The third time around, he's pretty sure that God's just fucking with him. Because this, this shit right here, should so not be happening to him. Well, unless karma actually does exist. Because in that case, yeah, he can admit that he kind-of-sort-of pretty much does deserve this sort of shit…maybe.
"-and this lovely lady is Rachel Berry-"
He knows who she fucking is. He wants to say that aloud, but he doesn't, he just smiles at her and nods as if he's never seen her before. He even acts like he cares who she is, like he's happy to meet the man with his arm wrapped around her, like this is just a perfectly happy introduction. She flashes him that perfect smile, and acts equally interested in learning who he is (as if she doesn't know), and he's torn between scowling and smiling. It's like some inside joke he never wanted to be a part of (but that was a lie). It takes him a moment to realize that the studio producer is still talking.
"-the cast will be in on Tuesday, and we're hoping-" He loses interest again pretty quickly, turning his attention back to the drink in his hand.
It's empty. There is no more scotch in his glass. There is nothing alcoholic in his hand. No matter how it's phrased, it ends up with him lacking liquor, and thereby lacking his only means of retaining sanity. He represses a frustrated groan, and fights to not roll his eyes. This party is unbearable enough with hard liquor, without it he's positive he will keel over.
He can't remember when he started to attend parties for work rather than pleasure, but he quickly came to the realization that he didn't like it. He should not have to attend a party where he was expected to act professional. Hell, these sorts of parties should just not exist; they had to be some sort of oxymoron. Still, he knows how to put on a good front at these sorts of social gatherings. He knows how to impress people, hell, that's practically what a stud does, and, as a stud, that's what he's been doing his entire life.
Then she glances at him again, her brow lifting slightly as if to say 'are you serious?', and suddenly he's a little pissed. He knows that she knows he's drunk (he's not drunk he's buzzed), but he doesn't feel that she has the right to be judging him right now. Because, honestly, how the hell would he get through this shit sober? He's not a saint, and he's not like them, and she should know by now that this is the best he can do.
Anyways, it's not like drinking is a crime, and as long as the other guests don't pick up on his intoxication (they won't; he's subtle and they're idiotic) he's golden. He has nothing to be ashamed of, and yeah, he does take another glass from the server that passes by. And maybe he did just send her a smug little smirk, and maybe it did contain a little bit of that yeah-I'm-drunk-so-what? vibe.
Her responding eye roll is expected, but the look that follows isn't. He looks in time to catch the look she tosses his way, and his stomach tightens out of reflex. He recognizes that look, as subtle as it is. Her eyes are on him for the briefest moment, and there's the slightest quirk of her lips, as if she's caught in between a frown and a smile, caught between annoyance and amusement. He's frozen, remembering what that particular look used to mean, what it used to lead to, but then she's looking away, and her attention is back on the chatty producer.
Slightly…disgruntled, he takes a good, long drink, and then forces himself to pretend to listen to whatever the man's saying. He avoids looking at her for a while after that.
"Are you bisexual?"
If he had been drinking anything at that particular moment he would have spit it out. Seeing as he hadn't been drinking, he quickly takes a gulp of the beverage in his hand. Deciding that isn't enough he takes another drink, almost choking in his haste. Swallowing, he replies with an appalled, "No!"
"It's nothing to be ashamed of Noah."
She's so clearly amused, wine glass in one hand as she crosses her arms and lifts her chin to stare him directly in the eye, and it's pissing him off to no end. How could she, of all people, possibly question his sexuality? How did she come up with this shit? Is there any part of him, anywhere, that doesn't scream bad-ass motherfucker (literally)?
"Are you serious? I'm a fucking stud!" She frowns in response and he's already regretting his words, knowing exactly what's about to come. She doesn't disappoint, instantly launching into a rant about his blatantly homophobic attitude, and somewhere within the first sentence of her rant he stops paying attention.
Leaning against the railing, he glances down below, admiring the view of the city at night. He's not one to enjoy the scenery usually, but anything is a favorable alternative to staring at her (he may be lying) or listening to her criticize him (he's so not lying). He wonders how he'd even been able to put up with that shit, back when they were together. Inwardly he cringes for even thinking about "back then". She's still ranting when he comes to, and he's not even pretending to listen as he lifts his glass again.
