Title: It's Your Song That Sets Me Free (I Sing It While I Feel I Can't Hold On)
Category: Glee
Genre: Tragedy/Angst/Romance
Ship: Rachel/Puck
Rating: NC17/R
Warning(s): Coarse/Sexual Language, Sexual Content, Character Death, Suicidal Themes
Word Count: 7,242
Summary: Rachel Berry had no idea what events would transpire that day. How standing up for someone she didn't know would eventually lead to tragedy. And Noah Puckerman was the unfortunate boy who had to deal with the aftermath; only he had no idea how. And coping was never his strong suit.
It's Your Song That Sets Me Free (I Sing It While I Feel I Can't Hold On)
-Novel-
X.
Puck stalked through the halls with a scowl so fierce it had the teachers hiding in their classrooms. Not surprising, really, since the staff of WMHS weren't the most proactive people. He didn't want to be there and it was pretty damn obvious. Everywhere he looked, he felt like he was searching for her. In the faces of other students; at the announcement board where she used to check for her next "artistic endeavor" to sign up for; outside the girl's bathroom she ran to when she needed to clean up after a slushee attack. He even tried listening for her voice outside the choir room, where she sang her morning scales. His eyes automatically fell on her locker, expecting her to be there, getting her books ready. But all he saw around him was pity, emptiness, and a distinct lack of anything he wanted to see.
He couldn't remember his schedule. He couldn't remember what class he had first or where he had to go after. He wasn't even sure he had all of his books with him. Rachel was the planner; she was the one who made sure he did what he was supposed to; the one who didn't demand perfection but expected his best, and if not that then at least an effort. He felt lost not having her smile up at him as she reached inside her locker and pulled out his morning books, holding them out to him with that amused look on her face like she knew he'd fall apart without her and loved being needed. Walking past her locker and toward his own, mostly unused this last year, felt wrong; like a betrayal. So he walked faster, wanting to escape that niggling feeling, crawling up his back and settling heavy on his shoulders.
When he pulled open the metal door to a mostly empty locker, his eyes fell on the laminated schedule she'd put up for him at the beginning of the year; he'd forgotten all about it. She even made little notes to remind him what he liked about each class in hopes that it would encourage him into going. Truthfully, he'd gone to most of his classes all year long; he had a goal in mind and it was NYU. He couldn't get there if he didn't put his all into his schoolwork. She helped; she really did. He wasn't sure he'd ever have made it – to NYU or even just out of Lima – if it wasn't for her. She would argue with him, of course. Tell him it wasn't her that did it; it was him and his brain and his hard-ass work. And he'd agree, even brag about how awesome he was, but half the time he was pretty sure his chances of life outside of Lima would have been slim to none without her helping him along. So really, even if he had planned on sticking around, where did that leave him?
Shrugging his bag off his shoulder, he searched around inside to see if he had his History book for first period. He was frowning as he seemed to be finding everything but. With a sigh, he pulled out every book and shoved them impatiently onto his locker shelves so he could get a better look at them. But with every passing second of doing these normal, if frustrating, things, he was becoming anxious. What the hell was he doing here? So what if his mother wanted him to go to school? He never gave much of a fuck before! And he didn't want to be there; he wanted to be anywhere but there.
Students and staff filled the halls, walking in all directions, crowding him, and he was overwhelmed. He felt like he was surrounded by strangers; like all these people, some of which he'd known since kindergarten, didn't know him. They were so distanced from the whole situation that he felt like he was the only one going through it; the only one who knew that Rachel was dead. The world shouldn't have kept spinning; the school shouldn't have kept going. 'Cause his world had fucking collapsed. But here he was, in the middle of regular life, and there were people smiling, people laughing, and he hated them. He hated that anybody could just… could live when she couldn't. The familiar burning, of anger or rage or just injustice, filled his stomach, weighed down like a lead ball. His skin crawled and his breathing became labored and he felt like his head was spinning. Like he was stuck, lost, and it was all just too much.
He needed to get away.
He slammed the door of his locker and turned around, walking quickly and stiffly as far from the staring faces and the crowds of people. His hands shook and he wondered if it was too late to just go home; to get to the last of the whiskey he had in his bedroom. He just needed a sip, something to take the edge off. Or fuck it, the whole damn bottle. He needed to not feel what he was feeling now; like he was the only one who remembered that a girl had been there - a really fucking awesome girl – and she wasn't anymore.
