The summer school schedule is set up so that on Wednesdays Finn has two hours of art and then two hours of US History. On this particular Wednesday he has the first of the four tests that will make up his overall grade for History class and so Finn spends most of the review session on complementary and contrasting colors staring longingly at the art studio's clock, willing it to go backwards as it approaches ten to ten.
"Wish me luck," Finn pleads to Brittany as they mill out into the hall with the rest of the class.
She looks up from her backpack, having retrieved her physics textbook in the hope of some last minute cramming, "Newton's the guy with the apple, right?" She questions, wide-eyed and lost.
As he reaches his classroom and watches her head to her own test, Finn has to admit that perhaps his own case isn't quite as hopeless as he'd presumed.
The pen lid has numerous teeth marks in it by the time he has to hand in his paper and he spends most of the fifteen minutes where Mr. DeMartino is explaining the topics they'll be covering for the next test second-guessing most of the answers he'd written down and worrying that he's fucked up his chances already.
Santana and Puck are waiting out in the parking lot when he gets outside. Puck won a Ford Lightning in a raffle two months after he got his driver's permit, got into a race and fucked the suspension up; since it was fixed he's taken better care of it. Santana still likes to point out that he only has it through luck, Puck in return likes to point out how many tickets he bought for the raffle (And seems to honestly believe that it's a good comeback to her remarks).
Santana is sat in the back of the truck with her legs over the edge, drinking in the summer sun with a pair of shades tucked into the neckline of her shirt, over her breasts. Puck is simply leaning against the vehicle alongside her and there doesn't seem to be much in the way of conversation going until Finn approaches.
"Hey dude," Puck gestures vaguely in his direction.
"Hey." Finn lifts and drops one shoulder in a similar half-hearted gesture, "What are you guys doing here?"
"Don't worry, Finnocence." Santana hops down from the back of the truck and stretches her legs, "Puck was just giving me a ride in to meet B; you're free of my torment for today."
Finn resists the urge to flip her off as she walks to the entrance to meet Brittany.
"Rehearsal at mine, starting asap," Puck informs. "I found us a gig on Saturday and I want us to be on form."
He's tempted to tell Puck he's quitting right then and there, but the job at Ringo's isn't in the bag yet and if he cuts away from the band then he won't even have the crappy pay from their lousy shows.
"Where are we playing?" He asks instead.
"Conrad's," Puck answers with a cocky grin.
Finn is instantly thankful that he didn't go through with his instincts, "You got us a gig at Conrad's?" (What did he do, sell a kidney or something?)
"Some prettyboy band with a manager have a record label exec stopping by to see one of their shows. They want to look legit so they asked Conrad to find some local talent to go on as opening acts for them."
"Local talent," Finn repeats, entirely deadpan. "So how did we end up on the bill?" (He's checking for stitch marks next time Puck has his shirt off).
"Come on, man." Puck punches him on the shoulder, "This could be our chance. If that exec hears our stuff and thinks we're better than Prissy Little Nice Guys, or whoever the fuck they are, then we could be signing a record deal, bro."
He knows in his heart that it's a long shot, but Puck's enthusiasm is infectious and Finn can't help but think that for the first time in two years there's actually a slim chance they're going to get out of the Puckerman's garage, get out of Lima and take their music to the masses.
He drops the Aries off at home, loads his disassembled drum kit into the back of the truck and then Puck drives them to his house. The garage door is open and Sam's already seated on the tired old couch along the back wall (Or rather, the mound of old junk that's piled up so high it serves as a makeshift wall) strumming experimentally on his bass and tapping one foot to the chords he's playing. Puck's little sister, Esther, is sat cross-legged on the old rug that covers most of the clear space in the garage, stroking the belly of her cat, Mr. Fluffles, and watching Sam pluck the strings with lazy interest.
"Get out; we're practicing," Puck demands, striding in to confront the girl and leaving Finn to carry the drum kit in by himself.
"I can stay if I want to, Noah," Esther insists. "Mom said so."
"I'll tell Mom that you listened to us practicing the really dirty song that you're not allowed to hear," Puck threatens.
Esther shrugs, "She won't care." The siblings play chicken against each other, something they both have moderate success at, but she cracks first. "Fine, but why can't you practice a different song?"
"She has a point," Finn speaks up, sliding the legs into his bass drum and standing it upright. "We never have a set list, you normally just scribble down what to play onto a sheet of paper five minutes before we go on stage. We can practice anything right now."
Puck glares, but Sam plays a few chords and adds his support to that plan. Esther claps happily and takes a spot on the couch as they each prepare their instruments and settle down to play.
Mrs. Puckerman wanders into the garage half an hour into their rehearsal and watches vacantly from the doorway with a cigarette dangling from her frail fingers.
"Would you boys like some Kool Aid?" She asks when their current song comes to an end. (Finn suspects that there is a conspiracy among the parents of friends who have known each other since they were little kids to constantly make them feel like little kids at the time of their life when they're trying desperately to be mature).
It's another warm day and the garage is hot and stuffy, so they accept the offer of refreshment. Finn stays seated behind his drums as the other two-thirds of the group reclaim the tiny couch from Esther.
"We suck," Finn declares despondently.
"Maybe you suck, but I definitely don't suck," Puck assures.
