AUTHOR'S NOTE (PLEASE READ): Since I first started posting Sun Gone Lost, I've gotten nearly twenty messages (mostly by PM) from readers requesting that certain pairings be focused on in this story. I've responded to all of these requests politely, and a couple of you (you know who you are) have messaged me again, requesting the same thing a second time even though I declined it already. As a general rule of thumb, I don't delve into romance unless it actually serves the storyline for the better, and it's extremely rare that I take requests for anything (though it does happen on occasion). Ninety-nine percent of the time, I don't mind receiving requests of this nature because it shows that my readers are truly interested in what I'm writing about, which is definitely a good sign and I appreciate the gesture. However, with a story that deals with something like mental illness, requests like these are just plain offensive, especially when there is nothing said about the story itself. I understand that the intent was not malicious in any way, but I've received far too many to not take offense.

I am aware that this is a fanfiction and its first purpose is to entertain the Gleeful masses. And I also know that this series that I've been working my ass off for is supposed to be fun. But this story in particular is in a different realm than the rest of the Expect the Unexpected installments. Feel free to read the other EtU stories and request pairings (you will most likely be disappointed, but it won't hurt to try and I won't be angry or offended, and there's a chance you might even get what you ask for). However, when you're reading Sun Gone Lost, know that I'm treating it with a very different kind of attention than the others. My main priority here is communicating what schizophrenia is actually like as best as I possibly can (and yes, I am aware that no two schizophrenics are alike – this is just a template, compiled of what I've learned about the disease over time).

This might cost me a considerable percentage of my audience, and I realize that right now I probably sound like I'm putting myself on a pedestal, but I really, really don't care. This needs to be said.

Schizophrenia is a terrifyingly real situation that many people suffer through every single day. It's scary, tragic, difficult, emotional, and extremely frightening to witness firsthand. I am not going to cheapen it by distracting from the illness and focusing instead on how Rachel or Quinn falls in love with Puck in his weakened state. That would be unfair and immoral.

If you're reading this story simply because you're hoping for a cheesy pairing, then you're in the wrong place. There are literally thousands of other stories in the Glee archive alone that obsess over pairings, and hundreds of them are decently written. I can even point you to a few of them. But please, for the sake of this story, do not request romantic plot twists.

"It is better to write for the self and have no public than to write for the public and have no self."

Sun Gone Lost

The day that everything went to shit had dawned windy and bitter. Quinn had trudged her way through her classes before Glee club assembled in the choir room for practice, and when she'd walked in Rachel was yattering away in Mr. Schue's ear about how she deserved to have the solo on When You Got It, Flaunt It (even though it suited Brittany's voice better). A perfectly normal Thursday. She'd dropped into her seat next to Puck, who greeted her with an absent-minded nod.

"Puck, are you okay?"

He gave her a strange look. "What?"

"Are you all right? You look…sick," she said.

He shrugged and looked back to the front of the room, where Brad was puttering around on the piano. Quinn frowned, studying him. He really did look ill – his skin was a little paler than normal and there were shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in several nights. His eyes rose, silently following a path along the edge of the choir room ceiling, like he was watching something Quinn couldn't see.

She dug around in her bag and pulled out one of the granola bars she always had with her, holding it out to him. "I didn't see you eating at lunch. Here."

He glanced at it. "No, thanks," he mumbled.

"Puck, when was the last time you ate?"

He didn't answer.

"Take the granola bar." She pulled the wrapper off halfway and held it out to him again.

The second time he looked at it, he jumped and looked at her with a mix of disgust and alarm on his face. "The hell are you playing at?"

"…What?"

"I see what you're doing," he hissed. "You think it's funny."

"Puck, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yeah, yeah, play innocent." He crossed his arms and snapped his gaze forward.

Quinn remained in a stunned silence for several moments. "Puck," she said at long last. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" he spat, still refusing to look at her. "You're fucking trying to poison me."

"What!"

"Trying to get me to eat bugs—"

"Puck, it's a granola bar," she insisted. "You're freaking me out."

"Stop it!" he cried, his head whipping around to glare at her. She jumped, and by this point the other kids in the room were starting to look over. "You can play dumb all you want but you're not gonna fool me, you fucking bitch."

"Hey!" Mr. Schuester barked, having overheard from where he was standing by the piano. "Puck, you can either take a chill pill or you can leave. I don't want that kind of language in my classroom."

Puck gritted his teeth, taking in the various looks the other Gleeks were giving him. Kurt and Mercedes were angry, ready to jump in at Quinn's defense. Rachel, Mike, Matt, Finn, and Santana all looked startled. Brittany was glaring at him with her best kicked-puppy look. "Puck, that was mean," she said.

"No, you know what's mean?" he snapped. "The fact that you're all in on it!"

"In on what?" Quinn cried, half exasperated and half terrified.

Mr. Schue came over. "Puck, if this is some prank you're pulling, you'd better end it now, because it isn't funny."

"'Course it's not funny!" Puck shouted. Then he pointed to Quinn. "But she thinks it is! They all do!"

"What is going on with you?" Mercedes demanded.

