It's Your Song That Sets Me Free

by Tarafina

Rachel Berry had no idea what events would transpire that day. How standing up for someone she didn't know would eventually lead to tragedy. And Noah Puckerman was the unfortunate boy who had to deal with the aftermath. Coping was never his strong suit.

2. Part II

Title: It's Your Song That Sets Me Free (I Sing It While I Feel I Can't Hold On)
Category: Glee
Genre: Tragedy/Angst/Romance
Ship: Rachel/Puck
Rating: NC17/R
Warning(s): Coarse/Sexual Language, Sexual Content, Character Death, Suicidal Themes
Word Count: 8,231
Summary: Rachel Berry had no idea what events would transpire that day. How standing up for someone she didn't know would eventually lead to tragedy. And Noah Puckerman was the unfortunate boy who had to deal with the aftermath; only he had no idea how. And coping was never his strong suit.

It's Your Song That Sets Me Free (I Sing It While I Feel I Can't Hold On)
-Novel-

II.

He couldn't sleep forever. He tried to. He stopped checking the time, kept his curtains closed, and became one with his bed, like fused to it. When one side started to ache, he rolled over, and when that side hurt, he laid on his stomach, and then his back, and then repeat. When his eyes were open, he could see her. Everywhere. In everything. She was standing in front of his TV, telling him he should by studying, that Mario and his bizarre dinosaur friend could wait. She was sitting excitedly at the end of his bed, clapping for him as he played a song on his guitar, smiling all bright and big like he'd written a fucking platinum record or some shit. She was half-dressed, hands on her hips, wearing a tiny ass skirt and a bra and looking through all her sweaters like the decision was so damn important. They all had animals on them; what was the big deal? She was beneath him, her head thrown back, her neck covered in heart- and star-shaped hickeys, her fingernails biting his shoulders, her mouth open and wide and that noise of frustration and desire all mixed together as he moved between her thighs, too slow, teasing her. She was smiling. She was laughing. She was crying. Stomping. Glaring. Yelling. Dancing. Singing. Sleeping. Eating. Breathing.

He slammed his eyes closed and he breathed; deep, hard, in and out. And he smelled her; on her nightgown, on his pillowcase, on his sheets and his blanket. But it was comforting; it was almost real.

He fell somewhere between asleep and awake; drifting.

When he opened his eyes, he couldn't know if it was real or not. Maybe he finally lost his mind. But she was there; she was lying right next to him, her hair all soft and spread out against his pillow. She smiled at him. "Hey, sleepyhead…"

He reached out and touched her and fuck but she felt real, felt alive. His hand cupped her cheek, fingers brushing her hair back, behind her ear. "Rachel…" he choked.

"You always call meBerry…" Her eyes rolled a little. "Berry-Babe… Jew-Jew-B… Your hot little Jewish American princess…" She raised a brow. "What's so different now?"

He shook his head, his throat tight, burning and hollow.

She stroked the side of his face. "You look terribly sad, Noah…"

"The fuck d'you think… You fucking died…" He blinked back the tears quickly. "You left me."

She rolled closer, her hand sliding down to cup his neck. "I'll never leave you… You remember, don't you? I promised." Her eyes were wide and serious. "We're going to take over New York, aren't we Noah?"

He buried a hand in her hair, squeezing tightly, and nodded. "Yeah, babe. We'll own that shit."

"We'll probably have to live in less than ideal apartments for awhile… You'll be in college and I'll still be making a name for myself." She shook her head dismissively. "But then I'll find that breakout role and you'll manage that music club you want to and we'll live in a beautiful penthouse..." Her eyes glittered with excitement. "And when we're older and we're married and we're ready for kids, we'll get a brownstone…" She traced the shell of his ear with her thumb. "We'll have it all." She leaned her face in and bumped their noses. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Noah Puckerman…"

Tears clouded his eyes. "You did."

She smiled. "Was it beautiful? Our time together?"

"S'fuckin' epic."

She hooked her leg over his hip and dragged her fingers down the back of his 'hawk. "Will you sing to me, Noah?"

"Forever," he promised.

She brightened hopefully. "Sweet Caroline?"

He nodded jerkily. "Whatever you want."

Her nails lightly scratched the nape of his neck and she started it for him, "Where it began…"

He swallowed tightly. "I can't begin to know when… But then I know it's growing strong…"

She hummed along with him and his eyes drifted closed as he sang, her fingers so soothing.

When he opened them, she was gone, and he was clutching a nightgown, in a cold, empty bed.

He rolled over, closed his eyes, and wished for it all to come back again; for her to come back again.

../..