As he came around the corner, his heart stopped, along with his feet.
There was a red jacket; a Letterman's jacket. And a slushee. Icy cold, red, lid off. And some geek from the JV club - Puck didn't know his name – was cringing, face screwed up, shoulders up at his ears, waiting for it. The cup was tipped, angled, perfect for tossing.
Puck wasn't sure exactly what happened next. One second cherry slushee was about to coat some loser he'd never known before and the second it was all over Puck's chest, cold and sinking through his shirt. His jaw ticked and when he looked up and saw one of the second string football players staring back at him, eyes wide, smirk quickly fading, he reacted. Maybe it was leftover frustration about having to be at school, maybe it was just building up since everything happened, or maybe it was something else entirely. But when he swung his fist out and it connected with that kid's face, it felt good.
So he kept swinging.
The plastic slushee cup rolled across the floor, forgotten. And when the jock hit the floor on his back, lip split and bleeding, Puck didn't stop. He bent down, grabbed him by his shirt, and he slammed his fist in the kid's nose, his cheek, his mouth, over and over and over.
He wasn't so altruistic that he was standing up for the geek; not really. 'Cause with every punch he threw, he thought of Rachel's sweater; stained red with cherry slushee, hanging demurely in her locker. He thought of all the times she had to pick ice from her hair; all the times she had to throw out one of her sweaters because it was too stained; every time she tried to tell him she thought slushee actually made her hair extra shiny so he shouldn't pick fights for her sake. He thought of the times she broke down and cried, asking him why people hated her.
He thought of Karofsky and how many slushees he threw. How he got away with it over and over again.
The red haze filled his eyes, or maybe it was the blood covering the jock's face, he wasn't sure.
But when he felt hands on his arms, arms around his waist, yanking him away, he sure as fuck struggled to keep beating the shit out of the kid. For Rachel or himself or the geek, whichever.
He was panting, his chest heaving, breath hissing through his clenched teeth. It didn't matter that the kid was groaning, rolling over to spit blood out on the floor.
"Calm down, Puckerman!" Coach Beiste yelled in his ear, bear-hugging him tight from behind so he couldn't get loose. "You're gonna kill somebody!"
He stopped suddenly and went completely still.
She worried then, realizing her wording, and her grip loosened. "I—I didn't mean to…"
Kill.
His jaw ticked. His eyes cleared.
There was blood on the floor, on his fists. And he thought of Rachel; of her lying on the ground, with it haloed around her head.
His stomach twisted so tightly, he heaved forward, nearly folding in half over Beiste's arms. "Get off me!" he told her hoarsely.
She tightened her arms. "I can't let you attack another student, Puck…"
"I won't." When she didn't let him go right away, he turned his head and stared her in the eyes. "I'm done."
She peered back at him a long second before finally letting her arms fall away.
He shoved out of her space and took a few steps away from her, his teeth gnashing as he stared down at the jock wiping his face with his sleeved arm, glaring up at Puck.
He didn't feel sorry; he didn't worry about what that meant either. Instead, he turned and stalked off, shoving past Mike and Sam, careless to Coach Beiste's shouting for him to come back, that he'd have to talk to the principal. He just kept walking, passing students and teachers who moved out of the way or whispered after him. He didn't care what they thought or what they might do to him. He'd welcome an expulsion, even if his ma would lose her shit.
Before he knew it, he was in the auditorium. He stood at the top of the stairs, staring down on the empty, dark stage a long few seconds. And he remembered all the rehearsals and the performances all the gleeks had there what seemed like a lifetime ago. He remembered practicing choreography with Rachel, Mike yapping at him that he was doing it wrong or too slow or too fast or that he should focus on his steps and not on Rachel's ass. He remembered screwing up and laughing or finally getting it right and just being happy he could leave already. He remembered lunch hours, right there under the spotlight, Rachel next to him, telling him to eat the veggies and dip she made for him while he scarfed down chips instead. He remembered when everything seemed so different; so easy. When having her there was just normal; not distant, not a memory.
She sat in the middle of the stage, the spotlight shining on her face, making her hair look like it was glittering under her pink polka dot headband. She smiled, leaning into the light like it was the sun warming her skin; like she belonged there.
