I really should've started this story sometime in the summer because now that it's coinciding with the series, I feel obligated to incorporate some of the elements of the new season into this. So it's still definitely AU because no way in hell am I getting rid of Sam, but you'll see whatever few snippets of the previous night's episode that I felt like shoving in here.

2
Hummel

He thought she was joking.

It's not that he thinks everything Brittany says should just be completely disregarded. Nah, chick had some good points. Like the whole skin-cancer-with-Finn's-ass-rays. But the whole being-nice-to-the-gleeks-to-catch-Berry's-attention?

Dude, that was bullshit.

He'd need a Broadway stage and a live, international broadcast to get Rachel Berry to pay attention to him. Okay, he managed to convince her to have that party and drag her to that Barbravention, but all those had some underlying connection to Finn in that she either felt compelled to do it to prove something to him or that she dwelled more on his words than anything.

For Puck to have another chance with her, he'd need to convince her that being with him would save Finn's life or something, and that was just a fucked-up scenario that he never ever wanted to think about again.

And even if he wanted to be a nice guy, no one would take him seriously! He could bake cookies for some dying faculty or staff member, and Figgins would shut down the whole school, thinking they were laced with anthrax or something! He already had a rep for special pastries thanks to the bake sale incident of 2009, so it's not like spiked foods are completely unthinkable as far as he's concerned.

Regardless, man. He's just not a nice person. Hasn't been for the last eleven fucking years, and he wasn't a little cherub before then either.

So why the fuck did he find himself listening to Kurt rant about his "fashion portfolio" for the weird fashion college he was trying to get into?

He'd planned on just taking a nap while everyone was waiting for Schue to come in.

Planned.

Berry (in another one of those fucking skirts that he wanted to pull off with his teeth—scratch that, one of those skirts that hid those fucking panties he wanted to pull off with his teeth) was near the baby grand, talking to Finn, who had this glazed-over expression. Santana and Brittany were sitting off to one side doing whatever it is chicks do. Sam was on his other side, yammering on about the rumors of some leaked script of the Avatar sequel. Quinn wasn't there because she was in her rebellious phase (and Puck can legit call it that because he fucking knows. He's like the expert, bitches). Lauren, of course, was out, but it's not like he didn't see that coming. It was a pretty slow descent after prom, but it hit the bottom soon enough. And he had totally run out of cash to supply her with her damn Cadbury eggs to keep her in glee anyway. Artie, Mike, Tina, Mercedes, and Kurt were having some sort of emergency meeting in the front row because they were all surrounding Kurt, who was wringing his little hands with his face all red.

"Blaine, of course, is a perfect model because, bias aside, he's just a dapper, handsome specimen of a man," Kurt rambled.

"So what's the problem?" Mercedes asked.

Kurt grimaced as he gestured frantically with his little lady-hands.

Those were some weird hands, yo. Puck didn't have anything against gays or anything, but the dude had some small fucking hands. It's weird.

"It's just that he's too dapper!" he finally blurted out frantically. "I can only put him in so many blazers before he kills himself! I need a high fashion model! Not even mentioning the fact that my ultimate goal is to get him out of that damned Warblers blazer!"

Puck grimaced. "Dude!"

"Not like that!" Kurt screeched, blushing bright red. "I'm trying to persuade him to come here to McKinley, but couple that nagging with me asking him to put on outfit after outfit? I don't want to give him more of a building excuse to break up with me!"

"What about Mike?" Tina offered helpfully. "Mike looks amazing in a suit."

"W-What? No, I have a-a—" Mike stuttered.

"Calm yourself, Michael," Kurt interrupted Mike's useless stutters. "I need someone more broad-shouldered."

"Hello? Use Finn," Artie pointed out dryly. "You two live together. Shouldn't he be your first choice?"

Kurt shot her a longsuffering look. "He's too tall! I'm creating high fashion pieces, not rags for Casual Male XL. I need someone tall and broad-shouldered with a model-esque air of brooding."

"Trouty-Mouth can do brooding," Santana called over from the other end of the risers. "Make him pucker those lips and you've got a legit pout."