His mother let him stay home one week. She didn't bother him except when she brought in food and asked if he wanted to talk. He only ate when his stomach started cramping and he ignored her hopeful expression when she wanted him to start sharing feelings. So what if Rachel had woken up his inner pussy when they were dating? Wasn't like he was going to be a bitch about it now. She had to drag it out of him most of the time anyway and she was the only one who got through to him, so he wasn't sure why his mom suddenly thought he'd just spill his fucking guts. So he ignored her, rolling over most of the time, dismissing her and all her 'You can always talk to me, Noah.' And he flinched, 'cause just like when he was a kid and his dad cut and ran, hearing the name Noah physically hurt.

After seven days, she came back into his room looking determined. Her chin was set and her brow furrowed and for a second he thought it reminded him of when her and Rachel decided he needed to play his guitar at the JCC for some musical appreciation thing for kids and he told them 'shit no,' and laughed. They got together, made a plan, and then blitzed him and through a whole lot of nagging and some holding out on Rachel's part, he ended up spending a whole weekend at the JCC with a bunch of snot-nosed kids. Who weren't all bad, he guessed, since they totally liked his Zeppelin. But then, looking at his mom and not seeing the spitfire next to her, his amusement faded, replaced with anger.

He tried to turn over again, away from her.

"No." She swallowed tightly and for a second, she seemed to doubt herself, but then she took a step closer. "You need to go to school."

He didn't answer.

"Noah—"

He winced.

"You have tests and you need to study, you— You need to get back into the swing of things, so you'll be ready. So—So you'll graduate…" She stared at him searchingly. "I know it hurts, baby." She reached for him, her hand resting on his arm. "I know how hard this is… How sad you are… But bubbala, you can't throw away your life, not now, not when you've worked so hard!" She reached her fingers out and stroked his face, pushing her hand back over his hair and he closed his eyes, because he needed this, he needed to feel like somebody cared, like he had somebody who really, honestly wanted the best for him. But then she said, "She wouldn't want you to do this, No'."

And suddenly he pulled away, his eyes open, narrowed, staring at her darkly. "She wouldn't want to be dead," he spat, his voice hoarse and thick, croaky from not being used. "But she is, so she's not here to tell me to get my shit together, is she?" His jaw ticked.

She looked down, licking her lips and sighing. "That's not what I meant… I only meant that Rachel loved you and she wanted something better for you. She wouldn't want her death to hinder you—"

He laughed bitterly. Shoving up from his bed to sit, his hand still curled around her nightgown and his wrinkled clothes still the same he'd worn a week earlier to her funeral. "'Cause I'll bounce back next week, right?"

She shook her head. "There's no set date to when you'll feel better, Noah… Grief, it…" She wrung her hands, twisting her fingers as she searched for the words to comfort him. "It can cripple you, if you let it."

"Let it?" His brows furrowed. His chest started heaving with each breath he took, deep but empty somehow. Like it wasn't filling his lungs right; like he was suffocating. "You don't know how this feels…" he muttered, shaking his head.

"Noah, I—"

"He left you," he spat, glaring up at her. "Dad left you. He had a choice and he fucking ran…" Distantly, the hurt on her face made him feel bad. But there was this anger now, chewing at him, eating at his guts. It flowed freely, deeply, like a heat over his skin. He remembered this feeling. He remembered it when he jacked the ATM. When he kicked the ever loving shit out of Azimio for calling his mom a MILF in eighth grade. When Jessie and his band of fuckheads egged Rachel. He remembered it when his dad ditched and he wasn't Noah, but Puck. When it all started; when being a badass became everything. It was what made slusheeing losers okay; what made throwing kids in dumpsters funny. Only this anger was darker, edged, and it wasn't about him, not entirely. He was hurt and alone and he was pissed and sad, but this anger was about Rachel. About Rachel being gone, about Rachel dying before she got everything she wanted, about all the dreams and the life and everything they worked for going down the fucking drain because some dickwad didn't like that she'd called him on his shit.

This anger made everything else pale in comparison. And he ate it up, he enjoyed it, 'cause for the first time since she died he didn't feel like the hole in his chest was going to swallow him up.

Mouth wobbling, his ma finally looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and a few tears at the corners but not willing to fall. "Maybe he did… But a part of me died… My life died…" She shook her head. "And I grieved for your father, Noah. For our marriage and the end of our family and how it was it was supposed to be…" Her hands fisted in her lap. "So maybe I don't know what it's like to have someone I love truly die, but—"

"There's no fucking buts," he interrupted harshly, his teeth grit. "One second she's texting me she's gonna see me in a few and the next she's lying at the bottom of the stairs bleeding from her fucking head, so you don't get to tell me that you get it or that I gotta get over it or any other uplifting fucking bullshit."