"You suck worst of all, Noah," The younger Puckerman opines.
Glaring at his little sister, Puck hums the theme tune to the animated X-Men series. Esther's eyes go wide and she quickly scampers, the puffy tail of Mr. Fluffles flicking around the door frame right behind her. Finn has never learned the full story behind this exchange, but suspects it has its origins in some big brotherly abuse of operant conditioning.
"We're gonna get laughed off stage on Saturday," Sam laments.
"I didn't realize I was in a band with such fucking wimps," Puck snaps, standing and picking up his guitar again. "Now, you have two choices, you can sit and cry like little bitches or we can practice, get good and be total badasses on Saturday night."
Sam rolls his eyes and slings the strap of his bass across his chest again. Puck grins maniacally and points to Finn to count them in. He isn't overly optimistic, but if they get some solid rehearsal in between now and Saturday Finn thinks they might just manage to avoid humiliating themselves in public.
The girl in charge of helping him through his trial shift is a college Sophomore who's worked the summer at Ringo's every year since she was a high school Junior. Her name is Joolie (She makes a point of the spelling). She has a nose stud, a t-shirt so baggy it could probably serve as a makeshift tent for a grade school camping trip and an attitude that she gets across to him very quickly.
"You know how you're not getting paid for this?" She inquires with a big grin.
"Yeah," He nods his understanding.
"Well neither am I." The smile cracks instantly and falls into a world-weary frown that he suspects is probably her default expression, "Just try not to screw-up badly enough that it makes trouble for me, okay?"
She teaches him the fundamentals of how the CDs are sorted, alphabetical by genre, and leaves him to it until the lunch hour. He gets by competently (Even if he does spend a lot of his time singing the alphabet in his head to make sure he's getting it right) but is often pestered by lost-looking customers asking him to identify a song or artist by a single lyric or a few hummed bars, and who expect him to know offhand if the store has a copy of the CD in stock. When he remarks upon this to Joolie in the backroom during their lunch break, she smiles thinly and cocks an eyebrow; one-upping his complaints instantly with an anecdote about a woman shrilly demanding a copy of 'that piña colada song' who simply wouldn't accept that the actual title was Escape. When they return from the break room she decides to teach him how to use the register, he realizes about an hour later that she's taken a liking to him when he has to ask for her help in figuring out what he's keyed in incorrectly and she doesn't make a fuss about having to stop serving her own customer to fix his mistake.
"So this is what you're missing rehearsal for? You sellout."
Finn blinks and turns away from watching customers wander the aisles, "Puck?"
"You giving up on our dream, Finn? You working for The Man?" The mohawked teen leans over the counter.
"Who's this jackass?" Joolie asks blandly, flipping a page in the magazine she started reading when the current lull in activity began.
"Puck, he plays lead guitar," Finn answers her question, then turns to his band mate. "It's just a weekend job and my shift ends at six. We don't have to be at Conrad's til seven and we don't go on til eight."
Puck's scowl doesn't waver, but he leans away from the counter and pulls a flier from his pocket, "Just make sure you're at my house by six-thirty." He slides the flier across the counter and leaves.
"Nice guy," Joolie remarks sarcastically, flipping through the back pages of her magazine breezily and then setting it down. "So you're in a band?"
"Yeah," He answers succinctly.
"You any good?" She raises both her eyebrows pointedly.
"No," He replies honestly.
"But you're playing tonight?" One eyebrow drops again to express her confusion.
"Yup," He keeps up his new laconic streak.
"Okay, whatever," She dismisses, turning to serve a stressed-looking mother of three squealing kids, who is purchasing what appears to be half the relaxation tapes the store has for sale.
By 5:45 the store is pretty much a ghost town but his shift doesn't end until six, bang on the minute, so Finn stands behind the counter and watches Joolie and Franc, another employee, take advantage of the quiet to begin sweeping the aisles.
He's so zoned out that he's a little startled when someone calls, "Hey."
"Oh, sorry, I-" He looks up at the same instant his mind catches up to the voice and realizes who it is, "Oh, hey Will."
"So, how's working in a music store turning out?" Will inquires.
"It's fun," He answers. "I'm kinda hoping I get the actual job though."
"You will," Joolie interrupts as she works her way past them with the broom. "Jack's already given you the job, he just likes to get a free day's labor out of gullible kids who haven't had a real job before."
Finn frowns down at the counter as he thinks about her words, but in doing so notices the CDs laying there, "You wanted to buy these?" He directs his question to Will. When the older man confirms it Finn picks the first up to scan it, then smiles brightly, "I think I recognize this one."
Light creases appear at the edges of Will's eyes and the green of his irises seems to sparkle with his smile, "I could only bear to sell some of those records by promising myself to replace them on CD. I think I'd have lasted a month without hearing Don't Stop Believing before I'd have started to regret it otherwise."
The younger man chuckles, "I listened to the album from that girl group you suggested."
"Oh really, what did you think?"
"It was better than I'd thought it would be. I kept setting the needle back so I could listen to American Dream again and again," He enthuses.
When the total price is rung up and Will has paid for the CDs, Finn searches for a reason for the older man to stick around, "Uh..."
"Yes," Will prompts, turning back to the counter.
