a/n: idek what this is i am so sorry if it sucks i do not live in america i know nothing i am dumb and i'm also lazy so no intense research on the j school yolo :) poem is by e.e. cummings please please review?
/
. . . (and anything's righter
than books
could plan)
. . . (and birds sing sweeter
than books
tell how)
. . . (we are everything greater
than books
might mean)
/
He doesn't have any dreams. For a while he thought hanging around 7-eleven looking just depressed enough so someone would buy him a beer, might be one. It wasn't. He even checked with his guidance counselor Ms. Pillsbury.
His friends have dreams though. Like Finn, his best— and practically only friend who wanted to hang out with him after school hours. He was going to study something with his drums or some shit. All he knew is that it was probably a lot of work and it sounded lame.
He didn't get it. The whole college thing. There was no point, not for him anyways. Finn's school was in New York though and he suggested he'd come.
"You could be like one of those guys who puts away peoples cars at hotels or something. People will always need them. Unless they invent some kind of robot or something."
Yeah, right. He wasn't going to put anyone's car away— he wasn't gonna park some lazy ass rich guy's Lamberini because he was too lazy to walk six feet, besides, he'd get to tempted to steal a few.
But if there was one thing he wanted out of life, it was to get the fuck out of Lima. New York wasn't far but at least it wasn't Loserville, population him.
/
New York wasn't Lima, all right. Everything's bigger, people are even weirder and dreams appear to be even more important. Must be the water or something.
And he's alone. Like all the time. Finn's too busy with slamming sticks down on round objects or fixing cars at a local car shop and their other roommate, Mike, is always dancing somewhere since he goes to the same sissy school as Finn. Something with a J and then it probably spells something French and rich.
He tries to get a job because he can't continue being an asshole and not pay his part of the rent. Finn and Mike tell him not to worry about it and give him weird looks, like they fucking pity him. He's not someone who gets pitied.
What? Because he doesn't have a fucking job or some lame ass education or any other friends beside them, doesn't mean he's lonely or unhappy.
He can't handle their sad girly stares anymore so when someone offers him the salesman job at some cd store he takes it. It's boring because who the fuck buys cds anymore— and he has to work long hours but he's doing something, right?
At least he's not dancing around in tutus like Mike or studying the history of a fucking drum like Finn.
/
He goes to see Finn's stupid showcase in his second years in New York. He missed all of the showcases in Finn's freshman year because of work— but since he's basically managing the damn place by now he gets to pick his own hours (he totally had to change shifts with the new guy Jacob Ben but after threatening to use his Jew Fro as a toilet unclogger it worked out great for every party).
He's fucking bored as hell because all people were doing is dance to ancient music— and not old school nineties but actual Mozart and shit— or they were reciting a shitty ballad that seemed to take an eternity. He didn't even look up from his phone until he heard Finn's name (and even then he had to try his hardest).
He was playing the drums on the side of the stage accompanied by some blonde guy on a guitar and a baby faced violinist or cellist or whatever (woah, was that dude wearing a skirt?).
And man, he was already practicing his face for when he would have to lie to Finn and say it was great.
The music started and after a few beats three girls entered the stage and were doing different kinds of dances— or maybe it were acrobatics, he doesn't even care. One was doing weird pirouettes over and over (fuck, he was getting dizzy) and some big nosed chick was in a split by now but for some reason the blonde girl caught his attention and seemed to automatically be registered in his mind.
She was moving so gracefully, her arms stretching with every move she made as her skirt fluttered with every twirl and jump. And by now he was thinking fuck Finn, man— she was amazing.
/
He tried to be smooth about it, not ask Finn about her and just compliment him about his drumming (he didn't hear jackshit of it but he was a good liar and Finn was awesome but he wasn't exactly bright) until the next morning.
"So, who were those other people in your performance?" He asked casually as he royally squeezed some more syrup onto his waffles.
"Oh, you mean those guys? Their names are Sam and Kurt, they're in my contemporary music class. They're all right." He almost rolled his eyes because wasn't it some kind of bro code for Finn to know he meant the fucking chicks and not the guys?
"And those girls?"
He shrugged, "They call themselves the unholy trinity. Quinn, Santana and Rachel. I only spoke to them a few times." Finn rolls his eyes as he takes a spoonful of captain crunch in his mouth, chewing loudly. He talks with his mouth still half full, "One of them insisted we'd record the track so they could practice without us in private and wouldn't have to look at the faces of failure. And when we were together Santana told us if we'd dare to talk she had razor blades hidden in her hair."