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin. "You're angry and you're sad and you're a million other things and fine, if you don't want me to understand, then fine…" She stared at him. "But I won't let you throw your life away. I won't let you destroy all the good things you've done this last year." She reached for him, her shoulders slumping when he pulled away before she could touch him. And her breath left her, deflated, but she looked at him like it didn't change anything. "I won't let you." She stood then, and turned toward the door. "You're going to school, N—" She paused, rethinking it. "Puck," she corrected. "I'll drive you there myself if I have to." She walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

He leaned back against his bed and stared at the door a long while. Some part of him figured he'd just roll over and go to sleep. At least when he was sleeping it didn't hurt as much. He drifted, in and out, half in a memory, half in a dream state of his making. His skin felt stiff; like every part of his body was overused, stretched.

Like the Tinman before he's been oiled, Rachel's voice interrupted his thoughts. He was my favorite, you remember… Because even while he and everyone assumed he had no heart, he always did… Perhaps the biggest heart of them all… Like you, Noah.

His jaw ticked and he shoved up from his bed. His steps were sluggish, his knees a little weak, and his back hurt as he stood upright. His joints ached, like he was some seventy year old geriatric patient. He yanked open his closet and stared at all the clothes stuffed in together. He grabbed out a dark hoodie; the one hanging next to her sweater with all the rabbits on it. He stalked to his dresser and dug around for underwear, socks and a pair of jeans. He found her pink plaid skirt, a pair of her panties with stars on them, and one of her earrings. Like it fell in off the top or something, and he wondered where the other half was. She kept all her jewelry shit in a box, right next to his Super Nintendo; he always thought it looked weird, like opposites. It was one of those velvet boxes that earrings or whatever came in, but she took out the plastic inset so she could put a bunch of bracelets and studs inside. He opened it, dropping her earring inside, even though he knew she'd never wear them again. And then he just held the box awhile; the fabric scratchy on his palm.

The tears burned; they always did. But now he was angry at them for being there; for always stinging his eyes, waiting to fall. A year ago, he was a stud and he didn't cry about anything. And now… It was like he couldn't stop. It was the box. It was red, but the one he'd had was black. The one he'd saved up for, months of washing dishes at BreadstiX, of shoveling snow and doing odd jobs around the neighborhood. Until one day, he could afford it. This tiny little ring with one diamond on the top; nothing special really. Only it was his promise; that one day they'd make it. Not just in New York or whatever, but with each other. He remembered thinking it was stupid at the time, 'cause how was some piece of junk ring supposed to convince her to stay with his dumb ass? But she'd taken it and she'd cried and she'd told him it was beautiful and she was proud to wear his ring; that she was proud of him in general.

He tossed the box down on the dresser, turned, and left. He showered quickly; avoided looking at her shampoos and shit, instead just soaping up, rinsing off and jumping out. He didn't shave, didn't check the 'hawk; he grabbed a toothbrush and scrubbed away a week's worth of half-eaten sandwiches and cold soup. He got dressed, grabbed his keys and he went downstairs. He didn't check in with his mom, not for the lunch she probably made or the reassurance she was itching to hand out. He stuck his shoes on and walked out the front door, climbing in his beat-up old truck and pulling it out of the driveway without even checking for oncoming traffic.

He didn't go to school right away. Hell, he didn't even know what time it was. He drove around instead, no real destination in mind. They used to do this; she'd fiddle with his radio, checking out every damn station, before eventually just going back to the one he had it on in the first place. She'd bounce happily in the passenger seat, sometimes singing along to the lyrics, other times talking, endlessly, about whatever came to mind; New York, school, glee, the Tony's, whatever. And sometimes she'd just stare out the window, at Lima as it passed by, and she'd ask him if he'd miss it; if there was anything about this hick town he'd want to take with him. And he'd take her hand, her little midget fingers threading with his, and he'd tell her, 'It's coming with me.' Because she was it, she was all he wanted; and really, he was tagging after her. She was going to New York and he was hitching a ride on the Berry Express. Sure it was his truck, but whatever. And yeah, he'd helped her figure out the road-trip, using a red felt to draw it along the giant ass map she bought. And true he'd worked his ass off not only to graduate but to get into a good college. But it never stopped him from thinking that if it wasn't for her, if Rachel hadn't agreed to date him, that he'd have stayed stuck in Lima the rest of his life. And she told him he was wrong; she squawked and bitched that he didn't see all the potential he had but she sure as fuck did. But that was his point; she saw it when nobody else had, when even he hadn't, and that was why he was going somewhere, that was why he was getting out of Lima.

He drove past her house; saw the daddies-Berry cars were in the drive, one of them her red Prius that she stopped driving when he started picking her up for everything.

"It saves gas, I suppose… Even if this ridiculous old truck is probably a gas-guzzling fossil…" she said, sighing as she took in the rusted and chipped blue paint, daintily running a finger over the bed.

He'd glared at her, offended. "Never put down the truck, Berry… She's my baby…" He stared at her seriously. "You know how many pools I had to clean to buy her?"

She raised a brow. "Firstly… Your truck is not female; so referring to it as if it were not only animated, but like it has a gender is preposterous…" She clucked her tongue. "And secondly…" She tapped her foot. "Do we really need to discuss your 'pool cleaning business' and what it really offered you?"