He was pacing behind her. His hands curled into fists. He was antsy; he felt useless, and he hated it.
She looked over her shoulder, tipping her head and sighing. "Noah, you're wearing a path in the floorboards… This stage needs to be perfect for our duet next week."
"How the hell are you so damn calm?" he yelled, stopping short to stare at her.
She bit her lip thoughtfully. "I'm used to it, I guess…"
"Rachel…" He blew out a heavy breath and walked over to kneel next to her. Automatically, she rested her arm on his thigh and held her head up so she could look him in the eyes. "It's not okay that they slusheed you… It wasn't okay when I did it!" He shook his head, staring at her seriously. "Now, I can't take on the whole damn football team, but I'm not gonna let them do this… We'll—" He frowned. "I dunno… Talk to Coach Beiste or Mr. Shue or hell, I'll ask Sylvester for help if it means you stop spending your break crying and picking ice from your new favorite animal sweater!"
Her lips curled softly at the corners. "Oh, Noah…"
"Don't," he said seriously, his brows lifting. "Don't give me that, 'You're so sweet for caring, but it's not necessary, 'cause I'm fine,' bull!" He glared. "You're not okay!"
Her lips pursed. "We've been through this… We talk to a teacher and it stops for a little while, or they just get better at avoiding an audience…" She shook her head slowly. "And then, because you feel like the system isn't doing what you want it to, you take matters into your own hands… Now—" She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Don't think I'm questioning your badassness…" She squelched a smile and reached over to squeeze his bicep. "Your guns are very lovely, Noah…" Her amusement slid away. "But like you said, you can't fight them all. And I don't want you to…" She sighed. "All it would mean is you in detention and then I'm an even more accessible target…" She rolled to her knees, facing him. "So instead, you can accept that I'm going to be slusheed… And lower the possibility of there being a lot to just a little by walking with me and letting them know they haven't gotten to us. They haven't made us doubt ourselves or each other…" She reached up and cupped his face. "Because in the end, they don't matter… All these slushees and the names and the drawings, they're nothing!"
"But—"
She covered his lips with her finger and stared at him seriously. "Nothing."
He blew out an irritated sigh, but his overwhelming anger ebbed away and he nodded. Just to be childish though, he licked her finger.
She laughed, rolling her eyes, and then cleaned it off on the shoulder of his shirt.
"I don't like it," he reminded, frowning.
"Well it's not as if I enjoy it," she agreed, shrugging. "Even if it does give my hair an irresistible shine…"
At his snort, she grinned widely.
Moving closer, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you though…"
His brows furrowed. "I didn't do anything."
She smiled. "You cared…" She dragged her nails through the tail of his 'hawk, stroking the nape of his neck. "You are and always will be my very own knight in…" Her eyes fell, taking in his wardrobe, and her grin widened. "Vintage t-shirt and stylishly ripped jeans."
His lips quirked. "Not exactly shining armor."
"Better," she argued.
"Okay, Crazy," he said affectionately, letting his forehead drop to hers.
She nuzzled his nose with hers and hummed softly. "Just let me thank you, Noah."
His brows waggled. "Thank away, Jew-Jew-B."
Her eyes rolled. "I didn't mean—"
His mouth covered hers, cutting her off, and despite earlier protests, she wasn't complaining.
He buried his fingers in her hair, which yes, was really silky, even if he was pretty damn sure it had nothing to do with frozen corn syrup.
He knew he was kissing her harder than usual; it happened whenever he was upset. Sometimes, he wondered if maybe it was like he was trying to kiss away all the hurt, all the frustration of her day-to-day life. 'Cause as hard as she'd had it, with the slushees and the bullying, even if he was gleek he just didn't get picked on the same. He heard a few things in the locker room, they ragged on him and questioned his manhood and all that lame shit, and he got a slushee here or there, when he was caught off guard. But for the most part, people just didn't fuck with him. And he'd hoped that would rub off on her; that people would get that she was his girl and nobody—jock or geek or what-the-hell-ever—fucked with his girl. Rachel Berry was legendary in her own way though; maybe people didn't like her but they sure as hell knew her. And she had a huge damn target on her back. One he tried to cover, bodily, even if it never worked the way he wanted it to. So they had these little fights, where he wanted to bust heads and she wanted to just focus on the fact that one day it would be over; one day it might even be worth it…
Until then, he kissed her harder. With bruising lips and nipping teeth and sucking the air in quickly between each kiss, not caring that his chest ached from lack of oxygen. He teased her tongue and the roof of her mouth – that always made her shiver – and he sucked on her bottom lip, raking his teeth over it until she gave that little sigh of breath. He kissed her like that until her nails scraped at his neck in the way they always did right before she—
She moaned, leaning into him full body, like she couldn't hold herself up anymore against how damn good it all felt. And he chuckled against her mouth, slowing down, leaning them sideways until she was on her back on the stage. He crawled on top of her, his leg extended between her parted knees. He rested his hips against hers but held his upper body up with his elbows planted on either side of her head, one of his hands still tangled in her hair.
