Finn Hudson

"I'm sick and tired of people pushing me to be something I'm not."

"Your lashing out at me is fantastically compelling and inappropriate." Finn and Kurt

We were talking about football. It's a big deal down in Texas – even high school football. Especially high school football. Somehow, Puck, Artie, you, and I had been nominated by the others to get pizza. Four pizzas, four people. It all worked out.

You hadn't wanted to come. The only guy you talked to, really talked to, was Artie, and everyone talked to him. When Puck was in one of his snarky moods, he'd tease you about having a crush on me, and you'd blush, so I guess on some level that must be true. But you were never open or pushy about it, ever, not even when we were rehearsing the ballads, and I was wrapped up with Quinn. You never made me feel uncomfortable.

I thought you were brave. I still think you're brave. I just thought you should know that.

It wasn't the best street. Bars, and, therefore, drunks, hung out on both sides. Puck ended up pushing Artie after "crip" was hurled one too many times, and he managed to look menacing enough for the taunts to stop. You weren't paying attention to them. I remember thinking that you might have had too much practice ignoring those types of insults.

That's when we started talking about football. Loudly. Maybe Puck thought that if those burly men knew were tough football guys they'd lay off. You rolled your eyes when words like Playoffs and Super Bowl were tossed around. I guess that stint on the football team hadn't affected your opinion on that matter.

"This is ridiculous." You muttered, then turned around to face me, palm out. "It doesn't really take four guys to get pizza. Give me the money." You snapped your fingers and shifted your weight impatiently as I fumbled the money, still locked in conversation with Puck.

I didn't say that someone should go with you, if only so you wouldn't have to carry four pies alone. I didn't consider that you looked totally out of place in this rough, old town. I didn't even say goodbye, and soon enough you were gone.

We kept walking, slower than before, no longer in a hurry to get to the pizza parlor, content with the fact that you would be back soon enough, meeting us halfway, pizzas stacked high. We'd end up putting all four on Artie and talk about Glee on the way back, an apology of sorts for you getting the pies alone.

When we reached the restaurant, Puck shouldered open the door, leaving me to wheel Artie in. We were still laughing, talking, taking up the whole parlor with our size, our confidence. Puck glanced around, his eyebrows creeping towards his hairline. "Where's the fag?" The insult was different on his tongue, something new entirely, too much worry and compassion behind it.

"Maybe he went back a different way?" Artie suggested uncertainly.

I was already at the counter. "Did a guy get four pizzas from here?" At least that would confirm he'd gotten here, and not found himself lost in the unfamiliar streets.

The woman behind the counter nodded absently, finishing a crossword puzzle. "He left fifteen minutes ago. Slow day. The order didn't take long."

"How'd we miss him?" Puck muttered, already backing out of the pizza place.

There was no football talk this time. We went through the streets, peering in shops, though Artie repeated that you wouldn't have gone in any of them. He was right – flannel and jeans weren't your style.

Within ten minutes a slow, sick, slimy feeling had begun to grow in the pit of my stomach. We'd get back to the theater soon enough and what would we tell Mr. Shue? The girls?

Lucky for us, for you, Artie was looking at the ground, was able to see the two tiny blood drops, beginning to dry, pointing towards an abandoned side street. "Guys…" His voice wavered and Puck and I followed his gaze.

You probably have that place burned into your mind. On one side a drug store, the other an apartment building. This alley was narrow, contained mostly garbage cans and stray cats and sand.

I have always been sorry for throwing you into trashcans. I didn't think it was funny, and eventually I stopped, though the rest of the team didn't. Maybe they didn't see that you flinched every time they laughed at you, or how your eyes shuttered at their insults, thrown around so carelessly, burning you every time they registered.

It was Puck who opened the lid to the dumpster, though I don't think he was expecting to find anything under it. You know how you'll be looking for something, like the remote, and check under the same pillow four times, even though you know that it won't be there? That's how he was like, lifting that lid. He barely looked inside of it.

The moan I heard from him I'd only heard once before, on the football field. Puck hits who he's supposed to hit, doesn't even recognize size, placement. When he slammed, headfirst, into the unyielding side of a linebacker twice the size of him, he'd crumpled to the ground. From my position, ten yards away, ball in hand, game on the line, I'd heard that groan, that moan, that last exclamation before he succumbed to unconsciousness.

I had my back turned this time, too. We'd left Artie on the street and to run into the alley. I went all the way to the back, turning from side to side, looking for your jacket, your hair, knowing that, if we found you here, your condition would not be good.

When I heard that moan, I turned around. When Artie heard that moan, he wheeled into the alley, face white. You didn't move, didn't make a noise, when Puck removed you from that dumpster.

A/N: Look, I'm sorry if we're stereotyping the South. It was a means to an end. So to all those people from Texas (or El Paso) we're not trying to judge you, or anything. The South was just there, and this is fiction after all.

So, anyways, please review.