He smirked lazily. "Okay, so usually, yeah, I mean the cougars I banged… But for the truck, I actually did some real work…" His brows rose. "Legit. My baby's paid for in full from a summer of hard ass work. Real blood, sweat, and tears went into her!"

She smiled slowly. "Well… I suppose that does encourage some pride and respect in me for your inanimate vehicle…" She nodded. "All right, well, daddy's been saying he needs a car of his own anyway. I'm sure he'd rather use my Prius than take the city bus or save up for a new car. It's cost-effective and better for the environment."

"Whatever babe, I just think it's funny you have to jump to get in."

She rolled her eyes. "Ever the chivalrous beau, aren't you Noah?"

He leered at her. "Wanna steam up the windows of your new ride, Berry?"

She pursed her lips, looking from him to his truck. "Won't she be offended?"

He chuckled, grabbed her hand, and dragged her to his open driver door. Hands on her hips, he lifted her up and inside. "She's my wingman, babe; she lives for this shit."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're hot."

He considered going inside. They probably just got back from shiva though; it took seven days after all… He wondered if that was why his ma let him sit out a week of school. Shiva was reserved for first-degree relatives; parents, siblings, and husband or wives. Maybe the ring he got her meant more to other people than he thought; maybe they really did think he could land a chick like Rachel for good. He couldn't imagine why; half the time, he was a little surprised she stuck around and dealt with his shit. He wasn't exactly the nicest dude around, even if he'd been getting better. Glee was good for him; even his mom said so. Even before he got with Rachel, he'd been working on his anger shit. On not taking it out on kids he didn't even know. And since the whole porta-potty thing, he'd really been trying to be a better person. It was one of the reasons he and Rachel started the whole friendship thing. And yeah, okay, it lasted like a month before he told her they had to figure shit out, 'cause he couldn't not want her. He'd pretty much always wanted her.

First, because he was a dude and she had a set of pins on her that were like crazy awesome. Then because they dated for like five days junior year and yeah, okay, she dumped him and he had to deal with a knocked up Quinn, but their make-out sessions were insanely hot. And they kept their distance after that, but something changed. 'Cause he was still pretty sure God wanted him to get with Berry, only he'd started wondering if it was more long-term than he'd expected. Only she was with Finn and he'd fucked up and ended up in Juvie. Apparently it was a lot harder than he expected to give up a baby he hardly knew. But he got his shit back together and he was being a better man than before, except for that one screw up where he made out with Rachel and almost took her v-card to get back at Finn. But he totally walked away from the offer, even if he really, really didn't want to. And then she was really freed up and Finn had his eye back on Quinn, so he made his move. Friendship first, then relationship, then… Then he went and fell like head over ass in love with her.

He parked his truck on the side of the road, next to the Berry's front lawn, and he stared at the house he'd spent the last year visiting. He knew the exact time her dads fell asleep so he could climb her trellis and in her bedroom. He knew the third stair squeaked, so when he was sneaking downstairs for something to drink or eat, he avoided it so her dads didn't come out with baseball bats and try and brain him to like, save their precious daughter from some rapist/robber. He only made that mistake once and dude, hanging around a couple of half-naked gay dudes while in his underwear totally wasn't the best night of his life. He was pretty sure Leroy actually considered still using the bat, maybe just to knock some sense into him. But they liked him enough, and Rachel loved him, so they just told him to be more careful, and they probably meant that in more than one way.

When he looked up, he saw him.

Hiram. The tall, quiet, black one she always called Daddy and who she had wrapped around her finger from day one.

He was standing in the window of her bedroom, overlooking the lawn. They stared at each other along moment, and then he raised a hand and Puck nodded back and Hiram turned and left. And he didn't know what it meant; maybe just silent, nameless recognition of their loss. If Rachel was there, she'd dissect it. She'd make a fucking PowerPoint presentation about body language and shit. All he knew was that she wasn't there and he felt the emptiness like a punch to the gut; only that breathless, achy pain just wouldn't go away.

Puck put the truck in drive and pulled away, taking off down the street, a little slower than before. He eventually made it to school, after passing the 7-Eleven where he used to grab her grape slushees and the dance studio he took her to twice a week. He pulled into the parking lot and stuck it in park. He sat there awhile, figuring classes had already started since the lot was full and just about nobody was outside. It was quiet, like eerily silent. It was weird, 'cause he'd spent the last seven months or so getting to school on time, going to all his classes, even doing his homework. He pushed the door open and climbed out, pausing when he automatically reached toward the bed of his truck. He usually had to grab her trolley bag; this pink monstrosity that she always told him he didn't have to hold, and thank fuck, 'cause he thought one of his balls might actually shrivel up if he did have to. But he always had to get it out of the back 'cause she was short as fuck, even with those crazy long legs. The back end was empty though and for the first time ever, he really wanted to see pink fabric and black plastic.