He could feel the heat of the spotlight on the back of his neck, seeping through his clothes and warming his skin to near sweat-inducing.
This wouldn't be the first time they made out on the stage. At the beginning of the year, she showed him where the light controls were and explained that she'd spent a lot of lunch hours there, daydreaming about her future. Sometimes she told him about what she saw, about the crowd giving her standing ovations and the familiar faces she saw in the front row, cheering her on. Sometimes they just talked about school or family or glee, all the good and the bad. And sometimes, when she was feeling frisky, they went as far as they could with their clothes still on before the bell rang. He liked those days especially, for obvious reasons. But the other ones were just as good. Puck wasn't much of a 'feelings' guy, but he could tell Rachel anything. He wasn't a pussy about it; he was still a badass. But when things got heavy – with his ma or school or just in general – he liked knowing that he could talk to her. That she'd put dreams of Broadway or her next solo in glee or whatever else on hold and just listen to him bitch or unload. She couldn't solve his problems for him, but at least she let him know he wasn't a fuck up. He could do and be better. He wasn't version 2.0 of his old man; he was ten times better.
He loved her for that. For a shitload of reasons really, but that ranked pretty damn high.
Her hips rocked against him and he lost his thought process. Fuck, she felt good. She was all sexy curves, soft lips and hot breath. She was big brown eyes staring up at him with all that—that trust and love and fucking joy… Sometimes, he didn't get it. Didn't get what she saw or why she bothered. And then he thought go with it! So he enjoyed it and took it and held on to it while he had it. 'Cause even after all this time he was still waiting for the bottom to fall out, the other shoe to drop, for Finn to walk by and take her away. He was never supposed to be the guy girls had a future with; he was the guy they had a moment with… A weekend or a day or a few stolen hook-ups here or there. Sometimes he wondered when that changed. If he'd have been this happy with any other girl. But then she'd say it—
"Noah," she breathed, with that hitch in her voice, and her nails scraped along the base of his back, hand wiggled beneath his t-shirt. And shit, that was a little ticklish, enough to make him jump, his hips grinding down against her. She hummed in approval, biting his lip, and her knee hitched higher on his side, her foot sliding down the back of his thigh and then up, toes wiggling.
And he remembered that nobody else would or could make him feel like this. It wasn't about being hot for her - even if he was; always - it was all these other things. Like how she said Noah and not Puck. How she kissed him with these slow, sipping kisses, like she was savoring him, or memorizing him or something. How she helped him at home; with his sister and the house and just keeping shit in order when his ma was working. How she helped him with his homework but she never treated him like he was dumb. How she listened to his songs and she just—she supported him. It was how she made him a lunch every day, with real fucking meat, even when she didn't stay over, just because she liked to know he wasn't going hungry. 'Cause she cared. She legit worried about him. He didn't know if other chicks were like that and really, he didn't care. 'Cause having Rachel – neurotic, controlling, loud, bossy, diva Rachel – was worth ten of any other girl.
She ran her hands up and down his back, fingers curling, digging in. And he smiled, 'cause he knew what was coming. Her hands slid up and gripped his shoulders, her silent warning, and then she flipped them. He chuckled under his breath when he lay flat on his back with a triumphant Rachel Berry straddling him.
Panting a little, she rubbed her hand down his 'hawk and buried her face in his neck, her hips circling and rocking.
What he'd give for a thousand more moments just like this.
He reached for her, not interested in letting her have all the fun, and he traced every soft curve under her pink blouse.