"No, Santana, I'd rather the attention be on my designs, not Sam's heavily-endowed facial features," Kurt said a little disgustedly.

"Hey!" Sam protested, turning around to glare at Kurt and Satan.

"I said 'heavily-endowed!'" Kurt cried defensively. "I meant it in the nicest, most complimenting way possible!"

"I don't get why you're so worried about this, Hummel," Puck said, one eyebrow raised. "We've only been in school for one day."

"Noah! Don't chastise Kurt for wanting to get ahead and assembling his portfolio!"

"Here we go," Puck muttered under his breath, clenching his eyes shut in preparation for another ten-minute lecture about the "Perils of Procrastination."

She legit made him a list over the summer when she found out he wasn't applying to any colleges. Then she actually had the balls to sit him down on the couch and lecture him. He wanted to snatch the paper out of her hands and eat it. Actually, he wanted to eat something else a little more, but she would've chucked his X-Box at his head if he even said it out loud, so he wisely kept his trap shut.

Her narrowed eyes suddenly widened, and a smile burst across her face. And for a split-second, Puck actually managed to fool himself into thinking God slapped her with a vision of her future as Mrs. Rachel Puckerman and that she totally wanted to jump his bones right then and there—

Okay, no more large mocha frappes at this hour. Those little fuckers are delicious, but the sugar content? Damn.

"I know who you could use!" Berry blurted out, skipping toward the group.

Puck glared at the ceiling to keep from staring at her legs and remembering how they felt rubbing up against his thighs when she straddled him in that one glorious week sophomore year. "How about a damn mannequin? Jesus."

"He's tall, broad-shouldered, and he's an expert on the brooding look," she listed off. "Plus, you already know him!"

Wait...

Oh, shit—

"Noah can do it!"

"Shut the hell up, Berry! You don't get to volunteer people!" Puck blurted out.

"Hey!" Finn protested in a rare-but-still-half-assed attempt to stick up for his girlfriend.

Berry ignored him and continued to glare at Puck. "Would you like to abandon a fellow gleek in need, Noah? Are you really so heartless? Because I'm sure refusing your help could also be considered a form of bullying because—"

"Holy shit on crackers! I haven't thrown him in a dumpster in years—that's as non-bullying as I can get!"

"Just because you've simply stopped terrorizing students doesn't mean you've atoned for your sins," she insisted, eyes narrowing with his profane expressions.

"I apologized!"

"And now you need to supplement your apology with a grand gesture of friendship. You and Kurt are amicable enough in and outside glee, but you two have the potential to be more!"

"WHAT?!" Puck and Kurt chorused in perfect harmony.

"Oh, you know I don't mean it like that!" she snapped, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm saying that perhaps the bonds of our glee friendships can be further strengthened by outside interaction."

Puck took a second to process her words and how Brittany was shooting him a super-smug look before he glowered at her. "Okay, I'm not completely against us all hanging out and shit, but male bonding thing sure as hell doesn't involve clothes. Male bonding means beer, football, or chicks—or all three."

"I agree," Kurt pitched in, grimacing. "I will admit that Puck would make a perfect model for my designs, but I didn't bother entertaining the idea that he'd help so I didn't—"

"Then it's settled!" Berry announced, clapping her hands and grinning like an idiot. "What time should Noah come over, Kurt?"

And because he'd had a thing for her ever since their one single dance at prom last year (and because Brittany was staring at him with those big blue eyes and mouthing "Puckleberry"), he found himself standing at the Hudson-Hummel doorstep at exactly 5 PM that very afternoon.

Finn opened the door with a half-smirk that Puck legit wanted to carve off his face with a spoon. As if it wasn't gonna be fucking awkward enough that he was being used as a Ken doll, Finn was gonna be hanging around and watching.

"Hummel, these had better be some badass fucking outfits or you're gonna be upgraded from dumpsters to Port-A-Potties," Puck growled as he stomped down to the basement with Finn.

"If you're expecting metal spikes and an obscene amount of leather, you'll be sorely disappointed," Kurt said, appearing at the bottom of the steps, measuring tape slung around his neck like a scarf. "I'm not designing for KISS."