He pulled his arm back, fingers curling into a fist, and walked toward the school; a bell rang just as he opened the door and suddenly classes were letting out and kids were crowding the halls. His teeth clenched as he walked, his head ducked a little, eyes avoiding them. Whispers started, along with the pointing and staring. Some of them started texting, their eyes darting from their phones to him, and he just knew that it was all over school. He walked a little faster, glaring at anybody who got in his way. They gave him a wide berth, moving quickly so he had a straight line in front of him. A couple years ago, he'd have smirked; fuck yeah, he was just cool enough to get this kind of reaction. But this had nothing to do with his status or how much of a stud he was. This was because they all saw his girlfriend dead on the ground; because they'd seen him break over it; because they were all wondering what the fuck he was going to do now. If he'd lose his shit or shrug it off or what.

He decided he wouldn't give them anything; he wouldn't talk or listen or acknowledge any of their bullshit. And he sure as hell wouldn't cry.

He was almost to his locker when he saw it.

Hers.

And her picture was on it, with all these star stickers all around it. And flowers and teddy bears and it was like a fucking shrine for her.

He was going to keep walking, ignore it. But his books and his backpack and all his shit was in there, 'cause it had been like midway between his classes that day and he'd stuffed it in there at lunch before going to see Miss. Pillsbury. He ground his teeth and finally walked over, his steps a little shaky, before finally he reached for the comm. and took a deep breath. He tried not to look at her picture, at the smiling face of her staring out from the locker door. But when the comm. unlocked, he looked up and he was face to face with her and his eyes got stuck; like he couldn't not look. With her giant smile, rows of white teeth and full lips stretched wide. With her eyes, big and brown, and these long dark lashes she liked to bat at him all coyly when she wanted something – You got something in your eye, baby? He laughed. She frowned at him, disgruntled, No-ah! And her hair, all shiny and dark, and falling down her shoulders in waves. He wanted to touch her; the real her. He wanted her to smile her real smile, not the big fake stage one; he wanted her to bat her eyes and he'd give her whatever the fuck she wanted; he wanted to wrap his fingers in her hair, tug on it a little, drag her closer.

But it was a picture and not even a good one. The good ones were the ones she wasn't expecting; like at the BBQ last month, where she was sitting in his lap, laughing at something Kurt said. Or the one Artie snapped of them when they were practicing some dance routine for glee and she had her head thrown back against his shoulder, their hands together, while she smiled up at him all soft like. Or all the pictures Kurt liked to take when it was just him and the girls, Rachel and Mercedes, and they were shopping or gossiping or whatever the fuck they did. The ones where she wasn't stage-Rachel, Broadway star, but the teenage girl, who yeah, had a shitload of dreams, but also just wanted friends and family and her boyfriend around to share her life with.

He shoved the locker door open hard, hearing it clang as it hit the locker next to it. He took a deep breath, 'cause his chest hurt like a motherfucker and he was blinking like crazy, his eyes burning. There were two shelves in her locker; one she used to keep her lunch and make-up on and the other was packed with her books. She cleaned out the top shelf so he could put his shit inside when he needed to.

"It's rather domestic, don't you think?" she asked, smiling at him.

He snorted, grabbing out his math book. "Babe, I'm just glad I don't have to walk an extra two hallways to get my shit."

She rolled her eyes. "Language," she chastised. "And I think it's nice… Us sharing space together."

"It's a locker…" His brows furrowed. "You wanna talk space, let's talk about my closet… It's like Mr. Roger's Neighborhood threw up all his sweaters and you knit animals on them and then stuck 'em all up in next to my jerseys and shit."

Clucking her tongue, she sighed. "You offered your space when I mentioned dad and daddy were working particularly hard lately and I'd been spending and inordinate amount of time alone… I don't know why you're surprised that my clothes would need to be hung up and that your closet would be the most likely place for that to occur."

He arched a brow at her. "Okay, first, your whole sales pitch on the daddies-Berry being gone said like two things to me. One, you were scared to be home alone and you needed your man to keep you safe and two, I get to have my hot girlfriend up in my bed every night. The fuck would I mess with a good thing?"

She legit stomped her foot. "Then why are you complaining about the space used to house my sweaters?"

"I'm not complaining," he grumbled. "'m saying that this whole locker thing and you being all excited about it is crazy. We share a closet… And a bed… And I'm pretty sure you're tiny ass skirts infiltrated my dresser, 'cause when I went for a pair of jeans this morning I found that hot little red number…" He smirked, reminiscing. "You should wear that soon… I always see panty when you walk."

Her eyes rolled and she shook her head. "Somehow, for someone who likes 'going with the flow,' you make things very complicated."

