A/N: Thanks for those kind souls who have reviewed. I very much appreciate it. Please keep em' comin. Feedback makes me smile... and somehow manages to inspire my trigger finger, aka - 'my update finger.'
"I see you've decided to join us at your table Noah."
"What are you fuckin' keeping tabs on me? You some sort of stalker or some shit, fag tag?"
A soft smile was what Puck received in response. Then a quiet, "Only for you Noah."
It wasn't completely surprising that the fruit bowl had begun to attract some flies. It was now a pretty regular occurence to see Mercedes and that stuttering mess of an Asian girl accompanying Lady face during meal times.
Some times he even spotted them in between classes or during their scheduled leisure breaks together. A quintessential fag and his hags.
"Don't I feel fuckin' special," he sneered while ripping his sandwhich nearly in half with his teeth; chewing like a man eternally scorned.
He spotted the Emo chick giving him a disgusted once over.
"What. The fuck. Are you staring at, Emo?"
"N-n-nothing. Y-y-you just. Eat f-f-f -"
"F-f-f-f, what? Fuck get it out already."
"Funny. You eat, f-funny."
"S'that so? This comin' from someone who can't manage to write a word without shaking and sliding all over the god damn place, a person needs a fuckin' road map to figure out what sort of hyroglyphic nonsense you managed to scribble."
"Leave her alone Puckerman."
The table fell silent. Puck could've swore the heavens had opened up and doused the table, the light shining brightly on one easily distinguishable mass of Jew hair. He laughed. He couldn't help it.
"Damn, Jewbilee. You've gotta be kiddin'? You and her? It ain't happenin'. So stop tryin' to earn brownie points to get in between her slit."
"That's incredibly rude!" fired Mercedes as she glared daggers at Puck.
"What's rude is your dirty black hands touchin' my table."
"Not to mention racist," Added Jacob under his breath, his face alight with obvious embarrassment. Perhaps even repressed anger.
It was clear the entire table was seething at this point. He reveled in their anger. Gloried in their submissive, wronged expressions.
But one face didn't carry the same expression. Pale skin, harboring a wry smile, blue eyes piercing him uncomfortably - this marked the look of an un-moved, indifferent Kurt.
"Nothin' to add Lady?" He prompted, hoping with a sudden surging desperation that he had managed to hide his disappointment at the other boy's aloofness.
"How's your sandwhich?"
Puck tilted his head, watching the kid in curiousity. Searching for the punch-line to the question.
"Bout as good as you would find a pipin' hot pile of dick."
Kurt burst out laughing. He actually fucking laughed. And it was the same laugh that Puck had secretly longed to hear ever since he had heard it that day in group therapy. It was infectious at best.
"I take it you mean delicious then."
Puck conceded to commit the picture of the flushed face, giddy with delight and amusement to memory before supplying a short but sweet, "Whatever."
The occupants of the table were stunned into silence. They each shot confused looks across their plates at each other, but said nothing. Lunch continued on without another outburst. Puck didn't feel like keeping up with the shit slinging when he really was too busy enjoying his food.
It was the first time that Puck, nor anyone else had stormed from the table before chow time was officially up.
Puck was happy that the facility was pretty richy. Almost resort like in some ways. Well, despite the malfunctioning, shitty vending machines. They did offer a lot of activities and 'means of self expression' as they called it.
This was one of his favorites. Really the only one he allowed himself to indulge in publicly.
He eyed his opposition, the ball slick with sweat as he fended them off with some well practiced dribbling.
There was the blonde surfer looking kid: Sam.
Puck thought he was okay. The kid could play anyway. He kept to himself and always seemed to be smiling for whatever reason. He was like the fucking American epitome of the boy next door.
Yet here he was. In this boxed off shit hole. Like all of them. Not even his blonde mop and toothy grin could hide the track marks on his arms... even though the kid tried with his long sleeved shirts.
Then there was the foreign kid. Something that started with an 'R'. He just dubbed him Lucky Charm since he didn't really care to know his actual name anyway. Puck sort of forgot his story. Something about having a nervous break down soon after coming to America. There were rumors of course. Either the kid tried to kill his sponsoring family in their sleep, or run some kid over with his vespa, or... Fuck it, who cared?
A nervous break down at sixteen. What the fuck was the world coming to?
Puck suddenly found himself looking past them. Out of the corner of his eye. He noticed the figures sitting poised in the background.
The three ass-kateers: Lady, Black girl, and the Goth. All giggling and pointedly staring from the bleachers.
Puck was annoyed. Well mostly annoyed. It never hurt to have an audience. Sure he had his shirt off, flexed his muscles a little more then necessary, and only felt the need to pass the ball to Jacob when hell froze over. That didn't mean shit though. Being annoyed just made more sense.
Damn. He had stopped his dribble. Too much thinking and now he was stuck.
"Jacob! Get open! Fuck!"
"Er, okay," and the scraggly teen moved around sluggishly, trying to shake Lucky Charm but failing miserably.
"Urgh! Hey Leprechaun!"
The shorter brunette spun around to face Puck... And was met by with a ball hitting his chest. Before he could blink however, Puck had knocked it away again and was pushing toward the basket.
Blondie had caught up, standing his ground. Puck shook his head at the kid as he took off at full speed and collided, letting the ball slip from his grip, bounce off the backboard, and fall through the net... Sam was on the ground, gingerly touching his lip while sprawled on the gym floor.
"What're ya playin' at Puckerman?"
"Playin' to win short stack. That's how we play in the States."
"Well I call a foul, man."
Puck huffs. Why does someone always have to talk back?
"Look Lucky Charm. Your luck was falty today. You fuckers lost. Me and Jewbilee won. End of story."
"Rory. It's cool."