He'd do that until the bell rang. And when they walked down the hall on their way to class and he saw a jock with a slushee, he curbed the instinct to attack and instead just hugged her closer, angling himself so if it came for her, it'd hit him. It didn't and he saw her tiny, knowing smile, and he thought she was tallying it up into her head as one less she would've had to suffer if it wasn't for him. He figured that was good enough for now.
If he was a little rougher on the field later that day with his teammates, they deserved it; and he couldn't get detention for being good at sports…
Puck's jaw ticked as the memory faded away. He walked down the steps, his arms feeling abnormally heavy at his sides. He went backstage to find the lighting controls and lit up the stage before walking back through the heavy red curtains and taking a seat at the edge, letting his legs dangle over, staring at row after row of empty seats. Seats Rachel would have imagined were filled with adoring fans.
The spotlight didn't feel like the sun to him; it didn't feel like coming home or his future or anything Rachel might've used to describe it. It felt too hot, stifling, heavy even. Like a police searchlight pinning him down, pointing him out to everybody; like his grief was a tangible target painted all around him. Instead of getting up, moving out of its way, he stayed there. Even when sweat collected on his brow; as it dribbled down the sides of his face and made his skin feel heavy on his bones. He sat on the stage and he stared at his bloody fists and he wished he could rewind the clock a couple months. He could go back to when sitting up there meant having her lean into him or listening to her sing so she could gauge how she sounded echoing in the rafters or a hundred other things that involved being happy again. Before he was lost and sad and so fucking angry…
He raked his arm over his sweltering face and closed his eyes tight as they burned against the sweat that dripped in them. And when the silence got too loud, he asked hopefully, "Rach?"
When she didn't answer, he ground his teeth. "I fucked up, okay?" He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until it hurt. "You'd…" He laughed humorlessly. "You'd be so pissed right now if you knew what I did and…" He shook his head. "And I don't care, y'know? I don't care if I get kicked out or if ma loses her shit or… hell, if they try and send me back to juvie..." He shrugged. "But I can't…" He swallowed thickly. "I don't wanna be here and this day won't fucking end, so can you just… Can you talk to me…? Please?"
He listened hard, waiting, wishing.
Nothing.
And still he waited. He waited for her to reply; to make it better.
He waited for hours.
../..
First and second period passed and Puck hadn't moved. When the warning bell ending break filled his ears, defeat finally had him dragging himself off the stage floor and climbing the steps. In the middle of a busy hall, with people hurrying past him in either direction, he weighed his options. If he went home, he had to deal with his mom. And he had things to figure out before all of this was over, so maybe it was better to stay on her good side. On the other hand, if he went to class he'd probably get directed to the principal's office and he really didn't feel like dealing with all that bullshit. In the end, he figured he might as well keep his word; didn't need his ma remembering him as a liar too.
He was just opening his locker when the halls emptied and third period began, the bell ringing shrilly, telling him he was late. He grabbed out his Spanish textbook and prayed Mr. Shue would keep his 'help' to himself; Puck didn't want to hear it. Almost as soon as he walked through the door though, Shue told him he was wanted in Miss. Pillsbury's office. And since he was more likely to bolt than actually go, Mr. Shue walked him there.
Thing were tense and quiet at first. Mr. Shue opened his mouth a few times like he thought he had something to say but then stopped. Finally, he settled on, "I heard about the fight earlier…"
As they walked through the hollow halls, their steps echoed around them.
Puck stared straight ahead, his teeth clenched.
"Puck, I know how easy it is to give in to those angry feelings… But you're not going to feel better if you do." He looked over at him. "It might feel good while it's happening, but when it's over you're still angry…" He stared searchingly, hoping for some kind of reaction. "You need to deal with your grief…" With a sigh, he reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Talk to Miss. Pillsbury," he asked him, pausing just outside the counselor's door. "Or at least listen to her."
With those parting words, he turned and walked back to his classroom.
Scowling, Puck considered walking away, continuing out to the parking lot and jumping in his truck. He didn't need this shit. It was empty and pointless.
But then the door opened and tiny Miss. Pillsbury was wringing her hands and staring up at him with those huge eyes of hers.
"Puck!" she said, in a tone that said she was surprised to see him.
His brows furrowed. "Shue said you wanted to see me," he muttered.
