(Author's note: holy shit on a stick, people, you're amazing! I had no idea y'all were going to love this pairing so much. I honestly had no idea I was, either, but Dave is nibbling away at me like minnows to write more, more, more. Stick around. -amy)

Dave didn't know what the day-after rules were about hooking up with guys. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to let him call, or call him, or leave him alone, or what - but Puck solved that by showing up at the Lapeer's himself, in between lap numbers thirteen and fourteen. One minute the pool deck was empty, and the next, Puck was sitting on the edge, his feet dangling in the water. He wasn't wearing a shirt today, and his cutoffs were briefer than ever. So was his smirk.

"Don't let me interrupt," Puck said when Dave paused in the middle of the pool.

"Can I help you?" Dave said, out of breath. He was trying for caustic, but he thought it might be edging more toward desperate.

"Work first," said Puck, pointing at Dave. Then he laid a slow hand on his bare chest, like he was saying the words oh, my. "Then..."

"... Then?" Dave redirected his stare away from that hand, and how embarrassingly clearly he remembered what it felt like to touch Puck, just like that. The touch had reverberated through his dreams all night. He hadn't been able to sleep much, hopped up on adrenaline, but the times he'd been able to get a solid stretch with his eyes closed, Puck had been there on the back of his eyelids, all of the things they'd done, and the things they'd yet to do. He didn't know how many of them Puck wanted to do.

"Then... we can play," Puck said, and the word play was long and drawn out, with a tone that left nothing to the imagination. Puck glanced at the pool deck, then back to Dave, his gaze positively fucking demure, leaning back on his other arm, feet kicking in the water. But - was he imagining a hesitation, an uncertainty in Puck's pose? Dave wasn't sure.

Dave measured out what he deemed to be an appropriate amount of enthusiasm, not too little, not too much, and nodded. "Sounds good." But inside, where no one could see, where no one would see, there was all kinds of shit going on, waltzes and cha-chas and Snoopy dances and everything, because god.

Dave didn't know what he would have done if Puck had wanted to pretend it hadn't happened - or, worse, if he'd been mad about it, if he had pulled out some of the words Dave had in his own arsenal for guys who did stuff like this. Faggot, for example, which rang through his brain with some frequency after fantasies like the ones he'd had last night. But this time, he hadn't just imagined them; he'd actually done those things, done lots of faggot things, and they'd been... well, just about the hottest anythings of his life.

And it was amazing how comforting that was, because it was really the first confirmation, yes or no, about the idea he'd never spoken out loud, but that Kurt had guessed, and Santana... and now Puck. That's pretty gay, man. Now he was certain, as certain as he was that his middle name was Paul, that he wanted to do those things again, and exactly what they meant about him.

"Karofsky," Puck said, like a question, and Dave realized he was approaching Puck at the pool's edge. Puck looked more wary now. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking - " Dave broke off with a start, because he'd actually been about to share his thoughts with Puck, the things he was really thinking. As though being honest mattered, when you were a... what had Puck called it? A summer thing. He tried again. "I was thinking... lunch? After I'm done here. I've got another two sets of twelve."

Puck's smirk spread into a smile, a genuine one, and Dave couldn't help it, he smiled back. They stood there, smiling, for maybe one or two seconds too long. Dave was close enough now to see the sun glinting in Puck's green-brown eyes. They were more green today.

It felt like they were finding a delicate balance, neither wanting to give away too much, not wanting to be the one to need anything from the other person. But when he was close enough for Puck to reach out and touch him, Puck did, just leaned forward and hooked one hand behind Dave's neck, pulling him in close against the edge of the pool, between his legs, and kissed him as though there was no question about what he wanted. His mouth tasted like licorice.

"Maybe lunch can wait," Puck murmured, and kissed him again.

Dave shivered in the full sun of noon, opening himself up to the sensations of Puck's warm, expressive lips on his. Puck chuckled, low and round and full.

"I've got an hour before my next appointment." He gave Dave a little push back into the pool, then hopped up and walked back toward the house. "You swim; I'll see what I can put together to eat."