"There's nothing going on with me!"

"Puck," Mr. Schue said, his voice low and even. "My office. Now."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I didn't do shit, okay?"

Mr. Schue planted his hands on his hips. "Puck—" he started, clearly growing angrier.

"What, so now you're taking their side?" Puck accused.

"There's no sides to take here, Puck."

"Yeah, bullshit."

"Have you got something you want to share with the class?" Mr. Schue's voice was tight, almost challenging. He'd had enough of Puck's behavior.

"How about that Quinn doesn't realize I'm trying to save her life?"

Mr. Schue's frown vanished, replaced by confusion and alarm. All eleven of the other people in the room seemed to simultaneously realize that something was off, that this wasn't just Puck being a dick. "Save her life from what?" Mr. Schue asked, his anger gone without a trace.

Puck ran a hand over his scalp, bending over like he was about to be sick. "Fucking hell," he muttered.

"Are you feeling all right, Puck?" Mr. Schue reached forward and put a hand on Puck's shoulder.

Abruptly, Puck's arm whipped up and slapped his teacher's hand away, and he lurched to his feet, towering over Mr. Schue and yelling directly into his face. "Don't touch me!"

"Puck, I think you just need to calm down—"

"You fucking calm down!" Puck shouted, shoving Mr. Schue hard enough so that the teacher had to stagger backwards a few steps to maintain his balance. "Don't. Touch. Me," he snarled, whipping around just as Quinn reached for his arm.

"Puck, man—" Finn started, edging towards him with his hands held in a placating gesture.

Puck's head cocked rigidly to the side, his body tense and full of warning. "Get away from me, Finn. I know you're in on it with the rest of them."

Puck sat slouched in the uncomfortable armchair situated for patients in the office of Dr. Greg Lanning, a large-ish black man with a penchant for the casual jeans-and-a-polo appearance, though Puck was pretty certain that Lanning's way of dress was a subtle attempt to make himself seem friendly and less threatening to his patients. Puck wasn't exactly sure how high up on the hospital food chain Lanning was, but judging by the minimal but expensive décor, he at least thought he was the big cheese.

"Why do you think you wake up at that particular point every time you have this dream?" Lanning inquired, eyebrows arched in professional curiosity.

"Fuck if I know."

"Do you think it might have something to do with your relationship with Finn?"

Puck shrugged, chewing on his thumbnail. "Finn's my friend. That simple."

"But you impregnated his girlfriend. Fathered a child he thought was his."

"I'm a dick, everyone knows that."

Lanning quirked an eyebrow and scrawled something on his notepad, falling silent for almost a full minute. "Is it possible that you feel most guilty about accusing Finn of being out to get you?" he asked when he'd finished writing.

"How the fuck would I know that? You're the psychologist, you've got the degree. You figure it out."

"I'm sure the nurses have told you multiple times, Noah, but language like that really doesn't help the situation."

He shrugged. "It's the way I talk, doc."

"How are things going in the rest of the world?"

"Pretty generic question, don't you think?"

Lanning shrugged. "Better to start with the generic and then work our way down to the specifics, though."

Puck toyed with a loose thread in his plaid pajama bottoms. "Things are going slowly. Same as last week."

"Do you think you're making progress?"

"Well, I've been drooling less…"

"Come on, Noah," Lanning urged. "Drop the attitude."

"Look, doc, I don't know exactly what you want from me here."

Lanning draped one leg over the other, lacing his fingers around his knee. "You must realize by now that I'm trying to help you."

"Yeah, sure." Puck tore a hangnail away from his index finger with his teeth, his leg jiggling. "I expose my soul and you make the big bucks."

Lanning quirked an eyebrow, deciding to veer the conversation in a more concentrated direction. "Any hallucinations recently?"

"Define recent."

"Today."

"Well, there was a rat in my room this morning, but Tyler didn't see it, so I'm pretty sure that it wasn't there. Not to mention it was walking on the ceiling."

Lanning scribbled on his notepad. "How is Tyler?"

Puck frowned. "Why the fuck are you asking me about Tyler?"

"Well, Tyler's your roommate, and so he factors into your wellbeing."

"You know…going back to the flashback nightmares, I have a feeling my sleep habits would be a hell of a lot better if I didn't have Tyler Fucking Rooney yapping in my ear for at least three hours a night."

"What are you guys talking about?"

"We're not talking about anything. He, on the other hand, will talk about anything he finds remotely interesting, which usually means shit like one of the nurses getting a boob job or how to murder someone in the shortest amount of time while inflicting the greatest amount of pain."

"We've been speaking with Tyler about restraining himself in his social interactions, but it will take some time."

"Yeah, you said that last week," Puck snapped. "I got a better idea. How about you actually put those straitjackets you keep lying around to use, stick Rooney in a padded cell, and do us all a favor?"

"Isolation is reserved as a last resort, Noah, you know this." Lanning marked a couple things down and moved on to another question. "How do you feel about your mother not visiting?"

A muscle in Puck's jaw twitched and he turned to glower out the window, watching a flock of swifts ride the wind. He reached up to chew on his thumbnail again.

"Noah?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."