"Yes! I… I'm just surprised you, well…" She stepped back, reaching up to play with the collar of her blouse in an anxious manner. "Come in!"
He looked away from her and toward the exit.
"Puck?"
He stepped through the door and slunk into a seat, glowering.
Closing the door, Miss. Pillsbury circled her desk to sit in her chair, seeming to cringe at his bad posture. "I—I've been doing some research on grief," she opened, reaching over for a small stack of books on the corner of her desk. "Now, I'll be honest… I don't have a lot of expertise in grief counseling… And, well, I heard about your fight earlier, so I know you've been angry…" She peered at him through her owlish eyes. "There's some helpful tips to dealing with that kind of— That leftover rage in a few of these books…" She started leafing through them, reading their table of contents and frowning. "I'm sorry. I—I thought I'd have more time to prepare." She winced. "But I guess… I guess this just proves how unpredictable life can be…" Her brows furrowed. "I mean with Rachel, not with… Not my lack of preparation." She shook her head, her red hair bouncing against her shoulders. "I'm sorry. Can I… Can I start over?"
He blinked at her.
"Okay…" Taking a deep breath, she clasped her hands on the desk and stared at him searchingly. "How are you, Puck?"
He stared.
"I know we tried this once before and you weren't… You weren't ready to discuss it, but…" Seeing no change in his expression, she nodded. "Okay, well, I've talked it over with Principal Figgins… Originally, Coach Sylvester was pushing for you to be expelled…" She frowned. "Fighting on school grounds, especially as… intensely as you were… It is grounds for expulsion." She waited for a response and didn't get one. "But… With Mr. Shuester's help, we convinced Principal Figgins that two weeks of counseling might be a better idea…" She half-smiled hopefully. "You're so close to graduation now and Nationals are next week… Plus, we know how difficult things have been for you and… And we just want to help you…" Her brows lifted. "You know that, don't you, Puck?"
His hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly, knuckles white with pressure. But he didn't say a word. He was so sick of that fucking word.
Help.
Where the hell was there help when Rachel was being bullied?
When students were drawing crude pictures of her on the bathroom walls or leaving hateful shit on her MySpace page? Where was all their help when Karofsky was getting out of control? Where were they when he shoved Rachel down the fucking stairs? 'Cause they sure as hell didn't catch her? They didn't stop it before it happened! Their help was too fucking late! He didn't want their fix the mess after the fact bullshit. He didn't want their pity or their concern or their anything. He wanted them to leave him the fuck alone already!
"-so you'll be expected in my office every lunch hour for the next two weeks," she continued. "Starting today."
Knee jumping with impatience, he sat forward and asked roughly, "Can I go?"
"This isn't a punishment, Puck," she told him gently. "To be honest, even if you hadn't been in that fight earlier, you'd still be sitting here…" She shook her head. "Your mother called me. She's been… worried." Her expression took on a concerned twist. "She says you've been drinking a lot lately…" She reached over for the pamphlets on her desk and held one out that read Teen Drinking: You Only Have One Liver.
His jaw ticked. Seriously? With the pamphlets again?
"I—I understand that your father had an… addiction problem too, didn't he?" she asked carefully.
He glared at her.
Her eyes widened impossibly larger. "Y-Your mom also said that you were expressing a lot erratic behavior; she's concerned for you mental and emotional state." At his lack of expression, she added, "She's worried you're suicidal…" She stared at him wonderingly. "Those kinds of feelings can be overwhelming. They can make you feel like there's no way out…" She held out another pamphlet labeled So You Can't Stop Crying. "But there is! You can come back from this, Puck."
Sighing, he rubbed his forehead as he felt a headache coming on.
"I can see you're not ready to talk. That's okay!" she assured. "I expect to see you back here after Spanish though."
He shoved up from his chair and stalked to the door.
"Puck!" she called after him.
He turned back, eyebrow raised.
"Your pamphlets," she said, pushing them across the desk toward him.
Puck walked away empty-handed, right out of the school.
No way was he coming back for some one-on-one heart-to-heart bullshit with Miss. P, well-intentioned or not.
../..