"I make shit complicated," he laughed incredulously. "Babe, just, don't even get me started…"

She pursed her lips at him. "I've decided your things are going on the second shelf," she told him, glaring. "It's smaller." She snapped her locker closed and started walking away, her hips swaying sharply in her anger.

He watched after her for a few long seconds, and after he caught a peak at her panties, he decided to give chase. "C'mon, babe…"

They'd make up by lunch, like usual. And he sure as fuck got the top shelf; he needed space.

He grabbed out his backpack, hanging there just above her trolley bag, and stuck all his books and shit inside. There was no way he could come back and go through all this shit the rest of the afternoon. It was all too Rachel; with the mirror and the star stickers and the To-Do List. She had pictures of them pasted on the door, right next to the totally clichéd photo-booth strip she had of her and the daddies-Berry. And they were all smiles and laughter and kissing for the camera and it fucking hurt to look at it. Like he was staring at a different time; a different him. He hooked his bag over his shoulder but for a second, all he could think was the top shelf was empty and his stuff was supposed to be there; that was his space. But then his eyes caught on the white cardigan hanging inside and it was stained red. His first thought was of her lying at the end of the stairs, skull cracked open, and the blood, god, it was everywhere. He reached out and touched the arm; it was so soft and light and it slipped off the hanger and into his hand, weightless. He rubbed his thumb along the fabric and realized it was slushee; cherry. His hand tightened, fisted, and his heart started hammering in his chest. The anger was back; rage, viciously pouring through his veins, white hot. And all he wanted to do was hit someone or break something or fuck whatever up beyond recognition.

So he punched the locker next to hers, felt the metal collapse beneath his fist. And for a second, he felt okay. He could breathe. But it didn't last long.

There were whispers and the clicking of camera phones taking pictures. And he wanted to snap at them; tell them to fuck off and mind their own damn business. Like he didn't have enough shit to deal with.

But the bell rang then and people started making their way back to class. Soon enough he was just standing in an empty hallway, holding a tiny white sweater with a bright red stain on it. He stuffed it in his backpack, locked her locker, turned and left.

He could've left the school, even turned toward the nearest exit, but then her voice was there again…

After all the work you've put into this? After all our homework sessions? Our studying and cue cards? You're going to throw it all away?

He grit his teeth and came to a stop. He stared at the bright red EXIT sign and then looked over toward his Spanish class. He was already late, but it was Mr. Shue. And maybe that was one of the reasons he didn't want to go. 'Cause Mike, Finn and Sam were in there too. He hadn't seen any of them since the funeral, even if his ma said Finn had dropped by a few times, just parked in his driveway, for hours. Taking a deep breath, he threw his head back and closed his eyes. If he didn't go to class, he didn't know what he'd do. But it was nothing good.

Your grades in Spanish have vastly approved, Noah. I hope you'll keep up with the curriculum. I'm sure if you asked, Mr. Shuester would explain anything you're having trouble with.

"I don't wanna talk to him," he said to an empty hallway.

You can always talk to me… Whenever you'd like, I'll listen. And I promise, on my signed Babs memorabilia, I will keep all your secrets.

He snorted. "'m fuckin' crazy," he muttered.

But he turned and he walked into that classroom, aware everybody was staring at him. He glanced up, around the room, saw all the eyes, heard the whispers. Even Shue was looking at him with wide eyes. His lips pursed, jaw ticked, and he walked quickly to the open seat next to Sam, shrugging his backpack off and dropping it to the floor next to his feet. He pulled out his binder and book and he hunched over his desk, waiting for the day to just fucking end already.

"O-Okay, class," Shue clapped his hands. "Eyes on your books. Let's try sounding that last bit out again. Repeat after me…"

Class stretched; the hour seemed to go on forever. He couldn't focus; the words all seemed to jumble and blur together. He had to re-read everything two or three times before it registered. He was uncomfortable; he could feel them all looking at him. When the bell finally rang, he jumped out of his chair, grabbing his shit and hurrying to leave.

"Puck!" Shue called out, dragging him back. "Can you stay behind, please?"

Everybody else pushed past him out the door. Shoulders hunched, he turned around and walked back, staring at the floor.

Shue sat at the edge of his desk, staring up and trying to get Puck to look at him. "How… I mean…" He sighed. "I don't know what kind of etiquette there is to this, Puck…" He peered at him searchingly. "I know things must be difficult. I-I know the other glee kids have been withdrawn and upset about this. I can't…" He shook his head. "I can't begin to know how you're feeling and I won't pretend I do…"

He sighed, grinding his teeth. "Can I go?"

He frowned sadly. "Look… I really think, especially now that you're back at school, that you need to be around people who understand, who knew her like you did…" He stood, reaching out and gripping Puck's shoulder tight. "Will you come by the choir room after school? There's… Principal Figgins has arranged for a memorial assembly later this week… The kids are working on a song." He gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I think it might really help if you sang about it…"

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "There a song I don't know about that brings people back to life?" he sneered. "'Cause if you think singing out my pain is gonna fix this shit, it won't."

