Thanks to TheLongFallOfProse for Betareading this chapter - as per usual :)
Thursday
"Hummel!"
'Hummel' froze; he recognised the voice and tone from an unforgettable series of painful crushing, deliciously laced with the stench of garbage. He grabbed his bag strap, squeezing with paling knuckles and pulling it towards him in search of some non-existent protection and started walking again; this time, his steps were brisk and with more than a hint of determination. The school building didn't seem to be getting close and quick enough, so he broke into a run, leaving all of his pride and dignity behind, because he knew that today wouldn't be like any other dumpster-toss. Today was personal; today wasn't just for the sake of the grief. It was for the blood, for the humiliation it would cause one particular person—him.
Kurt had gone nearly two weeks without being thrown in that god-forsaken place, and his clothes graced with fresh air for more than three minutes (the timer of his car told him so, commencing the second he hopped out of it). So why should it start again now, and with three in two days?
Because Puck was angry. And he wasn't angry just because he was; he was angry because of something Kurt had done. That was plain enough in the way Puck had mercifully left the entire nerd mob alone this morning, in search only of him. A hand on his shoulder dragged him backwards, telling him he lost.
"You don't need to do this, Noah," he said as he was spun around by thick-set hands, coming face to face with what he'd expected, which, strangely, was mingled with an unexpected dearth of something mandatory in his eyes, at least for Puck anyway. In true Kurt fashion, he kept his voice level and unfeeling as if there had never been a tremor he needed to hide.
"Oh yes I do." Those narrow throat-gripping eyes tore into his, and the Mohawk got closer for a second so he could breathe the words within a proximity, which meant that Kurt would be able to feel them in his bones, perhaps intentionally. Puck aimed for fear, or at least a blinding certainty of fear with conviction enough to induce it all the same, and that was unbecomingly absolute.
"Because you're messing with Finn's head! He's crazy at the moment," he continued. A strong hand was shoved into Kurt's shoulder as he raised his voice; Kurt winced, but his mind just wanted to stray elsewhere, having noticed something that seemed peculiar in the given situation. Was that a hint of compassion, of caring, in Noah's voice? "He goes all twitchy when you walk into a room and he's always trying to talk about how good you sing. I can't handle this, Kurt."
He noticed the use of his first name, the severity it brought tugging at his feet, making his head feel unnaturally heavy. Brown eyes had clouded in a somewhat tumultuous state; Kurt could perceive the untouchable insensitivity that many would presumably find there without question, but behind it he saw a pious need to protect the friend who has as good as rejected him. It was hard to believe Puck was capable of the emotion Kurt was seeing. He liked to think Noah was, but not Puck. "I don't think he can either,"
Noah was the one who'd added an extra threat to Finn's attempt to stick up for him, clad in some clingy black leather Kiss costume. Puck's hand was the one that had held the slushies and gripped his leg mid-flight into a heap of garbage; Puck was the one who fought for dominance in Noah's persuasion now.
"I haven't done anything," he uttered, but he already made his decision not to run, for Noah's sake.
"Don't lie to me!" The denial ignited Puck's desire to fight. A fierce hand was again thrust into the smaller, defenceless boy's shoulder, who gasped a little at the sharp click he heard and subsequently prayed it had been Puck's wrist. One small foot after the other collided with the ground, too heavy for normal footsteps as he tried to back away, but Puck only moved forwards. His eyes became more enraged with every timid endeavour to escape. Then Kurt's back hit something metal, the studs on the backs of his jeans clinking harshly. In Kurt's ears, they were a death knoll.
On the contrary, Puck didn't feel joy as he saw the mask of boredom that concealed the fear in those wide, green eyes, but neither did he want to stop; the queer had messed up his boy's head! Sure, he realised that he and Finn weren't exactly the 'epic bros' they'd been, but that didn't stop Noah caring. Puck was just his way of setting things straight. And as for this, Puck's logic was simple: if those absent gazes that lingered just a little too long on the gay kid were longing, or even remotely lustful, then Hummel had to go in the dumpster. Kurt needed to be degraded to social oblivion; he needed to feel the pain that went agreeably with encouraging Finn to try new things, hand-in-hand with being all sweet and lovely, forgiving and adoring towards someone who should never have to experience that.