"Rachel? Was that the blonde?" He asks— and he's being smooth, okay?— as he bites down in his waffle. The images of the blonde had been on repeat in his mind the entire fucking night. He had to at least know a damn name. So he could forget it, okay? He wasn't the kind of guy to obsess over a girl after he'd seen her dance. Once.
"Nah, the blonde is Quinn. What's with all the questions?" Finn raises his eyebrows, filling his second bowl with captain crunch and Puck shakes his head in response.
"Nothing, man, just trying to show some interest in your lame ass rendition of Bach. It must be so hard to rhythmically hit down onto iron tupperware with a pair of fucking enlarged chopsticks," he smirks and Finn narrows his eyes at his best friend.
"Hey, yesterday you said it was awesome!"
"I lied, what the fuck did you think, sir sounds-gay-a-lot?"
/
He goes to Finn's school a lot after he forces Jacob Ben to take care of the store. He barges in during classes claiming it was because of stupid shit like 'I found a mole on the back of my head, can you check it out?' or 'can you pick up some toilet paper on your way home?' hoping to catch the blonde, Quinn, whatever, but he never does. (He also never does this kind of shit when he's seen a girl dance once, but fuck it. He tries not to think about that part.)
He can tell Finn is starting to get really annoyed (and even Mike seems more on edge lately and the dude supports world peace— or was it Asian domination? Whatever, he doesn't remember.) but then he finally finds her.
It's after school— it figures— when Finn is playing live music with those dudes from the showcase during some ballet dance rehearsal. Mike is dancing with the blonde— Quinn, he keeps forgetting she's an actual person and not just the girl haunting him in his dreams— and they seem to have the lead— and fuck, is Mike gay because he'd totally be rocking a boner right now if she was hanging onto him like that and wrapping her legs around him and shit.
He pretends he's just here for Finn and Mike, claiming they could grab dinner afterwards and soon enough he's there at every rehearsal. And it's not like he's creeping on her the entire time, because he's not that kind of a loser. The type that stalks a girl. He just likes watching her dance and being around his friends and it beats hanging around in the cd store, staring at a poster of whichever boy band was hot that week.
What? He's actually kind of starting to like the music and shit. (And her. He's really starting to like her.)
/
"You stepped on my toe, Michael. I can't believe you stepped on my toe! And you call yourself a dancer? You're nothing!" Mike mocks Quinn's voice as he takes the kung pao chicken from Finn and hands him the steamed moo shu. Puck keeps quiet from over his spot on the floor as he focuses his attention onto the football game on the screen.
"Look at me! I'm perfect!" Mike adds with a frown as he frustratedly stabs a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. Finn laughs, shaking his head to himself. "Sometimes I consider she's soulless."
"I'm not violent, I'm not, but she makes me want to pull out my hair," Mike sighs as he rolls his shoulders, rubbing one of them tiredly.
"She's not that bad," Puck can't help but cut in before he gulps down half of his beer.
"She's a bitch," Finn retorts, giving him an incredulous look. Puck shrugs and to be honest, he's getting kind of aggravated with his friends. She might be a little cold towards them and sure, she acted like a bitch the entire time during rehearsal and from what he gathered in between her little outbursts of bitchiness and name calling she was pretty high maintenance, but he liked to think of her as a chick with lots of layers. (So not his type but there was something about her and he fucking hated it how she had him entranced at her very first move.)
"Yeah, but have you ever considered she might be really fucking talented and you just really suck?" Puck raises his eyebrows at Mike, who doesn't say anything. Okay, he might be a dick at the moment because Mike had a fucking scholarship and he'd been dancing since he was like three but whatever.
"You like her, don't you?" Finn's eyes were gleaming mischievously as he sat up from his spot on the couch.
Mike's eyes light up like he just had the fucking revelation of the year as he nodded his head, "You do!"
"No, I don't," he tightened his jaw as he stuffed his mouth with noodles. Fuck them. Secretly liking a girl he'd never talked to was slightly creepy and weird, but admitting it out loud was just that much worse and not even remotely okay. He was not going to give in to them.
Finn let out a chuckle, shaking his head to himself, "You're a fucking horndog, dude. All you're seeing is the skirt. I bet you don't even know her last name."
He had a point there. He didn't know her last name. He liked her skirts. A lot. He can't even mention how many times he had thought about her not wearing those skirts, because fuck— she was fucking hot, okay? But there was something about her, that made him think she was his Messiah but had him wishing for salvation of her at the same time.
"Fuck you," he mumbles and crosses his arms as he leans back against the couch, stretching his legs under the kitchen table.
"Whatever, dude. It's cool," Finn holds up his hands in defense but Puck doesn't bother to look up from the TV.