Puck rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. If I see even a fucking millimeter of lace, I'm gonna introduce you to the once-in-lifetime experience of a Port-A-Potty cocktail."

"Dude! Like in Jackass 3D?" Finn asked excitedly from the couch.

Kurt's thoroughly horrified expression meant he must've been forced to watch that movie because of Finn and Burt.

Puck looked at Kurt with a very evil—very Puck—smirk. "Exactly like in Jackass 3D."

Kurt tried to wipe the terror off his face, but it didn't work. "You wouldn't. You don't even have the resources."

Puck laughed as he walked to the table where a fucking mountain of fabric was sitting. "Trust me, Hummel. Whatever resources I don't have, I can get."

Kurt swallowed and glared at Finn, who was snickering. "If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me, Finn Hudson. You're personally responsible for my well-being."

Finn's snickering immediately morphed into a full grimace as he remembered the promise he'd made. Then he turned to Puck and gave him a shrug that said, Dude, no cocktail.

Puck scowled and lifted a purple jacket out of the pile, slowly turning to level a very dark glare at Kurt.

"I am not Prince. Ain't no fucking way."

The squeak of wheels suddenly alerted him to Artie's presence on the other side of the room. He was armed with an SLR camera and a devilish smile. "Way."

Puck spun around to give an even darker glare at Kurt again. "What the fuck is that, Hummel?!"

"It's a portfolio, Puck!" Kurt huffed. "I'm not going to drag you with me all the way to New York and have you strut your stuff on a runway! You're going to be my model, so we need a camera!"

Puck tossed the jacket back onto the pile and sighed up at the ceiling. "Please tell me you got weed or booze or something 'cause I ain't doin' this shit sober or lucid."

This is why he doesn't do nice things. Doing nice things gets him in situations where three boys have the means to blackmail him into fucking oblivion.

Fortunately, Kurt did not have a hint of lace because: "Lace on males isn't high fashion. Lace on males means Liberace. Or Johnny Weir. Oh, God, don't let me go on. I'm going to have nightmares."

Unfortunately, he had ruffles.

"Hummel, you little fucktard! I look like a goddamn flamenco dancer!"

He also had tunics.

"Where are those wigs from our Crazy in Love and Hair number? Slap one on me right now, and you've got Jewish Fabio. Fuck you."

Apparently accessories were part of the production too.

"Get this fucking thing off! I look like a gay-ass pirate! No, no, NO, I don't give a fuck if it's just a clip-on earring, jackass! I can't even fucking look at myself right now!"

None of them were good accessories either.

"I don't care what the fuck you call it, Hummel, that is a fucking purse and if you get that thing within a two-foot radius of me, I will shove it so far up your ass that you'll literally have the taste of leather in the back of your mouth for the rest of your life."

Puck had to admit that some of the shoes were pretty classy. But then the ones that weren't were just…good God.

"Those have heels. THOSE. HAVE. HEELS. GET. THEM. AWAY. FROM. ME. NOW."

And those were the just the dress rehearsals! They weren't even to the trial pictures yet, let alone the actual pictures! And the actual pictures nearly gave both Kurt and Puck a coronary.

"You said brooding, Hummel! I am fucking brooding! I don't even need to do any fucking acting right now! What you're trying to get me to do is pout like a little girl! If you wanted little pouting girls, you should've used Hudson!"

"Fuck you, Puck!"

"See what I mean?! Pouting little girl!"

Puck knew he was a potty mouth. He used the f-bomb at least ten times on a daily basis. But that night, for those torturous five hours, he spewed more obscenities than he'd ever used his entire life. The amount of curse words that bombarded that basement would've made even Steve-O's ears bleed.

Like, if his life was a comic book right then, the only thing in his little word or thought bubbles would be a shitload of weird symbols. He muttered them, he shouted them, he breathed them like air.

By the time the last picture was finally taken, Puck was out the door in one minute flat.

"NEVER FUCKING AGAIN, HUMMEL!" he roared as he pulled out of the driveway. "NEXT TIME, HIRE A LEGIT MODEL!"