Dave watched him walk away, the smile feeling like a permanent fixture on his face; no matter how much he tried to straighten his lips, they stayed curved, bending up at the corners. Nothing straight about it, he thought, eyes on Puck's round ass, and let out a strangled little laugh.

The last two sets of twelve laps felt interminable, but finally he reached the end. His mind was occupied with possible scenarios about what might happen when they reached then, and he was more than a little turned on by some of them. Usually he swam his laps in a leisurely way, but today he'd driven himself through from start to finish, not wanting to waste any time. He was gasping for breath as he drew up on the edge of the pool, but even amid his exhaustion, parts of him were wide awake and ready to go.

Across the patio, he caught glimpses of Puck moving around in the house, setting things out on the table in the dining room. It all felt absurdly domestic to Dave. Hi, honey, I'm home. What's for dinner? Then Puck moved into the sliding glass doorway, standing with his arms up on the frame, making a perfect portrait of himself. Dave leaned in breathlessly, watching Puck, and knowing Puck knew it. He was putting on a show for Dave - look at me, aren't I fucking hot? Dave felt his hard cock throb in response, because, yeah, he was.

Then, not taking his eyes away from Dave, watching him watching, Puck moved his hands to the zipper of his cutoffs. Dave froze, caught by understanding: oh, God, he wasn't -? Was he?

He was. And it was clear, seconds later, what else Puck wasn't wearing, under his cutoffs. He could have shimmied them off quickly, but Puck didn't do that; he made it last, made it an experience, every movement a snapshot in the scrapbook of Dave's pornographic fantasies. Puck turned to face the table, his back to Dave, as he slid the cutoffs over his bare ass. Dave whimpered, too quietly for Puck to hear, but he thought Puck might know exactly the response he was eliciting. It was excruciating. Dave's hands were on the pool deck, and he thought it would be a little too obvious for him to slide one of them back under the water, so he had to settle for a little friction against the slick tile wall of the pool.

Puck eased his hands down the back of his legs and worked the cutoffs off, inch by inch, and when they dropped to his ankles, he turned back to Dave with a knowing grin. He posed, one hand behind his head, arm flexing, every glorious naked inch of him waiting to be admired and - Dave swallowed - touched.

And Puck's other hand was touching, skimming along his stomach to lightly grasp his own half-hard cock. With each movement, Dave groaned to himself, rocking against the pool wall, feeling lightheaded. There was no way he could be standing here, twenty feet from Noah Puckerman, watching him jack off - for him, for Dave.

He felt a crashing wave of lust, and rolling right in on the heels of that was an equally crippling wave of shame. He turned away, his face burning, and he struggled to regain control. By the time he looked up again, the doorway was empty.

What he'd felt wasn't rational, he knew - inasmuch as any of this was fucking rational. Because who gets to watch random hot guys performing strip teases and masturbating in doorways by the pool? Not Dave Karofsky, that was for sure. Not him. And no matter how much he liked it, no matter how much he wanted it, there was no way he deserved it. Fat boys don't get the girl. Or the guy. Right?

Dave slogged over to the shallow end, his heart rate racing though his workout was long over. He felt vaguely sick, which sometimes happened at the end of a vigorous workout, but he didn't think it was about that. He didn't exactly know what it was about. He just knew he needed to get out of there.

Before he could get up the courage to climb out of the pool, Puck was suddenly there, sliding into the water. He and Dave circled one another. Puck looked the way Dave felt: suspicious, frustrated, and a little pissed. But his voice was soft, and he didn't approach Dave as he spoke.

"You're the one who's gay, man. I thought I was supposed to be the one freaking out."

Dave winced a little at the word, but he didn't deny it. There's been enough fucking denial. "Are you freaking out?" he wanted to know.

"No," Puck said. "I'm cool. But you definitely are." He paused, watching Dave. Then he strode slowly through the water toward him, and Dave only had about two seconds to consider bolting before Puck was in his face.

"Do you want this?" Puck said, fierce and brash and holy shit, completely naked, right there in front of him. Dave stumbled backward, glad for the water to catch him, and Puck just followed him, grabbing Dave around the waist and pulling him in - and they let out tandem sounds of surprise and appreciation as their cocks collided. Dave's decision-making capability dropped to nearly zero, and he found his arms wrapped around Puck's strong back and his tongue down Puck's throat before he could stop himself. The water on Puck's skin made him slick and slippery, and Dave shivered as Puck nudged Dave with his bare hips.