Rory. That was it. The kid bit his lip, then nodded. What was the dude, Ken Doll's attack dog or some shit? This was getting hilarious fast.
Sam had stood up, wiping his lip with his sleeve. He held out his hand to Puck.
"Good game Puckerman."
What? What the hell was this?
Puck just stared. I mean, his confusion wouldn't allow him to do anything else. Sam exhales sheepishly, and brings his hand back to his side.
"Well, if you gentleman will excuse me. I'm going to dismiss myself. I, um, have other stuff to do. Like not get horribly mangled playing something I suck at," Jacob calls out. Then he turns on his heel, followed closely by that Rory midget. Sam goes to pick up the ball and returns to the foul line.
Puck eyes the dude with curiousity, and finds himself standing in position underneath the hoop, waiting to retrieve the rebound.
He sinks the first shot. Then the second. On the third one, Puck has to ask.
"So how long since your last trip?"
Puck nodds his head toward the kid's arm, making sure to indicate the track marks he knew existed underneath the long sleeved thermal. The ball makes a resounding clunk on the rim. Sam swallows nervously.
"Bout four months now."
Puck tosses the ball back. Sam sinks another shot, his full concentration back on the task at hand.
"It's cool Ken Doll. My demon was coke."
Sam seems a bit more at ease, a hint of a smile on his obnoxious, Angelina Jolie-like lips.
"Demon. Think that's the perfect word to describe it."
"No shit, Blondie."
"Noah." A new, much higher voice states. Puck notices Kurt standing there, his hands clasped behind his back. Blacky and Emo seemed to have disappeared.
"Fruit bowl." He greets. "So where are your flies?"
"I'm assuming you mean Mercedes and Tina, and they went for snacks."
"Look if you really are a friend to Wheezy, you need to tell her that the last thing she needs to be doin' is snackin'."
His pouty lips purse into a thin line, clearly locking away the retort itching to escape. Then his blue eyes dart over to Blondie.
"Hi. I'm Kurt Hummel."
"Hey. Sam. Sam Evans."
They shake hands, Sam chuckling at the obviously faggy way the pale hand barely grips his.
"I noticed your form. It's good."
"Oh-um-thanks. I guess."
Oh this isn't happening, Puck thinks irritably.
"Fags R Us, hit on motherfuckers on your own time. I'd like very much to not be privy to that shit."
Narrowed slits of blue swirling with emotion is all he receives in response. But only momentarily, as they resume roving over blonde locks, widening in interest.
"I think I've seen you during meals but not in group. How come?"
"Oh. Um, that's cause there're two different groups that Dr. Schuester runs. They're scheduled on separate days."
"Hm. Well, that explains it."
Why is he just standing here? Why hasn't he left yet? Puck can't seem to find his words or the mobility in his feet for that matter. He's just... There.
"Most days in there, they just sort of blend together. But every now and again it's actually sort of nice to just - I don't know, talk about stuff."
And Kurt is smiling - but a new one that Puck hasn't seen before today- it's flirty, almost seductive.
"Yeah, well I'm not really one for show and tell. Unless otherwise provoked."
Holy shit was Kurt leering at this kid? Alright, that is fuckin' it!
"Hey. Lady. The kid ain't your type. So cut the shit already!"
This seems to bring the Sam kid back to reality. His cheeks are flushed, hands rubbing along the sides of his draw stringed pants awkwardly.
"Er. Well, I guess I'll see you around Kurt. Later Puckerman."
"I hope so," Kurt practically mewls.
"Whatever, Bro."
Sam walks away briskly leaving the two alone. Puck shakes his head, oddly relieved for some reason, and starts bouncing the ball, lining himself up at the free throw line. A few beats of silence pass between the two, enough time for Puck to land a shot and set up for the next.
"So?"
"So, what?"
Puck could see him out of the corner of his eye. His arms were crossed defiantly over his chest, his stance rigid.
"So what was that?"
"Besides you eye fucking Blondie? Not sure. I'd go for highly disturbing though." He shoots another shot, sinks it flawlessly. Kurt watches, unfazed, but yet still focused.
"Have you always been this way?"
Puck sneers. Then shoots again. Fourth one in a row he'd landed, he counts in his mind.
"You mean studly," he states mockingly. He holds the ball under one arm, then flexes his other bicep, kissing it for good measure. Puck doesn't miss the flicker of blue that roves over his body, a faint hint of appreciation flashing, but steathily replaced by cool disinterest.
"Controlling. Do you always have to control everything?"
Puck releases his fifth shot. It bounces off the front of the rim. He swallows, reaching to grab the ball that rebounds back to him.
"I find, Kurt, that it feels a hell of a lot better then being controlled. Don't you think?"
It was the first time that Puck had ever used his actual name aloud. It seemed to surprise the other boy as much as it had surprised him.
Kurt doesn't respond. His teeth knede his bottom lip, and then he walks up to Puck with a solid determination.
Was he going to try to kiss him? Why can't Puck move his fucking feet again?
He stops just a few inches short of the taller boy, staring intently into his dark orbs. Then without a word, gently pulls the ball away from him. Puck lets him, watching him curiously.
Kurt dribbles, sort of like a six year old just learning would, then his tongue pokes out, running over his full lips as he steadies himself, targeting the basket with his fierce gaze. Then he shoots... And sinks the shot.
He spins around facing Puck, an obvious smile in his eyes. Puck keeps observing the kid unhindered, his hands on his hips, sweat rolling down his toned torso in ringlets. Smug would be an understatement. The fucking kid was glowing.
"Sometimes it's good to go outside of your comfort zone, Puck."
And the pale figure retreats, switching his hips as sinfully as ever, disappearing behind the gym door which shifted back into place with a soft click.
The silence felt stifling. Puck felt stifled, constricted, even though he was completely alone.