He needed to learn his lesson; Finn was never going to be his, and this humiliation should tell him that. Those glances would usually have been enough to warrant throwing Finn in the dumpster, and most would even say it made more sense, but Puck was on borrowed time when it came to Finn. He missed the guy; he missed the mindless Saturday mornings that were spent blowing each other's brains out on the Xbox. He missed the mutual efforts to toss a nerd, or Kurt, into a dumpster, he missed the way Finn would gently shove him into a locker if he was caught checking out a Cheerio. He missed Finn. And Kurt's little homo-promotion plan was making the past seem so far away that he wouldn't have a hope in hell of getting it back. The truth was, behind that mask of intimidation and superiority, Puck cared. Especially about Finn.
"You're going in the dumpster today, Hummel," he spat, the words fused together to form a sound barely articulate, punctuated only by a hiss from behind his teeth.
Kurt rolled his eyes, hoping that his mask and its futile attempts at denting Puck's ego would spare him the orange juice cartons, the fish skeletons and the chicken bones. "Really? Because I thought you just wanted a chat?"
"Don't talk down to me!" Puck yelled, his hands rising in an erratic bid to release his ire which went unsatisfied.
Kurt dropped the jokes. "Fine! But can I at least take off my coat? It's new and expensive." He looked down his nose a bit more, reaching to remove his jacket, but he was in Puck's arms way too quickly. Two of his friends from behind him scooped up his torso, "Wait!" Kurt yelled, "You always let me—!"
"Not today." And with that Puck let go of the boy's legs, flinging him against the back of the steel carrier, hearing the bang, then watching him flop hopeless and defeatist into the abundance of black plastic. "You stay away from Finn. You hear me? He doesn't need some flaming queer trying to get off with him all the time!"
Kurt heard the anger, but he didn't see it in Noah's eyes, not as he would have expected. The two other footballers stood leering over the side making garish chuckles and grunts, letting Puck deal with the eloquence. Kurt noted that even he was failing. "When will you grow tired of fabricated stories, like, I haven't done anything!"
Puck kicked the side of the container, shaking the metal and bags and Kurt's bones alike, drawing attention to the squelching wet mess that Kurt could feel under his back. He then promptly left, soundlessly beckoning for his faction to follow. Kurt stuck three fingers under his coat and felt the stickiness when he pulled them out. Geez... Ketchup, well that's just dandy. It was never going to come off of the white.
However, seeing the world from an entirely different angle (but most certainly not a fresh one), Kurt apprehended that Puck could have done a lot worse. Candidly, he'd been expecting a few fist sandwiches before the moron had been done. Though they destroyed his coat and gave him one hell of searing pain in his chest and hip, they'd thoughtfully left him with all of his teeth and fingers and toes and bones unbroken. The correlation between those facts and Noah's hesitation to be gut-wrenchingly irate was, in Kurt's book, undeniable. He smiled to himself as he thought about how the attack was probably 15% peer pressure; 15% was enough for Kurt.
―
Finn sat in the back row of seats in the auditorium, staring blankly at the stage and remembering how Rachel's voice sounded between these walls. Maybe he did miss her. Maybe he missed her already. Maybe he was having second thoughts about their break, maybe he'd decided that he was very indecisive; maybe he wanted both Rachel and Kurt—maybe he wasn't allowed to, even either of them.
Anyway, he made his bed out of loads and loads of thorns so now he had to lie on it. He couldn't believe that Kurt would ever let him lie on a bed of thorns; Rachel would, but not Kurt. Kurt would probably put down some padded designer silk to ensure that he was comfortable, and then he'd lie down beside him, because he worries about loneliness, and Finn would forget about the thorns underneath because it really wouldn't matter.
He'd have Kurt; how could anything else possibly matter? There'd be a glorious smile when he awoke in the mornings that told him, with explicit affirmation, he was the most wonderful thing those bright green eyes had beheld; there'd be comprehensive attempts to steal them some alone-time, which he thought might not be strictly necessary, because when Kurt graced their company with his presence Finn was certain he was the only one in the room and everyone else just dissolved into the background. There'd be muttered confessions and painful trips to the mall; there'd be gazes that only lasted seconds but brought him enough pleasure and contentment to last him a thousand of those moments.
It was the simple things with Kurt; with Rachel everything was a performance, a giant stage production that usually involved a musical number. She'd give some grand speech explaining the depths of her heart and how they all belonged to him–something he now deemed a lie–then swoop herself into his arms, and, caught up in the moment, he'd play along. It made him want to smile when he thought of how Kurt would convey the same number of words, with the same emotion in the mere flick of his eyes.