"I just meant—"

"No, look…" He looked up at him, pinning him with his dark stare. "You lost a student. You lost your win to Nationals or what the fuck ever." He shrugged a shoulder. "I lost the girl I was gonna marry, so I really don't think there's a song anywhere that's gonna make me feel better." He hooked his thumbs in the strap of his backpack and took a step back. "We done? 'Cause I just realized I really don't wanna be at school today."

His face fell. "Puck—"

Turning on his heel, he left, walking quickly from the room.

He didn't go to his next class.

He walked right out the door, through the parking lot, and hopped in his truck. He hit the liquor store and grabbed a couple bottles of Jack and Jose, flashed his fake ID and walked out with the beginnings of an alcohol problem. He spent the rest of the day holed up in his truck, parked next to the lake, on a buzz that just barely took the edge off everything. But his skin was crawling; his whole fucking body felt wrong. He felt stuck and off and like he needed to do something to work it all off. When it got to be too much, he started punching the steering wheel and then he shoved out of his truck and he tossed the empty tequila bottle as far as it would go, happy when it crashed and splintered, glass shattering in the distance. And then he grabbed the tire iron out of the back of his track and he beat the shit out of a tree until his arms hurt and his hands felt raw and he fell to his knees in the dirt. He leaned against the tree, his head falling back, and he screamed, "Fuck!" to anybody who was listening, to nobody.

And when she didn't chastise him for his bad language, it only hurt worse.

He would drink a lot in the next few days. When he got home later that night, he was pissed drunk and stumbling up the stairs. His mother took one look at him, sighed, and walked away. He kicked his door shut and silently told her to go fuck herself. When he crawled into bed, he hugged her nightgown close, buried his face in it and apologized for smelling like a bar. She hated it when he drank. He loved it when he got her tipsy.

She was throwing another party; same place, same people, different couples, and no fugly green dress.

Rachel hiccupped, peering up at him through narrowed eyes. "You got me drunk!" Her expression widened. "As a skunk!"

He grinned, amused. "Babe, you got yourself drunk… I just supplied the goods." He quirked a brow. "Your dads should seriously think about a better lock for that liquor cabinet."

She giggled, leaning back into his chest. "You're so cunning, Noah. Even when –hic- you're breaking the law. Which, by the way, I find completely attractive while simul –hic- taneously feeling very fearful for your future. Having a blemish on your –hic– record now would look so bad!" Her eyes widened. "And when you've been doing so, so –hic- good!"

"Rach, we're in your basement… You call the cops when I wasn't looking?"

Her brows furrowed as she looked away, like she was actually wondering if maybe she did. "I don't… think so."

He snorted. "Okay, then I really don't think we're getting arrested tonight."

"That's –hic- good," she murmured, closing her eyes and resting her face in the crook of his neck. "You smell amazing!"

He took a drag off his beer. "You're a horny drunk."

She licked his neck slowly. "Am not."

He growled, his arm tightening around her waist. "Rach," he said warningly.

She nuzzled her nose into his Adam's apple. "No-ah!" she sighed, wiggling in his lap. "I feel so—so—hot!" She sat up suddenly and started pulling at her top - a flimsy piece of fabric that Hummel probably stuck her in – and it wasn't long before she had it up and over her head. And suddenly he had his girlfriend in his lap wearing a skirt and a pink demi-cup bra, which she was reaching to pull off next.

"Whoa!" He slapped her hands away. "There are other dudes here! You're not showin' 'em your berries!"

"Ugh!" She pushed her back against his chest. "It's so warm in here!" She shoved at her skirt, hooking it and her panties at her hips with her thumbs.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, pulling her hands back.

"Don't stop her!" Santana yelled. "Shit's starting to get good!"

"Fuck off, Satan!" He stood up then, tossing Rachel over his shoulder.

"Aw, come on!" she complained. "Share with your fellow gleeks, Puck!"

He fingered her while walking to the stairs.

"You have a wonderful butt, Noah," Rachel told him, patting his ass. "I like it almost as much as your arms, which are lovely."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks babe."

"But not half as much as your penis."

He almost tripped on the stairs.

"Oh my god, somebody record this," Santana crowed.

Sighing, he hurried up the stairs. And 'cause God was a mean, teasing sonuvabitch, Rachel fell asleep on the way to her bedroom.

Tonight was not that kind of drinking; playful and for fun. Tonight he drank to forget all that good shit; to forget everything. Tonight would be one of many just like it.

../..