"My band's playing tonight," Finn replies, passing across the flier that Puck had left behind. "I just thought that if you're not doing anything, maybe you'd want to come and watch."
Will smiles as he reads through the bill, "Which band is yours?"
"Um, the Dirty Muthafuckas," He answers, hesitant with his embarrassment. "Puck chose the name," He is quick to insist.
The older man folds the sheet of vibrant yellow paper in half and slides it into the pocket of his slacks, "I'm sure your music will be better than your name."
Finn snorts, "Don't count on it."
Will grins at the self-abasing joke, "See you later, Finn."
"Yeah, later Will," The younger man responds, the gig is looking a little brighter already.
With the amount of practice going on at the Puckerman household for the past several days, Finn had simply left his drum kit there to save himself the bother of detaching and reassembling it. So when his shift at Ringo's is over and he's received a confirmatory phone call from Jack telling him that he's now employed for every weekend shift until the end of the summer, he sprints down to the mall parking lot and drives the Aries directly back to his house.
He stomps upstairs to his room and strips out of the smart clothes he wore to work. He puts his denim jacket on over an undershirt so that he can take it off between songs if it gets too hot on stage and picks out his Doc Martens because it's easy to keep a spare set of sticks tucked into them.
He spins on the railing at the bottom of the stairs on the way down, heading into the kitchen and going directly to the freezer for a Hot Pocket.
"Finn, honey," His mom attempts to get his attention.
"We've got our show tonight," He answers, shutting the door to the microwave and spinning the dial to two minutes. "I'm meeting Puck at his place; I'll be back late."
"Finn, can I speak to you for a moment," She persists patiently.
Turning away from the microwave, he notices for the first time that his mother is dressed up. She's the kind of woman who is normally content to face the world without make-up that takes more than a minute to apply, but her hair has been styled and the dress she's wearing looks new.
"You look nice," He compliments awkwardly.
"I have a date tonight," She explains, the hand cupping her mug of water shakes slightly.
"Oh," He answers. There's an uncomfortable pause and then he asks, "Who with?"
"Burt Hummel," She replies and the reason for her hesitance becomes clear.
"When did you...?" He lets the question trail off.
"Your graduation ceremony," She answers anyway. "We ended up sat next to each other. He asked me out for coffee. It went well, so we decided to give it another try." There's another heavy silence filled only with the steady whir of the microwave. "Are you okay with-?"
"Great," Finn cuts across quickly. "I'm happy. I hope you have a nice time."
He can see her uncertainty and knows that it's justified, he's totally spooked and her news has kicked up a hornet's nest of unpleasant memories for both of them, but at that moment a shrill ding announces that his Hot Pocket is ready. He collects it and makes a mad dash out the door, stopping in the doorway just long enough to call a goodbye over his shoulder.
'Conrad's' is the name used by most young people in Lima to refer to Conrad Harmon's Lounge, Bar and Grill, mostly because very few people have the patience to use the full name in its entirety. The place is run by a traditional Irish family, of which the titular Conrad is the patriarch. Since it is traditionally run, and therefore authentic, a lot of the more ignorant patrons wouldn't notice it is an Irish-American bar for the lack of leprechauns and Riverdance tribute acts. The beer, Finn has it on good authority, is in keeping with the stereotype; but he can't test the strength and quality personally as the business has stringent measures in place to prevent underage drinking. Anyone aged 18-21 gets marked with an ugly, luminous four-leaf clover stamp at the door and the bar staff know not to serve anyone bearing such a mark. The ink is highly resistant to attempts to wash or scrub off and lasts, on average, three or four days (In high school, the stamp was considered by many to be a status symbol and the sign of a good weekend).
It's 7:45, the first of the 'local talent' bands (Helpful Corn, Finn isn't entirely sure if he wants to know the story behind that name or not. It's probably either really interesting or involves pointing blindly at a dictionary) is still playing and they've got their instruments ready to carry onstage (It's only a raised platform really) as soon as their turn comes up, so they're currently enjoying the hospitality that comes as part of their payment. Sam is gorging himself on potato wedges to quell his nerves and Puck is flirting with a busty brunette two tables over, he seems oblivious to how little progress he is making. Finn has a half-finished Sprite that he lost interest in some time ago and so is poking at the diminished ice cubes in the glass with a straw while he watches the crowd for some sign of Will.
The older man appears on the other side of the room, similarly looking around in search of Finn. He's dressed down in jeans and a faded t-shirt, but he's still noticeably older than most of the crowd and looks a little uncomfortable. When he spots Finn he crosses directly to their table with a smile of obvious relief, "Hi."
"Hey Will." The younger man returns the smile, "You made it then?"
"Oh, I've been a big fan of the Dirty Muthafuckas ever since I first heard about them two hours ago and so I had to come and see them live," Will declares with mock enthusiasm and Finn snorts.
Sam is watching the older man suspiciously, but has to swallow the large quantity of partially-masticated potato in his mouth before he can speak, "You're a friend of Finn's?"
Will exchanges a glance with Finn, seemingly asking permission to answer in the affirmative. Although he knows it's strange, since they haven't exactly known each other long, the younger man doesn't see why the term 'friends' shouldn't apply to them and so nods subtly.
"Yes," Will answers Sam's question. "I'm Will."
