," he shrugged, then took another drag on the stick. "Where's the Punk Princess anyway? She's the one I'm here to see." As if they hadn't guessed that already. One of them, the one with the dark brown hair and black smudges around her eyes, shrugged; he couldn't even remember her name. He didn't even know if he knew her name. His scoff caused him to exhale his lungful of smoke through his nose, and he swallowed, trying to get rid of the stinging sensation which was making his eyes water as a result.
The sound of heels clacking against hard pavement attracted the attention of three pairs of eyes, silently praying for a salvation from Puck's presence. His eyes, however, stayed glued to the girl who'd shrugged, knowing exactly to whom the sound of those heels belonged, and not caring enough to show her the kind of respect she was getting from the other three. With his gaze on the brown haired girl, he cocked an eyebrow, noticing, even as he sucked in another breath of cigarette smoke, that despite the smudged make up, she was hot; not exactly his type, but entirely fuckable. For a pause of a moment, he wondered whether he'd be able to get her into his bed. Or even get her to go down on him there, after the rest of her gang had left; he wasn't fussed. Getting off was getting off, no matter where or when it happened. He entertained the thought for a total of three seconds, until Quinn, former train-wreck and the reason for his visit, placed a languid kiss on the other girl's mouth, at which point, he immediately added her into his fantasies, wondering how much convincing it would take for her to agree to a threesome with him and Panda Girl. The lifetime of this thought was even shorter than the last, as the certainty that Quinn was never going to sleep with him again came crashing down, tearing down the wall of fantasies in his mind.
Choking back any question of what he'd just seen, he satisfied himself with the triumphant thought that he had been right, and Quinn fucking Fabray was just about as straight as a banana. No fucking wonder she hadn't come running back to him after things with her and Finn hadn't worked out. Looks like she found someone else to keep her bed warm; and it explained why she'd never stopped hanging out with the self confessed Skanks. He wondered how long he'd been blind to the relationship in front of him, and how long the two of them had been fucking, then wondered who Quinn was blackmailing so that rumours didn't get out and spread like some rotten disease around the school.
"What do you want, Puckerman?" she said, crossing her arms and facing him. The glint of her again-blonde hair seemed too bright for this space which reeked of cigarettes and damp.
"I came to talk, but if you want to keep mackin' on your little girlfriend there, I'm cool with that too," came his reply, as easily as if it were scripted. The corner of Quinn's lips turned upwards in a sneer and she scoffed, her eyes looking at some underside of the bleachers, as if she was seeking some kind of echo of her feelings there, some justification that Puck was a fucking moron.
"Was that you trying to make a pun, Puck? because it was fucking terrible."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, taking another drag on his cigarette, then deliberately flicking the ash in her direction, watching it as the miniscule particles floated to the ground, making impact in front of Quinn's boots.
"No, I guess you wouldn't have any idea that her name is Mack," Quinn shot back, "you never cared to learn the names of everyone you fucked over. Or even the names of those you just fucked. I should feel special, I guess that you still remember who I am, but it makes me sick that I'm the only one who sticks out in your head."
"You're still not making sense, Princess. And look, whatever, I didn't come here to have you get angry at me. I thought I owed you something that I didn't owe anyone else, but if you're just gonna stand there and be all self fucking righteous, then I should go. I don't need more shit from you."
Standing, he dropped the smouldering cigarette on the cement near his feet and ground it out with the heel of his boot, releasing its smoky remnants from his lungs, feeling its final burn as it eased its way back up his oesophagus. He immediately itched for another, but stuck his hands in his pockets to stop himself from lighting up. The end of his biro stabbed into his thigh through the pocket of his jeans, and he took it out again, balancing it for a moment across the inside second knuckle of his fingers, as though it were something precious. A hint of regret sparked inside his chest, flaring for the briefest of moments, and then it was gone, the pen sailing through the air towards Quinn. To his surprise, she caught it; it would take a lot longer than a year to erase the reflexes written into her body through the rigorous cheerleading regime of Sue Sylvester. She held it with the tip of her index finger and her thumb, raising a single, perfect eyebrow at him.
"Have a souvenir. It's not like I'm gonna need it anymore. I'm outta here, Quinn. Not just this goddamn school, but this fucking town too. I'm not graduating anyway, so I don't see the point of fucking around till graduation if I'm not even gonna get that stupid fucking diploma. I came here to tell you goodbye before I left, because you're the only one who deserves one from me. Guess that was a waste of time too," he shrugged, turning away.
The shadow of the bleachers made him want to shiver as he walked away, and he clenched his fists, fighting it. He licked his lips, trying to lubricate them again since they'd gone dry from the cigarette. The last tang of it coated his tastebuds. Breathing in from his nose filled his head with the lingering scent of it. It was gone, dead, lying, a discarded shell, beneath the bleachers in a cemetery of other smoked cigarettes, but it still lived on in him, more tangible than a memory. Some things didn't die straight away - they needed time to die their true, second death. He thought that line of thinking applied only to people, but he could say the same about the cigarette, he realised. It didn't comfort him.
"His name is Damien," a voice shouted from behind him, ringing across the cement and reverberating in the metal underside of the bleachers. He stopped and turned, frowning.
"What?"
"The kid you impregnated Mack with, a month before you impregnated me with Beth, his name is Damien."
"What?"