The next morning, he downed a couple beers before he walked into school. He didn't talk to anybody, not even the teachers, and he kept his backpack on him. Half because it had his books and he didn't feel like looking for a locker he hadn't used in like a year and half because he had a bottle of Jack Daniels for when the day got too hard. At least when his head was fuzzy his chest didn't hurt so much. It was all distant. Like he knew it was there but he didn't have to feel it. So he got through a whole day of school and then another. And yeah, he wasn't getting any work done; didn't even know what the fuck was going on in his classes, but he was there…

By day three, the gleeks swarmed. He didn't know how, since Kurt was still supposed to be atDalton, but he was hanging with the crowd too.

He could see them at the end of the hall, the guys on one side and the girls on the other. If they thought this was a trap, they didn't watch enough ninja movies. 'Cause them ambushing him was a fucking joke.

Finn stepped forward first, being all leader-like and shit. "Puck, we—"

"Fuck off," he interrupted.

He was so surprised he actually shut up.

Mike tried next, moving to stand right in front of him, blocking his way but walking backwards as he stalked forward. "Dude, we know things are bad, but—"

He glared down at him darkly. "Move."

And because Mike didn't want to get killed, he did.

Mercedes stepped up, putting a hand to his chest, forcing him to stop. "Look White-Boy, you can push us away all you want, but we're not going anywhere, so just…" She softened, sighing. "Let us help you."

"We loved her too," Tina murmured, rubbing Kurt's shoulder.

And for the first time since the funeral, Puck really looked at Hummel. He was paler than usual, which was insane since he was practically translucent to begin with. And his eyes were red-rimmed and blood shot. He looked frail and lost and Puck knew Rachel would tell him to be nice, to make him feel better, to do something…

But he was a little drunk and really fucked up, so instead he said, "Yeah, you all loved her so damn much when she was alive that her only real friend was Beyonce… It only took her braining it on the stairs for you guys to care." He sneered at their expressions. "You wanna hug and sing about how fucking hurt you are, 'm sure you can band together and really work the crowd. But leave me the fuck out of it." He started walking then, shoulder slamming into Finn so hard he stumbled out of the way.

"You can drink until your liver fails, Noah Puckerman, but Rachel is always going to be a part of you; the only good part you have left," Kurt snapped after him. "So when you're ready to mourn her, you call me. Until then… Good luck with slowly turning into your deadbeat father!"

He stopped, the words hitting him hard in the chest. And his breath stuttered, every muscle in his body tightening until it hurt. When he turned around, Hummel was staring at him, crying, holding some silk handkerchief in his hand. And when Puck stomped back toward him, he had to give him credit for only flinching and not running.

The others gasped a little. Finn even reached out to grab his step-brother's shoulder, like he was going to pull him back, hide him. But Kurt stayed, staring up at him defiantly, even as his chest heaved in fear.

"You gotta lot of fucking balls saying that shit to me, Hummel."

He swallowed tightly. "You're thickheaded… Rachel always said she had to say the worst things so she could make sure you'd hear the best thing…" He stared at him, mouth shaking. "I loved her. Maybe not in the same way you did." His nose wrinkled. "Definitely not in the same way you did." He cracked a slight smile. "But she was my best friend and… And she loved you… So no…" He lifted his chin. "I won't watch you destroy the good person you were becoming with her… Because that's just like spitting on everything you had together."

His jaw ticked as everybody collectively held their breaths. "The fuck do you guys want?"

He looked relieved, like he'd made a breakthrough. Fuck that!

"Sing with us."

He rolled his eyes.

"No, really… It… It helps, I promise…" He reached out, touching his arm. "Lunch, today… You can sing whatever you want, whatever you're feeling, no judgment…"

He cocked a brow. "You're gonna clap for Metallica, Hummel? Slipknot?"

His mouth screwed up despite the way he tried to stop it. "If that's what you need to sing to help you, then… Sure."

He snorted.

Kurt's hand squeezed his arm. "But you'll come. Right?"

He glared at some spot over his shoulder. "Doesn't change anything."

His eyes fell. "I keep… I keep thinking about the last time I talked to her." He shook his head. "Not through text, but… But an actual conversation…" He smiled shakily. "It was about those sweaters again…" He laughed, his breath hitching. He blinked quickly as tears clouded his eyes. "They're so ugly," he sniffled. "And now… Now I just wish I could see one, any one of them, even that hideous horse sweater of hers… Just one more time."

Puck remembered the closetful he had at home and nodded, his teeth clenched tight. "Lunch. Choir room." He turned and left, stalking away without waiting for a reply.

But he could hear them behind him, moving quickly to surround Kurt.

"I thought he was going to hit you…" Finn admitted.

"I wish he did," Kurt murmured.

"What?"

"Are you crazy?"

"Honey, that fist would collapse your face!" Mercedes warned.

"Yes… I-I know…" He sighed. "But he's so angry. He… When he loses it, things are not going to be pretty…"

Hands curled into fists, Puck figured Hummel was right. And he knew just who he wanted that anger to open up on.

[Next: Part III.]