"Sam, I play bass," He responds to the introduction. Seemingly satisfied with this, the bass player resumes plying his jaws with crispy chunks of potato.
"So, um... These guys really suck, huh?" Will gestures to Helpful Corn, whose singer has cupped a hand around the mic and so her vocals are now largely incoherent like the intercom announcements at a train station.
Two girls from the table in front of them turn around to glare at Will and Finn can't help but laugh at the clumsy conversational cue, "They're a local band. I'm pretty sure they've picked out awful opening acts just to make the headliner's look better."
Will grins, but admonishes Finn for his criticism, "You shouldn't talk yourself down like that."
"You haven't heard us yet," He points out.
Sam swallows heavily around his mouthful and chips in, "Finn's right. It's sort of impressive how much we blow."
As if summoned by the sound of his band being dissed, Puck appeared at Finn's elbow mere seconds later, "Come help set up, they're finishing up right now."
Will looks across to the stage, "How can you tell? It's been sounding exactly the same for the past three minutes."
Puck frowns down at Will, "Who are you?"
"Friend of mine," Finn intersects neatly.
"Whatever." Puck loses interest immediately, "We're on."
Finn glugs at his Sprite with renewed vigor and stands up to follow the lead guitarist, "Save our table for us?" He directs the request at Will.
"Sure," The older man complies. A trio stood at the bar who have been hawk-eying their table for the past ten minutes shoot a dirty look at Will as Helpful Corn take their bows to the reluctant applause they're being given.
There was a lot of disagreement as to what their set list should be and though Finn managed to argue Puck down on a number of their less savory compositions the mohawked teen persevered on his insistence that they should play his magnum opus, MILF Magnet, as their opener. The drummer keeps his head down throughout and only dares to look up again once they've reached the bridge of their second song, an entirely instrumental piece designed to show off the technical skills they're theoretically supposed to have that tends to go quite badly. He looks across to their table and sees Will tapping a foot to the steady beat he's working out of his snare drum, the older man notices that he's looking and lifts his bottle of Bud Light (Finn finds it deeply amusing that in an establishment that prides itself on the numerous quality beers it has on tap, Will ordered a popular brand from a bottle) in acknowledgment. Finn smiles across the room and returns his attention to what his hands are doing as the song approaches one of the changes that the band always seems to hit out of sync with each other.
Finn sings back-up to Puck's main vocal during their third song (Roses are Dead, and Fuck You Too. An angry little composition of Finn's from the summer after Sophomore year, when he was angry at Quinn, Puck and the whole world). They pause momentarily before the start of their next song and Finn uses the time to strip off his jacket, take a few refreshing chugs from his water bottle and wipe his sweaty hands on his pants. When he looks across to Will, he notices that a lady has joined the table. She's older than most of the people here, but still a few years younger than Will. She's sitting with her body leaning towards the older man and it's obvious even from this distance that she's interested.
The drummer keeps an eye on his friend and the flirtatious woman throughout the next three songs and although he has to turn away from time to time he still manages to witness the steady progression of events. She goes from keen and interested, to twirling a finger through her dark hair with obvious boredom, to making up an excuse and leaving the table in the space of their three short songs. Finn had convinced himself that the man from the personals ad had seen through Santana's hoax message and never gone to the diner, that Will's powder blue sweater vest was totally coincidental and he wasn't the same guy; but after having witnessed his friend strike out so thoroughly Finn has to accept that he may have been wrong.
"Where are you going?" Puck hisses as he rubs his plec on the front of his shirt to clear off the finger smudges.
"I'll just be a minute," Finn assures, setting his sticks down.
"Dude, we're in the middle of a performance right now. You can't just leave."
"Play Battle in the School Yard, you can do that one without me," Finn suggests, already stepping down from the raised platform and heading over to Will. Battle in the School Yard is an experimental piece Sam put together when he first joined the band (Which at the time had only been him and Puck, so really Sam joining had made them a band and not just two guys who liked to rock out together in the garage), it's played between two guitars with the concept that each instrument is opposing the other; like a fight. Finn hates it and thinks it's the worst song in their repertoire, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Hey," He takes the seat next to Will.
"Hey." Will turns away from watching the bar despondently, "Aren't you supposed to be on stage?"
"They don't need me for this song," He explains. "So, what was with you and that woman?"
"You saw that, huh?" Will remarks, taking a pull from his beer with deep melancholy. "I'm not very good at talking to women," He supplies after a heavy pause.
Finn frowns, "Weren't you married?"
"For five years," Will confirms, "With her for twelve years before that. I was with her so long that I don't how to flirt with other women."
"How can you not know how to flirt?" Finn queries, bewildered.
"She was my high school sweetheart," He remarks with a wistful sigh. "So all the techniques I used to get her to go out with me aren't much use now. If I try carrying someone's book to class for them I'm likely to end up on some kind of register."
"I'll teach you," Finn declares.
"Huh?" Will pauses with the bottle half way to his mouth.
"To pay you back for giving me those records; I'll help you find a date," He elaborates cheerfully.
"I don't know if that's-"
"Stick around, okay?" The drummer requests as he hears the end of Puck and Sam's guitar duet approaching, "I have to finish off our set but then I'll be back."