And so he asked himself the same questions. Did all he need really fit into Kurt's delicate body? Did Rachel Berry still love him, or even feel that she should love him? Was there any definite difference between the level of love he felt for Rachel, and the level of love he felt for Kurt? Tiresomely, he always had the same lack of answers; people his age were not allowed answers, it was just one of the perks of the job. He could ask himself questions regarding Spanish, regarding Math, and equally regarding the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that was becoming exponentially unbearable and still have no resolve. Sure, he deduced, it was okay for someone young, enthusiastic and passionate to be in love with two people—because who hadn't been?—but it wasn't okay for someone equally passionate and fuelled by hedonism, to be either one of the two, because there'd always be a fear in getting dumped and destroyed and broken. He knew he was capable of pouring every living second of himself into someone else's every living second, this being something that came with the vanity of needing to be loved.
He thought Kurt might appreciate it more. The small, brown-haired soprano had a habit of squeaking an arrogant thank you, or muttering a nearly inaudible please when he wanted something almost as if it pained him to do it, but also as if his manners were something to be treasured; he'd look upon his courteousness, his politeness as a point of pride, hoping that those he met would remember his thanks and his grace and help him to get somewhere someday, but still refusing to reveal that their actions had any bearing over his own actions or words. Remarkably cynical and beautifully optimistic—that's what Kurt was, always expecting the worst from a situation but always hoping for the best. Finn wondered if he should carry on giving the expected at detriment to both himself and the wearer of those adoring glances, or to give him what he hoped for so he could feel the elation that came with seeing that concentration of glee in the other's eyes. The warmth and radiance would be blissful, and the thought of it was unearthing the fire of meaning he found in his mother's words last Monday afternoon.
How they'd express gratitude, he thought, might be the clincher, even if it's as small and seemingly insignificant as that corner of this predicament. Rachel would say thank you and flutter her eyelashes, admittedly sending a chill through Finn's body with their shameless flirting. Finn was fairly certain anyway that neither of them would be thanking him after this whim was over—well, if Carole had been correct. If she hadn't, well, Finn could only grin at the happiness he thought he'd feel. His mind ran the risk of them hating him for all eternity, an idea that he despised; his grin quickly disappeared, bringing back his fear of loneliness...
Which thus begged the question: who was Finn going to break? Rachel? Of course. He was always going to break Rachel because she could take it. Kurt was tough and could doubtlessly handle it in the current situation even with none of Finn's feelings declared. Rachel was already looking at other guys (the notion already made his skin crawl) while Kurt had always only loved him.
His thoughts ceased their ramblings for a moment. Shouldn't he think about himself? Was he certain he wanted Kurt over Rachel? Or was this just his mom's doing?
Goddamn it! He slapped a palm to his forehead.
"Chill, man. I've got it covered."
Finn turned his neck to see who was speaking and groaned when he saw his former best friend, feeling nothing but disgust and a magnetic repulsion. The beautiful, little, sweet yet scheming soprano was his new best friend.
"Got what covered?" he blandly asked.
"Well, I take it you're hitting yourself because of that creep-ass Hummel always trying to make a move on you," Puck's nose wrinkled in repulsion, and Finn nearly hit him for being a homophobe. Then again he remembered he'd been much the same.
Finn opened his mouth to speak but a slap on his shoulder and continued speech kept him silent. "Don't deny it, I've seen the x-ray eyes he looks at you with," Puck smirked yet remained looking disgusted, "So I threw him in the dumpster and told him to leave you alone. He won't bother you again. I didn't even let him take his coat off! You should have seen his face. I thought I saw a load of old Ketchup bottles in there, too," Puck grinned like he was the official master-criminal, and his eye twitched as he toyed with the idea of winking. The thought of Kurt, and the idea that Kurt probably winked at Finn, stopped him.
"What colour was his coat?" Finn inquired, unable to make eye-contact and trying to sound benevolent, but there was an insolent bite to his manner.
"White. Why?"
"Man... White? He'll never get the stains out," Finn chucked a fist into his knee and gritted his teeth against the fury. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Puck barely moved, still for a moment as he processed the reaction.
"Dude, why should you care?" Hands gestured loosely to emphasise his confusion.
"Kurt's a friend!" Finn growled through his teeth whilst throwing himself out of the seat, partly to remove his fists from a proximity that only cultivated temptation and took one brief look back at a confused and astounded Puck.
"See, this is the kind of crap I've been trying to stop! You're getting all protective and girly over him. That ain't right. I did you a favour!"