She whacks him on the arm, and he's not sure who's more surprised by the contact. They both hide their surprise quickly though, and she's back to being pissy as she hisses,
"Stop drinking!"
He rolls his eyes, completely convinced she gets off by telling him what to do. She'd already thrown his pack of cigarettes over the balcony, but she sure as hell wasn't getting his scotch. With deliberate and mocking slowness, he lifts the glass to his mouth and watches her reaction as he suddenly tilts his head back and downs it. Her expression of indignant shock is enough to make him smirk.
He sets down his glass, and he's still not listening to her as she warns him about the dangers of alcohol abuse, his gaze returning to the scenery as he tries to remember where he parked, or if he even has a car. It's not until he hears her make some sort of comment about him being a "horrible ass" that he finds himself insulted enough to respond. He turns back towards her, and he's not sure who's angrier.
"My ass is hot and you know you've been staring at it all night." Yeah, so maybe that hadn't exactly been the point of her little verbal attack, but that's about all he got out of it. She gaps for a second, and he smirks, mentally patting himself on the back for making her speechless (if only for a second).
"Regardless of that fact, Noah, you're still-" His smirk widens as she stops talking, and he just watches as her fatal error sinks in. Her expression quickly becomes horrified, and he chuckles as she takes a step back. She can use every single fucking word in the dictionary if she wants, but he's so going to win this argument. He just stares as she fiddles with her wine glass, clearly trying to find some way to rectify the situation and come out on top. Finally she just points at him, angry all over again, and even though it's hard to tell in the dark he thinks she may be blushing,
"How can you still be so juvenile?"
He raises a brow, smirk still on his face as he tilts his head forward, as if to ask 'Really?' His lack of verbal response is enough to make her scowl deepen.
He's mildly surprised when she just sighs and shakes her head, and he's a little fearful when she leans against the railing next to him. They're both silent for a long moment, and he just watches the way she twirls her wine glass.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" She grumbles, but it's half-hearted and tired. He doesn't look at her; instead he smirks at the city below.
"I might have been told that once or twice." There may have been some sarcasm in his response, but he still grins when she hits him on the arm again. She's smiling as well, though she tries to hide it as she sets her glass down next to his.
"You dating him?" She's surprised by the question but he pretends not to notice. She shifts slightly, clearly uncomfortable, before responding.
"Yes." Her voice is quiet, but he doesn't notice. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, raising a brow as he feigns hurt.
"You're not going to ask me if I'm seeing anyone?"
She scoffs at that, and he doesn't know whether or not he should be insulted. They're silent then, both of them focused on the city.
"He's a good man." She says after a while, turning to face him, unsure of how to go about this. He scoffs, looking back at her. He isn't in the mood to pick a fight though, not anymore. Still, he wants to win.
"My ass is better."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she humors him, "Whatever you say, Noah."
He smirks.
"Damn straight."
What happens next is something she'll probably blame the alcohol for; he probably won't. Either way it doesn't really matter, because neither of them will ever talk about it.
It's quick and it's brutal. He's there, she's there, and then suddenly there's no space in between them and his mouth is on hers. His tongue is in her mouth and her hands are on him, and neither one can breath as teeth clash and nip and pull. The world almost fades away, but that's most likely just due to all the scotch he's consumed.
Voices nearby break them apart, and even though he's breathing a little too heavily he can still hear her name being called from inside. They're looking for her, and she doesn't disappoint. She never does. She leaves and doesn't look back, stepping back into the well lit area, back into reality and far away from him and this shady little balcony. He leans against the railing again, staring after her as his breathing calms. He turns back towards the city wishing he had a cigarette. He prays that he'll never see her again.
A small part of him (one that he most certainly will not acknowledge) is almost afraid that God will choose now to listen.
Drunk Puck has foul language...that's all I have to say about that. It's hard to keep them in character, given that this is set in the future, and their overall...drunkness.
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