Since he was out of school early, and sober, Puck went to the bank. He had some things to figure out and since he had a good idea he'd be drunk for the foreseeable future, he wanted to make sure it all got done right. Hours later, with what he wanted set in motion, he hit the liquor store. Using the last of his own money, 'cause he sure as shit wasn't going to use Rachel's, he loaded up on as much Jack, Jose and Bud as he could and then he headed home. Before he'd even pulled into his driveway, he was sighing, exasperated. Did they ever give up?
Finn's truck was parked out front. Puck found him sitting on the porch.
He considered walking right by him like he did last time, but the lumbering giant stood up, hands stuffed in his pockets, and gave him that same look he had when he found out Puck and Rachel were dating. It was that determined face of his that was somewhere between constipation and courage.
Bag in hand, Puck walked over, brow raised. "You know you're three blocks over, right?"
Finn stared at him. "Heard you broke Jake's nose… Maybe his jaw too."
"So?"
His brows furrowed. "What the hell are you doing, Puck?"
"Right now, I'm waiting for you to leave… Then I'm getting pissed out of my tree." He held up a bag. "You can either leave or crack one open,Hudson." He climbed the stairs to walk past him.
His hand was on the door handle when Finn's deep voice reached him.
"How do you think she'd feel if she saw you like this?"
Jaw ticking, he whirled back around and glared at him. "This is your great idea? You really think pissing me off is going to make it all better?"
"Maybe I'm not trying to make you better!" he yelled back. "Maybe having you angry is better than not having you at all, okay!"
His eyes screwed up. "What the hell kind of logic is that?"
"It's…" Finn shrugged. "I dunno…" Sighing, he looked away, across the lawn. "Look, I… I'm scared for you…" He clenched his teeth. "I've known you since I was four and… And it's like you're this totally other person now. You're…" He turned back to him, his eyes shining with tears. "Like you look like you but… But you're all…" He waved a hand at him. "I dunno, empty or something…"
"Really poetic, Finn. Put that on my headstone, huh?" he sneered.
"Like that!" He took a step toward him. "You're giving up!" He shook his head. "The Puck I knew? He'd never give up! Not—Not for some girl!"
"Don't!" He dropped the bag and advanced toward him, stabbing a finger through the air at him. "You don't get to—" His hands curled into fists. "You—Of all fucking people! You can't talk about her like she was just— Like she wasn't worth this!"
Finn's chin wobbled. "I didn't… I know…" His head fell and he stared up at Puck sadly. "I know what she meant to you… I know that— That Rachel, she was—She was everything to you. I get that…" He swallowed as his voice grew thick. "But damn it, Puck… You're eighteen!"
"So what?" He threw his arms out. "So fucking what, Finn!" He laughed bitterly. "So maybe this was as far as I was supposed to go, y'know?" He shook his head. "Noah Puckerman, never leaving Lima, Ohio… Just like everybody expected." His face darkened. "I'll fucking rot here!"
"You don't have to…" He walked closer, his face widening. "Kurt told me about the money! Puck, you could go anywhere… You could leave right now and just… Just figure it out, y'know?"
Puck's shoulders fell, his frustration leaving him in a rush. "There's nothing to figure out... There's nothing…" He stared at him a long moment. "I'm done, okay? I'm just… I'm over this. I—I'm tired and I'm angry and I just… I want to stop having to explain why this hurts this much… Why Rachel was it for me… I'm just done." He turned, reaching down and grabbing his bag, and shoved open the door.
"Puck!"
He kicked the door shut behind him and left it at that. He climbed the stairs to his room and he locked his door.
With a crack of a beer, he fell back on his bed and lifted it up in cheers. "To you, babe."
And then he drank himself into oblivion.
../..
He woke to knocking a few hours later. It was dark out, his room nearly pitch black save for the street lamp that lit up some of his floor, and he thought he smelled potroast. He blinked repeatedly against the itchiness of his eyes and his lips curled at the dried feeling of his tongue and throat. Scattered knocking needled at his ears again and he rolled onto his back, brows furrowed as he stared at the door.
"Noah?" he heard his little sister call, her tiny fist hitting his door again. "Noah, can I come in?"
His eyes fell and he rolled over onto his side again, reaching for the unopened beer he left in the bag on the floor. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he cracked a can open with the other.
"It's Sar-ah!" she sing-songed.
The bitter taste of beer washed down his throat, filling an empty stomach.