Apparently, for all his talk, Hummel was kind of an idiot. Puck explicitly told him that "no one but your damn school should ever lay eyes on those pictures," but apparently, the gleeks were in a category all on their own. They were transcendent of all others.

They didn't fall under the category of no one. Puck would've had to specify "no one including the gleeks."

Hummel was going to die. And he was going to die because of a stroke, a broken neck, or drowning—any one of those options were plausible when tossed into the air in a poop-filled Port-A-Potty.

"Damn, Puck. You should think about going into the business," Santana said, smirking at the picture of the tunic outfit. "You'd be perfect in the lead role of Pirates XXX."

Puck grimaced. "And how do you know that, you porno?"

"'Cause it was lodged next to your full-sized poster of a naked—"

Okay, calm yourselves. He didn't actually stash porn movies and posters of naked girls, but he wasn't about to let that nonsense go on with Berry in the room.

"Go crawl back into the depths of hell, Satan," he cut her off.

She scoffed and held up the one of him holding the murse. "Babe, you're the one going to hell. This is, like, fashion Holocaust."

"Santana!" Berry gasped. "Not only is that an absolutely offensive—"

"Oh, yank that microphone stand outta your ass, Berry. It's just an expression."

"Satan, the only reason my fist isn't carving a hole in your face is 'cause—"

"I'm a girl, whatever, I know."

"No, it's 'cause we're on school property, and I'm not gonna get expelled because of your STD-packed ass."

"Oh, go screw yourself, Fuckerman. You've tapped my glorious ass so many times you've got your own feast of STD's!"

"OKAY! Now that we're all aware of whom none of us should ever engage in a sexual liaison with, let's go back to the matter of designs!" Kurt interjected, waving the pictures around like it was gonna fan away the previous conversation.

"In all seriousness, though, lady fingers, some of this is absolute shit," Santana said bluntly. She held up the picture of the outfit with the mauve-not-purple jacket. "You're, like, fashion Hitler, and Puckerman would be your Gestapo or SS or something."

"Santana, while it is impressive that you seem to be generally knowledgeable of history, I would please ask you to refrain from making these comparis—"

"Christ, RuPaul, is that microphone stand your actual spine? I still have my voodoo doll of you, you know. And I still got razors left in my hair. Don't make me use that shit again."

"Lopez, would you just shut the hell up?! Can you ever open your mouth without insulting someone?!"

"Only during sex, pendejo. And why do you care? Is this another one of your Jews-gotta-stick-together shit? 'Cause it's Finnocence's job to stand up for Man-Hands."

"Santana, stop calling her 'Man-Hands!'" Finn finally interjected.

"That doesn't count, Sasquatch," Santana drawled. "You shouldn't have to be prompted."

"BACK TO THE TASK AT HAND!" Kurt nearly shrieked, turning to the others. "Guys, a little help here?!"

"All right, Finn, Santana, we can argue about the proper timing of verbal attacks and counterattacks, but our primary focus right now should be Kurt," Berry said diplomatically.

Santana rolled her eyes and smacked her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the seat. "Whatever, gremlin. You want me to be nice? I'll be nice. Kurt? Your designs need some serious plastic surgery. Get to it."

"And we all know you're the expert on plastic surgery," Puck muttered under his breath.

"Don't act like you don't like them, Puck," Santana scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You—"

"That shit's not kosher, Satan—literally. If you had, like, breast cancer and you had to get your boobs out and now you want them back or something, sure. But who wants to suck on plastic? Not me."

"LET'S NOT START SOMETHING ELSE!" Kurt screeched in frustration.

Puck just cocked an eyebrow and leaned back in his seat as he impassively watched the gleeks try to convince Kurt that some—well, most—of the outfits really were shit. Even Schue, who was sitting at the piano trying to come up with a whole new year of crap assignments, was grimacing as Kurt described some bizarre, allegedly-high-fashion outfit.

The constant stream of yammering turned into a dull roar as Puck settled into a few seconds' nap before Schue could shut everyone up and launch into how this was gonna be their year. It had been their year for the past two years, and obviously that shit wasn't working. Puck was legit on the very edge of sleep when something poked him in the shoulder.