"Yeah, I suppose you're right," he sighed, turning back towards his friend, "Now I know that you're as cruel as you are selfish!" he yelled, yielding to the itch of taking a swing at Puck's face with a red and angry fist. The Mohawk teen's run-ins with the likes of Karofsky had left him with an agility that had gone unanticipated, so he simply ducked and just stared incredulously, impudently cussing under his breath. But boy, it made Finn feel better to think of Puck's face all battered and smashed and bruised even if it was wishful thinking. For a moment, lashing his exasperation out almost relieved him of the weight of his upheaval.
Finn felt no anger for Rachel's attraction to Puck, he'd thought about the way her eyes lit up as he entered a room, her feet tapping the floor a few times as if she wanted to get up and run over to him, although his fists couldn't help but clench when the memory came back to him; it was natural and came surely out of habit. He was angry, however, with how Kurt had been hurt—the grazes down the side of his body felt like Finn's own, despite not having laid eyes on them yet. There was a complicated string of pain and damage that would no doubt resemble the aftermath of his capricious needs; the humiliation he knew Kurt would have felt had become a humiliation he wanted Puck to suffer—he wanted it to be so ego-crushing that Puck wouldn't be able to show his stupid stubbly head at this school ever again.
He wanted Puck gone and he wanted it to hurt. He can have Rachel all he wants! He can have the stress that came with how high-maintenance she was! He can have the way her voice always acted as a fisherman's line when she was talking! He can have the stupid amateur-dramatics love that seemed to be the only kind she was capable of expressing! Puck would deny it; the infuriating idiot would always try to have everything just like he tried to have his best friend and his best friend's girlfriend and eventually the girlfriend's child; in retrospect it was the same situation but without the prospect of tiny, pattering feet.
Of course, Puck would yell and swear and violate and attempt to pummel until he thought his name was cleared, until he thought that Finn disbelieved the Puckleberry scenario (although he was tempted to call it Puckleberry Finn, with him as the outside link), but Puck had lied about Quinn before, which cost himself a best friend, so why wouldn't he be lying now? Finn knew he shouldn't care about Rachel anymore, not after what she did, all the time knowing that it shared a distinct likeness to the situation she tried to help him survive, and he most certainly did not care about the way her name still tingled in his chest. He choked on the thought, its decision suffocating him. It was over between them.
After the bile settled and ceased to rise in his throat he finally decided to aim for Kurt no matter what. Surely, he knew that this imprudent fool was trying to sabotage that.
"I hope you and Rachel are very happy together," he muttered on his way out, slamming the door behind him and feeling it blast some of the gunpowder frustration out of his system. He didn't bother to hear Puck's shouts of protest, that there was nothing going on between him and Rachel. She was a dweeb and he never went out with dweebs.
Down the corridor Finn strode like Coach Sylvester would, breathing heavily, ready to flatten the next thing that tried to talk to him, benign or malignant. Because, seriously, how could Puck do this?
Luckily, he made it to the parking lot without anything more than shoving that Jacob kid into a locker, and consequently some of his ire went through him, against the wall, whimpering that it was sorry to get in his way. He looked around, eyeing several dumpsters with the authorities' conviction. Dutifully, the guilty handed itself over—Puck's favourite spot to dumpster-toss geeks.
Finn weaved his way through the bustles of excited students, all making their way to their or their friends' car so they could get home before their brains literally implode with all the useless knowledge they spent hours acquiring. He stopped at the accused dumpster, peering down into the garbage and squinting into the shadows until he saw something slightly off-white, which remained brilliant against the black and brown of everything else. And the red... Sure, the coat was white, but that wouldn't have been such a big deal had the coat not been so darn expensive (Finn looked it up on the internet when he got home, and yes, he knew how to use Google). Kurt could afford just any old new white coat easily, but not this one. Oh, Christ, Kurt won't be happy about that—ketchup never comes out. Finn's mom always moaned at him for his recklessness with his food. 'Ketchup's a nightmare to get out of clothes, Finn, why do you insist on wearing and eating it?'
His hand reached in to pluck it out, grimacing at the smell of rotten vegetables. General refuse wafted up to his nose—goddamn, Puck was annoying. No, Puck was infuriating. He took a mental note of the make on the small tag on the inside of the collar and chucked it back in, breathing heavily when he was out of range, and then nearly choking on his first breath as the concept of cost finally registered.
Naturally, Finn had an idea. An idea that would put all other ideas to shame... Okay, so maybe not, but it was definitely an idea. First though, he had to come clean. There was no way he could carry on like this, with what all these secrets and all that indecision nibbling his sanity away. He needed to try. He held his nose and dived in at the deep end, praying to God he'd be able to stand up.
Thanks for reading, please review! x