With a sigh and a stomp of her foot, she banged her hand on his door again. "Noah, please let me in…" She sniffled then. "I know you're sad… I miss Rachel too, okay? I—I miss how she watched Hannah Montana with me. And—And how she used to do my hair…" She was quiet a long second and then she hiccuped on her tears. "I can't… I can't do those braids like she did, but… you can… Can't you?"
His breath quickened, chest aching, and he screwed his eyes up tight, silently wishing she'd go away.
"Ma says I should leave you alone, but… It's so quiet, Noah… I miss Rachel's singing… I miss you playing your guitar… I can't sleep at night; Mommy doesn't sing Twinkle Twinkle like Rachel does… Her voice isn't as pretty…" She added in a whisper, "Don't tell her though, okay?"
He half-smiled drunkenly, shaking his head.
"Noah…?" she asked again. "Ma says Rachel's not coming back, but she's wrong, right…? She has to come back… She promised she'd be my sister!"
Chest aching, he lurched forward and threw his half-empty beer across the room until it crashed against the door with a thud.
He heard his sister shriek before she ran off, her scurrying footsteps hurried down the hall until she was in her room, where she slammed her door shut, scared of him.
Panting, hands curled in fists in his lap, he glared blearily out into his room. And then with a half-yell, half-sob, he threw himself back onto the bed and buried his face in his hands, every inch of his body clenching and tensing as the ache in his chest seemed to flair up and spread through all of him.
He didn't think it'd ever go away.
../..
Sleep that night was sporadic.
He woke up every few hours, sweaty and restless, before he'd roll over and knock back another drink. It was flavorless now; whiskey, tequila, beer, whatever was handy, he didn't care.
He was in a fog, feeling like he was floating in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he thought he saw her; shadows of her just in reach. Dark brown hair slipping through his fingers as she danced farther and farther away. Pretty brown eyes staring up at him until he blinked and they were gone. He woke up thinking he was holding her, only to find empty air between his arms. He breathed in that lingering smell of her on her nightgown, let it drown him. If he tried hard enough, he thought he could hear her singing in the distance. That unmistakable voice, so big, so full of life, so fucking beautiful… Instead of soothing him, it hurt.
Everywhere.
Always.
../..
He woke up to a hand on his shoulder shaking him.
Rolling over, he found Finn staring down at him, frowning.
"The fuck?" Puck muttered, closing his eyes.
"Your mom called me…" He sighed. "She talked to my mom, so now I'm on 'make sure Puck goes to school and doesn't kill himself' detail…"
"Lucky you," he mumbled tiredly. "Anybody asks, let him know you tried your best..."
"Puck—"
"Seriously Finn…" His head was pounding; he really didn't need this. "Get the fuck out."
He was quiet a long second before finally saying, "No."
Puck opened his eyes, despite the spikes of pain just behind them. "What?"
"No," Finn said a little more firmly.
He turned over and stared up at him. "You really wanna start this?"
Crossing his arms over his chest, Finn told him, "If things were different… Yeah, okay, I probably wouldn't be able to take you…" He shrugged. "But they're not, so… If I have to, I'll kick your ass all the way to school."
"What the hell is it with you people thinking school is going to save me?" He shoved up to sitting. "We talked about this yesterday and—"
"I know… But I'm not going to be like Kurt, okay?" He licked his lips, swallowing thickly. "I'm not just going to stand back and let you do it… I won't!" He kicked the bed and stared down at him sternly. "So get up… You're going to school with me, you're seeing Miss. P at lunch for counseling, and for today, at least… You live a little longer."
Puck stared at him. "It's not going to change anything," he said, honestly.
"Maybe not…" His shoulders fell a little. "But at least I'll know I tried…"
Scrubbing a hand down his face, Puck shook his head.
What was one more day in the grand scheme? He wondered. 'Cause the truth of it was simple. Maybe Finn thought he had a chance here. Maybe he thought he could convince Puck out of what he was planning. But everything was already set in motion. He just had a few more things to figure out, what Rachel would call the 'finishing touches,' and then… Then it was done. He was done.
"Fine," he grunted, staring up at his best friend.
He didn't feel bad when Finn gave him that dopey, hopeful grin. All he felt then was determination. This was going to end, on his terms.
By Saturday, Puck would get what he wanted.
His end.
[Next: Part XI.]