The Dirty Muthafuckas accept their applause (More enthusiastic than that given to Helpful Corn, but not by much) at the end of their set and Sam helps Finn make the simple detachments that allow him to carry the drum kit off the stage. He disassembles it fully once they're out of the way so that the next group can start setting up and then they head out the back door to load their instruments into the back of Puck's truck. Covering it over with heavy tarpaulin (To keep out any possible rain and to make it less obvious to potential thieves), they head back inside to take in the upcoming performances.
Sam orders an ice water from the bar and disappears to hang out with some friends from his part-time job at Pizza Fleet (Lima's best known E. Coli phone delivery service masquerading as a fast food chain) and Puck resumes flirting with any girl foolish enough to actually acknowledge him. Finn returns to the table and finds Will has a second bottle of Bud and that there is a full glass of Sprite waiting at Finn's spot.
"You brought me a drink?" Finn questions.
"Think of it more as a bribe," Will answers.
"A bribe for what?"
"To not ask me embarrassing questions about my romantic life," The older man answers.
"Does that mean you're going to let me help you?"
Will sighs, "If my utter failure at chatting up women is visible even to a kid your age, I suppose I can accept help from a kid your age."
"Cool." Finn sips at the teeth-achingly cold soda. "So, when did you last get laid?"
Will meets the question with a stony expression, "I want the soda back."
"Okay fine." Finn holds his palms up and grins cheekily. He presses forward, "I just meant, are you looking for an actual relationship or just a hook-up because the rules are totally different."
"I suppose you're some high school Casanova who would know all about these things," Will remarks sardonically.
"No, that would be Captain Hard-on over there." Finn gestures across the room to Puck, who is miming cunnilingus to a disturbed looking college girl.
"A relationship," The older man answers the question after a slight pause. "I'm not a one-night-stand kind of guy."
"Okay, that's good," Finn answers. "So we're looking to find you a date." At the word he suddenly remembers the date his mom is on at that moment and balks.
"Finn?" Will asks with concern.
"It's nothing," The young man assures, shaking it off. "What time do you finish work normally?"
"Uh," Will is a bit thrown off by the non-sequitur, but answers, "About five."
"Okay, I'll put some ideas together and stop by your place at six on Monday to begin Operation Datenight," Finn declares.
Will shakes his head fondly and sips at his drink, "Okay."
The conversation turns to the group on stage (An all female band calling themselves The Guise, which must surely attract a lot of confusion) and transitions easily into more of the musical discussion they've been sharing every time they meet up. When Will remarks upon his surprise at the usage of Blue Oyster Cult's (Don't Fear) The Reaper for a recent movie preview (For what looks to be a truly awful, buddy cop flick with the gimmick being that one of the cops is really Death in disguise) Finn asks what he'd gone to the theater to see and the conversation neatly expands to discussing films and television.
They leave after the headlining act have finished their opening song (They're not actually called Prissy Little Nice Guys, but sadly Puck's insult is rather accurate). Sam and Finn have to carry Puck between them because the lead guitarist has, once again, hit on a girl while her beefy boyfriend is two feet away and earned himself a bloody nose and a bout of dizziness.
"Is he gonna be okay?" Will inquires as Sam buckles Puck into the passenger seat of his truck.
"I'll take him home. If he hurts in the morning it's his own fault," Finn answers, having run out of sympathy for Noah Puckerman's libido-induced injuries long ago.
"So, Monday?" The older man prompts.
"At six," Finn confirms.
"I'll make extra meatloaf." Will smiles, turning round to head off to his own car.
When he goes to bed that night there's a small voice at the back of Finn's mind that points out he's just added another task to the list of things he's got to do this summer, there's another that questions why Finn is so interested in whether or not Will is dating anybody. He punches his pillow and firmly commands both voices to shut up.
Coming back from his 'morning' shower at 1:30 on Sunday afternoon, Finn notices the blinking light of the answering machine on his bedside cabinet. Pressing the button to play back the messages, he sits on the edge of the bed to towel off his hair.
The first message is from Jack, reminding him that he needs to stop by the store at some point today to deal with some necessary paperwork before he can start his first paid shift next Saturday.
The second message is from Puck, enthusing about the previous night's performance and telling him that Conrad has booked them to play a two hour set next Friday.
The third message is from Quinn, indignantly demanding to know why she wasn't informed about the previous night's performance, asking him to call back and explain himself.
Falling back onto the bed and miming a gunshot to the frontal lobe, Finn sighs heavily to himself and forces himself back into an upright position so that he can pick up the phone and fix the latest fuck-up with his girlfriend.
"Hello?"
"Hey Quinn," He greets pleasantly, throwing the towel he'd been drying his hair with in the direction of the laundry hamper.
"Oh, it's you," She replies with muted enthusiasm. "So why didn't you tell me you were playing at Conrad's last night?"
"Because you never want to come along to our shows," He answers straightforwardly. He'd invited her along to their early gigs and she'd even shown up at a few of them, but it didn't take long for him to get the message that she wasn't interested in the band and so he stopped the invitations.
"Well you aren't normally playing somewhere cool," She retorts. "I had to hear about it from Mercedes Jones. Do you know how embarrassing it was for me?"
"Um, no?" He offers lamely.
"You're my boyfriend, Finn. I shouldn't have to hear about what you're doing from other people," She asserts. "I've hardly seen you since the summer started."