"Okay," Puck said when the kiss broke, leaning his head on Dave's, his breath a little uneven. "I think you answered that question. So - what's the problem?"

Dave had no good answer for that, so he just shook his head. Puck gave an uncomfortable laugh. "Well, something turned you off. Maybe I'm not your type? I know I'm not the tallest –"

"What?" Dave blurted, stepping back from Puck in shock. "You – no. It's not – it's not you." He breathed out, warding away the voice in his head. Loser. You don't deserve this. Serves you right for being a fucking faggot. "It's definitely not you," he repeated.

"O-kay," Puck said, drawing it out, one eyebrow raised. "That's good, then." He reached out one golden hand and placed it on Dave's white chest. The contrast was sickening, and Dave closed his eyes, trying to ignore his hateful, destructive internal voice and just focus on Puck's hand, the feeling of his fingers on Dave's skin.

At last Puck let go, sighing quietly. "Forget it. Let's go eat some lunch. I'm warning you, though, I used pretty much everything they had in the fucking house. You're going to have to go shopping before tomorrow." He dropped his hand and didn't wait for Dave to follow him. Dave didn't; he stayed in the water, eyes riveted on Puck's bare ass as he stalked up the patio and through the glass doors, not bothering with a towel. Only after Puck had disappeared from view did Dave emerge from the water, pulling on his shirt as soon as he was reasonably dry.

He eyed the back gate, considering if a walk around the block might give Puck enough time to decide that this wasn't worth it and go home. But – that's stupid. You're hungry and Puck fucking made you lunch. You might as well eat it. So Dave slipped in past the kitchen and up the stairs to the guest room, getting out of his wet clothes and putting on a pair of shorts. He steadfastly didn't think about the size on the tag of his shorts, or ponder the difference between that number and the number he guessed he'd find on the tag of Puck's cutoffs.

You're a fucking catch, he told himself, slowly buttoning up his shirt. Prom king. Hockey stud. Girls dig you. Even closet dyke Santana said you were worth her time. This – summer thing – it's not worth stressing over. Maybe if he said it enough times, he might convince himself.

When Dave came back downstairs, Puck had found a shirt and put the cutoffs back on. The lunch included pickles, which Dave didn't care for, and hard boiled eggs, which Dave did, and what looked like the last of the roast beef and sliced swiss cheese on rye. He and Puck reached for it at the same time, and Dave felt something twist in his gut when Puck pulled away before he could touch Dave's hand.

Dave grabbed the sandwich and ripped it in half, holding out one piece, almost like a challenge, as he bit a piece from the other. Puck's lips twitched as he regarded the sandwich, but at last he took it.

"You're kind of fucked up, Karofsky," Puck said, and Dave glowered at him, but didn't respond. What was he going to say? Yeah, I know? More work than you bargained for in your summer thing?

"What's your point?" he said at last.

Puck studiously considered the veggies and selected a carrot. "I'm just wondering, you know, if you want to talk about it?"

Dave paused, watching Puck's face warily. "Talk - about what?"

Puck sighed. "Dude. It's not like we've ever been friends. But it's pretty clear you're dealing with… something." He peered at Dave over the carrot. "Like, if Finn had something he was upset about, he'd, you know, tell me. And I'd listen, maybe offer some advice."

Dave thought about Azimio doing something similar. He couldn't see it. If he'd had a freak-out like this, Z would have distracted him, fed him some dirty jokes, and called him friendly names. What Puck was talking about sounded like what Santana had said to him before they began their campaign for prom. Is this what girls do for their friends? Is this what –

"Uh," Dave said suddenly, with a stab of unease. "So, you… and Finn?"

Puck blinked. "You mean – me, and Finn…?" He made the same back-and-forth gesture he'd made when he was asking the question yesterday What is this? Dave nodded, dreading the answer, but Puck grinned and shook his head. "Fuck, no. Finn and me, we've known each other all our lives. That would just be - too much like doing my sister."