At first he thought it was either Sam or Mike trying to discreetly piss him off again, but when he slowly raised one eyelid, he saw big brown eyes and the most epic nose he'd ever seen in his life—the nose he almost lost last year because of some more dumbfuckery.

"What do you think, Noah?"

"I think I wanna sleep. Leave me alone, woman."

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and rolled her eyes. "I mean about Kurt's designs. You were the model. What did you think about the material and the fit? Would you actually wear some of his pieces?"

Puck opened his other eye and tried not to sigh. His whole "wait-'til-New-York-to-make-a-move-on-her" plan was really hard to stick to if she kept doing crap like that—crap like asking and caring about his opinion about things.

Instead of throwing her over his shoulder and shoving the lyrics of "Jar of Hearts" down her throat like he really wanted to, he just shrugged and closed his eyes again.

"Some of the shirts were a'ight. I'd look like a BAMF on the red carpet," he muttered.

He could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke again. "I'm sure you would, Noah. I saw some of the pictures. You looked very suave despite that atrocious mauve jacket."

"And that goddamn murse," he added darkly.

She huffed, and Puck smirked. "Noah, you really need to—"

He opened his eyes and turned to cut her off. "Tone down on the cussin'. Baby, I know. Calm yourself. Didn't we already have a conversation about my badass version of the English language?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor. "Well, it was more of an offhand comment than an actual conversation because you immediately launched into a lecture about my personal life, which—"

"Completely flew over your head, by the way."

Well, this conversation took a very wrong turn.

Her expression fell and she glanced at Finn, who was full-on grimacing at whatever Kurt was saying while also staring at the purple pianos that were rolling into the classroom.

"Noah—"

"Forget it."

"No, we're not forgetting anything. You're the one who brought—"

"And now I'm the one dropping it."

"Well, frankly, it's too late for that. We need to—"

"Not gonna talk about it, Berry."

"Yes, we—"

"No."

"You don't have the right—"

"First Amendment. Yes, I do. Now shut up."

"You can't tell me—"

"Oh, look at that! Just did. Shut it."

"No—"

"Shut."

"You need to stop—"

"Gnome."

"Noah—"

"Drop it."

"No, we—"

"Do I need to put my hand over your mouth again?"

"That is so unsani—"

"What are you? In second grade? Jesus, Berry, it's not like I wash my hands in amoeba and bacteria."

"STOP INTERRUPTING ME!" she finally shrieked in fury.

The conversation in the room came to an abrupt halt as everyone turned to stare at her. She and Puck had been speaking in low tones, and the others had been pretty engrossed in Kurt's explanation that he was designing for both Lady Gaga and her alter ego, Joe Calderone (which explained so much, by the way), that they didn't even realize Berry and Puck were talking. Even the guys rolling in the three funky-ass-colored pianos stopped and stared.

Except for Brittany, of course, who was totally planning on going home and reporting all of the day's Puckleberry moments to Lord Tubbington. He wasn't a complete fan just yet because of his lingering feelings for Puck, but after a very thorough analysis of the potential in the relationship, Brittany was beginning to win him over. After all, she'd learned how to be a hopeless romantic from him.

Berry's face was red and her eyes were narrowed, and Puck totally had a mini-daydream where she was red and her eyes were narrowed—but for all the right reasons.

"I don't understand why you constantly insist on never letting me get a word in! It's rude and—"

"It's the only way to keep you from going on and on, midget," he said calmly, still not breaking out of his relaxed position and refusing to meet the eyes of any of the gleeks, who were now enraptured by his and Berry's little argument. "You gotta be stopped early on before your rambling snowballs and we'll be stuck here for the next five years."

She glared at him. "Well, how would you feel if—"

"I was constantly interrupted? I wouldn't give a shit. Less energy for me to waste and more to spend on other things," he said, smirking lewdly. "I distinctly remember talking about this before too, Berry, damn. You forget everything I say?"

"Just because I bring things up again doesn't mean that I forgot—"

"Whatever, Rach. I get it. You remember everything Finn says, so you don't have enough space in your brain to remember all the Broadway songs ever composed and anything anyone else says. I totally get it."