"I've been busy," He argues blandly. "Look, we'll get together and do something soon; okay?"
"Today?" She challenges.
"Uh..." He makes a mental list of the things he has to do today: stop by Ringo's to sign those forms, get some ideas together to help Will, finish the assigned reading for US History since he's not gonna have time tomorrow night, the laundry hamper is starting to overflow so he should probably do something about that too... "Today's not really a good time."
"Tomorrow then?" She suggests, sounding a little deflated.
"No, I've got a thing I'm doing tomorrow," He dismisses.
"A thing?" She repeats derisively.
"Yeah, just a thing with a friend," He continues vaguely.
"Who?"
"Will," He answers. "The guy from that party, I... I don't think you met him, but he's cool."
"And you're blowing me off to hang out with him?" She demands harshly.
"I made plans to hang out with him first," He insists. "I'd be blowing him off to hang out with you."
"I guess it's nice to know where your priorities lie," She remarks witheringly.
"I'm free Tuesday," He declares bluntly. "I'll take you to Breadsticks; you can have a starter, dessert, the works. My treat."
There's a short pause and then Quinn answers, voice softer than before, "That sounds great."
"So, uh, I'm sorry if I've not been around very much," He stumbles through an apology.
"No, it's-" She stops short, they're both aware of the awkwardness that comes after an argument. "I know you're busy with stuff, it's fine."
"So I'll see you on Tuesday?" He prompts, the tension draining away from their exchange.
"Yes," She answers plainly, but he can hear the trace of a smile in the word. "Love you."
"I love you too," He echoes readily and doesn't bother to question whether he means it as he puts the phone back in its cradle, (He's been asking the question of himself a lot recently and he's tired of not having the answer).
He goes downstairs to the kitchen and smothers two bagels in cream-cheese, then carries them through to the lounge in search of his mom. He finds her curled up on the end of the couch with a paperback romance novel; she looks up as he enters the room.
"Try not to make a mess dear," She remarks with a pointed look towards the bagels (Though frankly, no mess he makes can hope to match the great potato chip debacle of '94).
"How did your date go?" He asks, taking a seat at the other end of the couch and balancing the plate on his knees.
She looks up from the page again warily, then back to it before she answers, "It went well, I think."
Finn nods and takes a few bites of bagel before he asks his next question, "Are you going to be seeing him again?"
She delays her answer with the turn of a page, "I hope so."
"So, you're not sure?" He infers.
His mother sighs and dogears the book before she closes it. Setting it down on the side table, she picks up the bottle of nail polish sitting there and shakes it thoroughly. "If you have a problem with me seeing Burt, just say so."
"I don't have a problem," He insists.
Lifting a foot up onto the couch, she delicately paints a second coat onto the nail of her big toe before looking up at him to continue the conversation, "I know you weren't exactly comfortable with it before, but I'd hoped you'd be past that by now."
"I don't have a problem with it," He repeats petulantly.
"Okay then," She accepts his answer placidly and he can see that she isn't convinced.
Finn chews through his plate of bagels while his mom neatly finishes with the nail polish.
"Did you know that Kurt's going to UCLA?" She prompts, lifting her feet onto the footstool and wiggling her freshly painted toes with satisfaction.
"No," He answers succinctly.
"He wants to major in Theater Arts," She continues. "Burt says he's really excited."
Finn hums in mild acknowledgment and bites his tongue on all remarks about his terribly limited capacity to care about Kurt freakin' Hummel.
"I told him how you're planning to go to OSU," She remarks. "That is still your plan, right?"
"Yeah," He replies. "I've just gotta finish up with summer school first."
She nods to herself and the conversation peters out. Finn finishes the last bite of his lunch and heads round the back of the couch.
"I've gotta go see my new boss about some forms or something," He informs, shouting over his shoulder as he carries the plate through to the kitchen and sets it down with the rest of the unwashed dishes. He pokes his head back into the lounge, "Need me to pick anything up while I'm at the mall?"
She's started reading the novel again and so doesn't turn away from it as she answers, "I'm all out of pantyhose."
"Ew, Mom." He wrinkles his nose with distaste.
At that point she looks up from the book and laughs at his expression, "No. You're free of my errands until the next time a fuse blows," She informs.
Finn smiles, leans down over the back of the couch so she can kiss him goodbye and then he leaves her to the torrid love affair of Rodolfo and Mimi.
On Monday morning Ms. Defoe declares that they've finished the technique honing section of their course (Finn still feels decidedly unhoned) and are ready to progress to producing true pieces of art.
"For the next four weeks you will be working exclusively to produce a piece that you feel defines your own identity and fits the theme of this unit. You may work on projects outside of the classroom as well and you are free to create as many as you like, though only one may be entered for grading. At the end of the course, the three best works will be displayed at the Art and Culture festival." The teacher pauses and timidly tightens her scrunchie before continuing. "These supplies," She taps the edge of a trolley bearing paints, inks, oils, pastels and collage materials, "have been provided by the school for your use. They will not be replaced, so I am asking you to treat them maturely and responsibly." Stepping away from the supply trolley and collecting a Polaroid camera from her desk, she turns to face the class once again. "Those of you who have an idea of what you might like to create are free to start today. Anybody who is unsure should come to me for a photograph of themselves and spend the lesson recreating it using different mediums."