"Totally," Dave agreed, and the relief was dizzying. There was no way he could compete with 6'3" beanpole Finn. Puck devoured the rest of the carrots and started in on the pickles before speaking again.

"You're not dating anybody." Puck watched Dave shake his head, and he wrinkled his brow. "What's up with that, dude?"

"Santana –" Dave started, but Puck made a derisive noise.

"Please. Let me try this again. You aren't dating anybody with the appropriate plumbing." Puck's gaze didn't waver from Dave as he shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair. Apparently the Lapeers have no need for padding under their butts.

"My dad's really religious," Dave said, looking fixedly at the bunch of grapes. He picked one off the bunch and chewed it. "He – wouldn't be happy if I – brought home a guy."

"I don't think my mom even knows about half the girls I date," Puck said. He took a grape and bit it in half. "You don't think you could get away with it?"

"I think it would get back to him," Dave said. "He's pretty hands-on when it comes to parenting."

Puck looked surprised. "He hits you?"

Dave laughed. "No way. He's really anti-violence. Hands-on, like, he's always asking what I'm up to, if I did all my homework, what kind of clubs I'm doing, that sort of thing. It matters to him that I'm… involved. Says it'll make a difference when I'm applying for college." The grapes were half gone. He broke off a little bunch and pushed the rest of the bowl at Puck.

"You've got good grades," Puck said. It wasn't a question. Dave nodded.

"I'm taking Calc II at Rhodes State during seventh hour. If I can get an A in that, I have a chance at valedictorian."

"Holy shit," Puck said, mildly. He looked impressed, which gave Dave an uncomfortably warm feeling in his stomach. "You're fucking kidding me."

Dave shrugged. "I've always been good at school."

Puck stared at the bowl of grapes. "Yeah, well… I always said school is for suckers, but I think it was because it was just too hard. I didn't want to admit I couldn't do it."

"Couldn't do what?"

"Any of it," Puck said. He started to shred the stems of the grapes between his fingers. "Reading, I'm not so good at. Math is fucking impossible. Social studies puts me to sleep. Science, I guess it's kind of interesting, but there's too much math, and stuff to memorize. I can't remember jack." He sighed, scattering the grape stems across the table. "Fuck it. It doesn't matter anyway."

Dave decided this was not the time to bring up the irony of their conversation coinciding with eating sour grapes. "Well… what do you like about school?"

"Football. Glee." He grinned at Dave. "I don't know. Lunch?"

Dave shook his head, grinning back. "Dork. What else?"

"I kind of like writing," Puck admitted. "I took creative writing cause I heard it was an easy A. I just ended up writing song lyrics for most of it, but I fooled Mr. Grayson into thinking it was poetry."

"Song lyrics? Like, you write music?" It was Dave's turn to be impressed. "You play guitar, right?"

"Yeah. It's pretty much the only thing I'm good at."

Dave felt his ears burning, and even though he wasn't hungry, he took a couple cubes of cheese so he would have an excuse not to say what was running through his head. Then he heard Puck's snort of laughter, and he looked up to see him regarding him with mock outrage. "Come on, Karofsky; you can't find a better straight line than that. I'll give it again, but only because I'm so nice. 'Yeah; it's pretty much the only thing I'm good at.'"

Now Dave was sure he was beet red, but his smile was wide enough to hurt his cheeks. "Uh. I can think of at least one other thing?"

"Thank you," Puck acknowledged, with a little bow. "Much better. And don't tell me you're talking about football, 'cause you'll hurt my little fucking girl feelings." He pushed his chair out and took two plates from the table. "Come on. Help me put this shit away. I've got about ten more minutes before my next appointment."

As soon as the last of the food was in the fridge, Puck took Dave's shoulders in his hands and shoved him up against the wall next to the stove. "So, I still don't know what the fuck was going on in the pool," he said, almost conversationally, as he ran his hand down Dave's middle and right to his crotch, palming his cock, which was definitely standing up and taking notice. "But if we're going to do this thing, we should get this crystal clear. You think I'm hot?"