Only he didn't say that. Because as much fun as it would be to play shit-disturber of the group, he didn't feel like getting in another fight with his sort-of-not-really-anymore-best-friend.

So instead, he shrugged, frowned, and then glared at the group staring at them with various degrees of interest.

"What'chu boneheads starin' at?!" he demanded.

"If Jews got in an epic fight, would that count as World War Three?" Finn asked no one in particular.

And the conversation moved on. Then as Schue got up to…talk about something involving pianos, recruiting, and "go-going" somewhere, Puck realized a couple of things.

1: He was hella hungry, so he'd have to either stop by Berry's house to hijack some of the kugel Hiram Berry offered him at Temple the other day (a. k. a. cockblock Finn in case he and Berry were getting it on her room) or hit up the Hudson-Hummels' for some of those awesome pizza rolls (a. k. a. cockblock Finn in case he and Berry were getting it on in his room).

2: This whole be-nice-so-Berry-would-start-seeing-him-in-a-new-light would only work if Finn wasn't in the picture so Puck was just shit out of luck until Finn decided that he still had too many feelings for Quinn. He was now officially just doing this shit for the gleeks and not because Brittany gave him those sad puppy-dog eyes when people started arguing.

3: He needed to grab that creepy-ass Jabbawockeez mask out of his dresser and find those jacked-up sleeping pills that made him start hallucinating in the middle of the night.

Something soft and warm brushed against Kurt's face as he slept. His subconscious immediately jumped to the conclusion that Blaine was stroking his cheek, and a smile curled at the corners of Kurt's mouth. His conclusion was further supported by the deep, throaty chuckle that followed the involuntary smile.

And then as he slowly brought himself to the world of the conscious, Kurt remembered that it was, indeed, the middle of the night, and if Blaine was there, that meant the dapper, blazer-wearing Dalton Warbler was either showing his true colors as a closeted psychotic stalker or was a vampire.

Now that errant thought was so out of left field that Kurt clamped his eyes shut and then snapped them open quickly. That was such a bad idea.

That was such a bad idea because it meant he opened his eyes to the stark reality that there was a white-masked man dressed in a black suit and red tie leaning over his bed and brushing his face with the strap of the satchel he'd had Puck use during the photo shoot.

Either he was having a dream where he was trapped in the modern-day, gay-version of The Phantom of the Opera or he was about to be killed.

No matter what it was, there was only one logical thing to do: scream bloody murder.

Only he couldn't seem to open his mouth because there was duct tape wrapped around his head and covered with the a soft, teal scarf that he distinctly remembered was the partner to a particular midnight blue blazer.

This was either a really terrible, traumatizing nightmare that he really needed to wake up from, like, two seconds ago or he really was about to die.

So Kurt did the next logical thing he could think of: he tried to pinch himself.

And that actually brought on a wave of sharp, stinging tears because it seems that his wrists and ankles were restrained to each bedpost by various scarves in his line.

The Serial Killer of the Opera clicked his tongue and wagged a black-leather-gloved finger at him. Backing away from the bed, he crossed the room and dropped a metal box on the hardwood floor and then set a metal trash can on top of it. The man dangled the satchel over the trash can and then dropped it with a soft thud. Then he reached over to a nearby chair, where a pile of clothes were already assembled, and picked up a bright red-orange silk shirt with ruffles along the collar to toss it into the trash as well. This continued for a few minutes—the man lifted an article of clothing, some of which happened to be Kurt's absolute favorites, and dropped them into the waste basket until the chair was empty and the basket was full.

The man leaned over the bed again and reached behind Kurt's ear, magically producing a match. Kurt's eyes widened past its limits as he watched the man walk back toward the waste basket, grabbing a small container of lighter fluid and pouring it onto the clothes.

Okay, so it wasn't death by garroting, strangulation, or physical abuse. Kurt was going to be cooked with his clothes. How dramatic. Rachel would be on the edge of her seat.