By the end of the lesson Finn has copied out the poorly-lit Polaroid of himself using graphite pencil, colored pencil, ink and acrylic paint. He cuts out each image and glues them onto a fresh sheet of paper in a 2x2 arrangement; a mimicry of the Pop Art image of Marylin Monroe he's seen hanging in Dr. Howell's waiting room. Brittany draws herself riding on a taco shell being pulled by two dolphins, Ms. Defoe asks if it is an homage to The Birth of Venus; the former-cheerleader has never heard of it. Tina C painstakingly scratches out her image on an ink stain and remarks, when asked to comment, that it is in reference to how she often feels invisible; as the image of herself is only visible on the page because the ink is there to bring it out. Ms. Defoe praises her highly and the Asian girl's status as teacher's pet is confirmed.
Once they're done for the day, Finn drops Brittany off at her new job; waitress at a cybercafe on the corner of Oakland Parkway. (He doesn't understand the concept of combining caffeine and 56K dial-up but suspects the answer might be a conspiracy by some shady organization to give white collar office workers stress related heart attacks when they drop in on their lunch hour). She's a little nervous so he buys a blueberry muffin and picks it to pieces at the counter for 45 minutes so he can talk her through giving correct change. (She isn't stupid enough to not know how much change to give from a five dollar bill, but Brittany gets performance anxiety when called upon to perform basic math in the way most people would right before entering the Colosseum to face down a lion). Once she seems to have found her feet, he bids goodbye and heads home to finish off the reading for History class that he didn't manage to complete the night before.
The interior of Will's apartment block keeps up the same minimalist, cubist style used for the architecture. The walls are painted in neutral tones and feature framed prints of famous landscape paintings to break the monotony and provide a pleasant atmosphere. Finn walks past the two downstairs apartments and the wall prints, taking the curved stairs at the back of the hall up to the second floor.
Will answers the door to apartment no. 7 promptly when Finn knocks and the younger man observes the latest side of his new friend. He's seen the older man in his formal slacks and sweater vests, seen him in relaxed jeans and a t-shirt; but it's the first time he's seen the intermediary stage. Will's still wearing the shirt and vest he wore to work, but the tie is gone, the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up. He wonders again how such an attractive man is having difficulty finding a date.
"Hey," Will smiles easily and stands aside to let him in.
"Hi," Finn returns the greeting and slides his backpack off his shoulder so that he can take his jacket off.
Will relieves him of the jacket promptly, hanging it up on a coat stand to one side of the door. "Dinner should be ready in about ten minutes," He says.
Finn blinks and recalls Will's promise about the meatloaf, he'd assumed it was a joke, "You made me dinner?"
"You've already eaten?" The older man infers from his reaction.
He has, but there's a difference between 'not hungry' and 'completely full' and since he turned fourteen and grew six inches almost overnight that difference has been a vast canyon inside of Finn; so he answers, "No. I could eat. I was just surprised you'd bother."
"It wasn't a problem," Will assures, crossing through to the lounge and dropping down into one of the armchairs. "I like cooking."
Finn follows the older man and thinks back to the copy of Bon Appétit Santana unearthed in the mailbox. Clearly the publication is mailed under Will's name, but that leaves the younger man wondering about the other issues they'd found in the mailbox and which of the apartment's two occupants they were for.
Bryan is laid out in front of the television, socked feet up on the coffee table and a half-empty glass of Cisco held in a loose grasp. An episode of CSI is playing so the three men watch the fictional scientists dusting for prints and running UV light over a crime scene in companionable silence until a timer goes off in the other room and Will gets up to see to it.
The show goes to a commercial break and Bryan looks over for the first time since Finn has arrived, "Yard sale guy," He greets pleasantly.
"Finn," The younger man reminds.
Bryan waves his hand in a lazy, discarding motion. "So what are you doing here?"
Understanding that Will's situation has the potential to be embarrassing, Finn keeps his response vague. "Just hanging out," He replies with a shrug.
"A high school kid just hanging out at the apartment of a couple of guys in their 30s?" Bryan queries wryly.
"I'm not in high school," He answers, (Technically true; summer school's not the same thing) to avoid the point of the question. The older man accepts the response, drains the lingering drops of wine in his glass and then sets it down on the coffee table.
Standing up, he directs Finn to follow him through to the dining room and gives a friendly warning not to take more than his fair share of the mashed potatoes. Doing so proves difficult, because apparently Will has stolen ambrosia from the Heavens and added it to the humble side dish.
"This is amazing," He enthuses after the first mouthful.
"Thank you," The cook answers humbly, flushing a little from the praise. "It's really just a matter of getting the right concentration of milk and butter."
Finn would expand his vocal appreciation of the meal further, but Bryan is hoovering up the food on his plate and so the young man knows to make a start on his own meal or else he'll lose out on seconds.
At the end of the meal, Bryan returns to the lounge to catch the end of the CSI episode and Finn volunteers to assist with the washing up.
"You don't have to do that," Will assures as he collects the cutlery.
"It's the least I can do," Finn insists, stacking the plates and carrying them through to the kitchen.
As Will loads the knives and forks into the cutlery basket, Finn rinses each plate in the sink before laying it on one of the dishwasher's racks (A habit ingrained in him by his mom).