"God," Dave gasped, embarrassment trumped by stampeding lust. "Yes. You're fucking hot."

"Good," Puck said with satisfaction. "Well, I think you're pretty fucking hot too. So can we just forget the plumbing issue? 'Cause I'm not so much interested in being your therapist."

"Yeah, I can do that," Dave choked out, but even through the blistering kiss Puck gave him, Dave's mind was wailing Why? How? What kind of a stupid idiot are you, fucking Noah Puckerman, that you could think I'm hot?

"All right." Now both Puck's hands were working at Dave's zipper. His smile was calm, but his eyes burned with heat. "Any requests? Or is this dealer's choice?"

Sweet Jesus; I get to pick? Dave's overloaded brain registered, but his mouth opened on no words, because there was no fucking way he could say to Puck what he wanted him to do. Or what he wanted to do to him. Puck hummed amusement as he tugged Dave's shorts down and directed him to sit in one of the kitchen chairs.

"God, I'm going to be fucking insufferable if you keep letting me drive." Puck knelt between Dave's legs and grinned at his expression. Dave imagined he looked a little shell-shocked.

"You – like – this?" Dave asked, glancing the short distance between Puck's face and his very own cock, which had never been quite so well-treated as it had been this week.

"What – sucking cock? Yeah, I do," Puck said simply. "I don't do stuff I don't like. But that wasn't what I had in mind." He lifted Dave's leg with no effort and propped his foot on the edge of the table. "This feels better if you're jacking off while I'm doing it."

Doing what-? was all he had time to think before Puck short-circuited his brain with his tongue. And then he was making noise, way more noise than he'd ever made while making out with anyone, along with repeated pleas to Jesus and God, but he really had no idea what he was praying for them to do because he couldn't imagine wanting to do anything other than what Puck was doing, right then, for the rest of his fucking life.

Puck came up for air long enough to patiently put Dave's hand on his own cock, and murmur the words, "Yeah, go on – that's fucking hot, man," before replacing his tongue between Dave's legs. Dave didn't want to think about the specific act because a) it kind of grossed him out and b) he thought, if the words describing it crossed his mind, he might come right away, and he definitely wanted this to last. But Puck was right, it did feel better like this, and god, Puck watching him, that was way hotter than he'd ever expected, so chances were pretty fucking good that this was going to be over soon.

Dave glanced down to see Puck's mohawk bobbing rhythmically, and the wet, firm pressure from his tongue – "Puck," he said, desperately, "Puck."

Puck's answering groan made Dave's cock twitch, and Puck made eye contact with him. Dave reveled in the dark, blown pupils and the flush on his cheeks. "God," he said, his breath coming hard, "say my name again."

Dave realized, with a start, Puck had his cock out and was working it, and the first amazed thought he had was, Hey, I wanted to do that, and the second thought was, God, you're absolutely beautiful. But he couldn't say either one of those things, so he just opened his mouth and spoke the name that came to his lips: "Noah."

Puck's eyes flew open, and his shock was so great that Dave almost apologized, but then Puck came with a thrust and a shout, and that tipped Dave over the edge. Dave immediately added simultaneous orgasm to the really-hot-things list.

Puck's head rested on Dave's thigh, his face cast down. Dave reached down and put his hand on Puck's neck, lightly, and Puck's hand came up with a nearly painful grip and held it.

"Nobody calls me that," Puck said, low and intense.

"I – I don't know why I did," Dave replied, feeling abashed.

"Well," Puck said, "I liked it." He looked up then, and Dave almost looked away, because there were tears in his eyes, and Dave didn't know if Puck might think that was too intimate, but then he rolled his eyes at himself, because jeez, Puck's tongue had just been in his ass, and he couldn't think of anything more intimate than that.

"Okay," said Dave. "I guess – I guess you'd better call me Dave, then."

Puck rocked back on his heels, wiping at his eyes with his clean hand, and laughed shakily. "Huh."

Dave leaned over and did what he wanted to do, which was kiss Puck, and said what he was thinking, which was, "That was unbelievably hot, man."

"Hey, I told you I was good, didn't I?" Puck said, and he sounded a little more like his usual cocky self. "Trust me. We're only getting started."