And as the man struck the match against the side of his mask, Kurt just sent up a prayer to whatever god decided to pay attention—Buddha, Kali, Yaweh, Odin, Ra, Baal—and to send some message to the gleeks to either come in the nick of time and rescue him or at least remember that he wanted Babs to be sung at his funeral.

The man whistled lowly, trying to make Kurt open his eyes again. Kurt obliged and opened one eye just a tiny crack to see that the waste basket was in flames, the red orange glow flickering against the shiny, smooth surface of the mask.

And then Kurt passed out.

Kurt didn't drop the news until after that psychotic chick with the word vomit left, but Puck kinda wished he'd waited until glee was actually, legitimately over because the reaction was just…Jesus.

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"

Okay, when Mercedes hits high notes during a song, it's fucking epic. But when she hits high notes in a normal conversation, it's like the sound equivalent of shoving an ice pick into your ear. And, shit, Puck's brain had already been melted by that Sugar Motta chick a few minutes ago—he didn't need any more stress on his eardrums.

"I'm scarred for life," Kurt rambled, his head in his hands. "I can never watch The Phantom of the Opera nor listen to any song from it without either having a mild stroke or a panic attack."

"Lady Fingers, you were dreaming," Santana said drolly from the top of the riser. "No one in their right mind would ever waste the time and lighter fluid to torch your shit let alone dress up to do it."

"Then why are some of my pieces missing?" Kurt demanded shrilly. "Everything he burned is gone, but there's no trace of him in my room. There's no smell of smoke or any ashes—"

"It's because you were dreaming," Santana huffed exasperatedly, throwing her hands up into the air. "And you just probably lost all that shit you're missing. It's like you're basically the one convincing yourself. I'm surrounded by stupid."

She's surrounded by stupid? Because no one even suspected the juvenile delinquent with pyromaniac tendencies and badass ninja skills who fucking loathed the clothes that were just appropriately torched?

And, okay, so he wore a suit and a mask? Berry's theatricality was totally rubbing off, but he looked fucking awesome. And the expression on Kurt's face? FUCKING EPIC.

Even Brittany looked pretty pleased since she kept nodding at Puck approvingly. Of course the alleged "ditz" would be the one to realize he was the one who was trying to scare the bejesus outta Hummel.

These people…

"But there's no way I could have misplaced—"

"Jesus! Maybe you're sleepwalking!"

"Santana, you're not helping," Berry said decisively before turning to Kurt. "Kurt, maybe it's your subconscious telling you that your line can do without some particular items. Various studies have shown a direct correlation between dreams—in particular, nightmares—and how they have an underlying meaning to something you may be experiencing during your waking hours. In this case, perhaps your subconscious is suggesting that your line should follow a direction that appeals to a more general population than one specific, twisted-but-albeit-genius high-profile individual. I'm sure that colleges are looking for a well-rounded designer who can appeal to not just the avant-garde but also to the fashion plebeian."

Kurt's eyebrow rose as he thought about Berry's words, and as soon as a placated (see?! He didn't lose all those big words over the summer. He retained some shit!) expression settled on the kid's face, Puck smirked.

He would be nice.

But he'd be nice on his own terms.

Okay, initially, there were only three people on the face of the earth that I would fangirl over: Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki, and Misha Collins of Supernatural, but as of September 20, 2011, at around 8PM, that list was upped to four people to include one Darren Criss—not just because he's part Filipino either. Because even if that outfit was too tight and the fact that he wore a freaking BOW TIE with a polo shirt, I love him. He rocked that outfit, he rocked the Carlton Banks song, and even if he can't do the Carlton Banks dance to the caliber of the actual Carlton Banks himself, I nearly passed out during his performance because I was just flipping out so much.

And who else thinks Lea Michele sounded super-different during The Witch is Dead? I quite liked it. Very different from her normal, high-pitched renditions of songs.

BTW, you guys are fudgin' awesome, you know that? The obscene amount of alerts I got of people following and favorite-ing this was just… It literally made me choke on my Hot Pocket when I saw all the alerts on my email. I hope I'm keeping you guys happy and willing to keep following with this chapter. Leave a review with your favorite lines or scenes! :D Those legit bring joy to my soul!