"This is gonna be so easy," The younger man remarks as they work.
"What do you mean?" Will asks uncertainly.
"You're handsome, you dress well, you can cook. If you can get over your boob-induced speech impediment then women will be falling over themselves to date you," He explains.
The older man ducks his head abashedly as he adds a tablet to the detergent drawer, "I'm nothing special."
"No, you are," Finn insists. "I'll prove it to you. We'll write a list of all the cool things about you, that way you'll know how to impress a girl when she asks you about yourself."
The list, written on a sheet of paper torn from Finn's notebook, starts with the three points he's already made. Will returns to the dining room with a mug of green tea for himself and a coke for his companion, taking the seat beside the younger man he eyes the list dubiously.
"So," Finn remarks, punctuating his comment by tapping his pen against the paper. "What hobbies do you have besides cooking?"
"Well..." The older man frowns, his forehead wrinkling with the familiar expression of someone wracking their brain for an answer. "I sometimes take part in local theater productions."
"Okay, that's good." Finn writes down 'Acting'. "What else?"
"Dancing," He answers after another short pause.
"What kind?"
"Huh?"
"Like, ballroom dancing or getting dirty out on the dance floor?" Finn says for clarification.
"The latter," Will chooses instantly.
The younger man pauses for a moment, a little blindsided, then decides that while he can't quite conjure up a mental image of it; he's willing to take Will at his word. He adds 'Dancing/Getting funky' to the list, "Anything else?"
"Not that I can think of," Will answers, sipping at his tea.
"Okay, how about your job," Finn suggests. "What do you do?"
"I'm an accountant," The older man answers promptly.
The young man bites his lip and crosses out where he has started writing 'Job', "Okay, moving on."
"Hey!" Will declares with false-offense. "Numbers can be sexy."
Finn only knows one number that he would define as sexy, but they're gonna have to focus on getting a woman into Will's bed before positions will become relevant. "I'm considering crossing 'cool' off the list."
"You didn't put 'cool' on the list yet," Will points out.
"Then I guess I was one step ahead," Finn teases, taking a gulp from his coke. The older man narrows his eyes at the teasing, but clearly doesn't take it to heart. Finn's actually a little surprised at how easily the two of them have formed a friendship that allows for playful banter. "So do you have any skills?" He asks and takes up the pen again.
"I play guitar," Will answers, "And I speak Spanish."
"Seriously?" Finn questions. When the other man nods, he challenges him, "Say something in Spanish."
"La casa de la izquierda tiene dos ventanas." The words roll easily off Will's tongue.
Finn stares dumbly and ignores the warmth blooming low in his belly, "What does that mean?"
"The house on the left has two windows," The older man translates with a charming grin.
The young man reflects on how a phrase that simple can sound so sexy (Lips parting, tongue rolling, voice purring) and wishes he'd payed enough attention during his own language classes to be able to emulate the effect. He scribbles down 'Guitar' and 'Spanish', then reviews the list, "Anything else you want to add?"
Will sets his cup down, "I can't think of anything else."
"Okay." Finn underlines the list with a flourish and slides it across to the older man.
Will reads it over, squinting slightly, "'Texy'?"
"That says 'sexy'," The younger man corrects.
"That's an S?" Will turns the page left and right trying to decipher it.
"That's an S," Finn insists firmly. "Look, just read that every night before you go to bed."
Putting down the sheet of paper, the older man looks across to his adviser with a bewildered expression, "Why?"
"It'll remind you of all the things that make you a great guy. One that any woman would be lucky to have," Finn explains. "No woman will like you if you don't like yourself. Self-esteem is one of the most attractive qualities to women," The younger man explains.
"Where did you learn that?"
(The self-destructive spiral of despair I entered for six months after my girlfriend cheated on me with my best friend), "Just something I heard," He lies casually.
He asks Will about his standard approach to chatting up a woman and offers a few suggestions on topics to avoid (Most vitally, do not drop the bomb about his career until he's actually on a date). The conversation meanders away from time to time, but they pull it back on track by discussing the type of woman Will is looking for; and in doing so Finn learns a lot about the ex-Mrs. Schuester because Will seems to start every point on his list of desirable traits with 'Terri used to...' and end it with '...but by the end of our relationship, she'd just changed so much.'
When the evening comes to an end Finn scribbles his telephone number down on another sheet of paper torn from his notebook.
"If you need some advice, I'm available-" Some quick mental arithmetic, "-about four hours out of every day," He finishes honestly. "But the machine will pick up if I'm not there and I promise to call back asap if you need my help," He promises.
Will smiles and tears the bottom of the page off, writing his own number down and handing it back to Finn. "So you can tell me if you have any more bright ideas about how to get me a date," He teases. "Or if you just want to come over some time, you're welcome any evening."
The young man tucks the scrap of paper into the pocket of his jeans. "Hey, I'm supposed to be spending my evenings getting you laid."
Will rolls his eyes as Finn pulls on his jacket and opens the front door, "I'm going to regret letting you help me, aren't I?" He remarks casually leaning in the doorway.
The younger man laughs at the dry remark and bids goodbye, humming cheerily to himself as he heads downstairs and out the main door. He doesn't know at the time that Will's parting shot will come back to haunt him months later.