"Yeah, like half of our school's into her," Mike adds mindlessly, his attention already shifting towards the game on the screen.
Well, fucking thanks Chang, that made him feel so much better.
/
"Finn, can you not screw up our beat for once?" She snaps as she gets up from the floor, Mike having dropped her for the third time that day, because she kept losing her balance because of the damn beat. Mike sighs, running a hand over his sweaty head as the two other girls and their partners take a five and sit down to drink some water.
"Sorry," he mumbles and Puck snickers, because it's a little bit funny, right? Finn, this big 6'3 tall guy getting scared shitless because of a fragile little girl (something tells him she's not fragile at all but he likes thinking of his friend as a dumb fucking pussy). It's kind of hot actually.
"Let's just do the lift one more time, without the music and the back-up dancers." He licks his lip as she starts stretching again before she cracks her neck and nods her head towards Mike.
They do, or they try, because next thing he knows she's on the floor, holding her ankle and Mike is bowed over her and he hears that Santana yell in Spanish and Rachelle, or whatever, looks like she's going to throw up and he's pretty sure that he's sporting the same expression as her.
Mike tries to pick her up but she pushes him away, "You already dropped me once, Micheal! You think I'm going to take another chance on you with my education— with my career at risk?"
"I'll help you," Puck offers (and he doesn't really think about it because that's how he usually is with girls. Smooth and flirty and they usually give in. But she's not a girl he'd usually hit on so maybe he should've thought twice).
"I don't need your help," she snaps, trying to get up herself. She fails (and fails again and again and fuck, she really is a tough one).
"You're going to have to get up any time soon now, sweetheart," he says skeptically but she ignores him. He hears Finn snicker but a look from that Ragel shuts him up soon enough.
"Let the squirrel help you, Q," the Latina tells her, crossing her arms. He sends a glare her way before he hears Quinn sigh, holding out her hands. Maybe he should thank her after all.
"Well?" She snaps impatiently as she narrows her eyes at him. He reaches down and takes a hold of both of her hands, helping her up with ease. She winces as she tries putting some weight on her foot. She almost slips again but he quickly grabs her by the waist steadying her.
She looks over at him with a weird look in her eyes, like she's suspicious and thankful and confused at the same time. He really doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to think off that.
"San, can you hand me my sweater? I think— I think I just need to go home and rest a little." Her voice is trembling and he sees her hands shake lightly. The chick nods, quickly grabbing the sweater and handing it to her.
"We'll take it from here," the brown haired chick tells him with a small smile. The other one only glares at him, looking down at his hand still on Quinn's waist. "Are you going to get your greasy paws off her anytime soon or should I start calling 1-900-rapist-alert?"
"Oh, right," he says dumbly, letting go of her waist as the girls lead her away.
Mike pats his shoulder, "Sorry dude. I know you expected at least a little gratitude but believe me, you're not going to get it from the ice queen."
Finn sends him a sympathetic smile, "Believe me, man. All the pain you will have to go through to get her.. She's not worth it."
/
Finn and Mike invite him to party at Santana's apartment and he isn't really that keen on spending an evening with a few little stuck up rich brats— that is, until he overhears Mike telling Finn the 'witch of the wicked upper east side' will be making her first re-appearance since her accident two weeks ago. Although he isn't really fond of the nickname, he figures it can only mean one thing. Quinn will be there.
Finn is dating one of those other two chicks now, not the mean Latina, but the big nosed Jew. Her name's Raquel or something— and no offense but Finn's a fucking douche. He wouldn't know how to pick up a girl even if she was spelling out the word 'sex' in big, shiny, red letters. If he could get with one of those high ass maintenance babes, he could too, right?
And even if he couldn't get with Quinn, the worst that could happen is that he would be able to pick up another girl. A party is a party, right? It means the same even if you're rich. Booze, music and sex.
So it's a win-win.
He spots Mike and Finn near the kegs and quickly makes his way over to them. He's never been this uncomfortable in a sea of people since now. It must be all the bowties and cardigans and leather shoes.
"Hey man, you're just on time. Rachel's about to perform," Finn says excitedly, his eyes twinkling as he thrusts a blue solo cup into his hand. Mike just gives him a look and Puck shrugs in response. He knows exactly what he's getting at. Finn is as whipped as that ancient dude that killed himself for that chick called Julia.
Soon enough Rickilee— uhm, R..achel? Yeah, Rachel— is belting out the lyrics to a Christina Aguilera song, and he has to admit— he's real impressed.
"Wow, I didn't know she could sing like that," Puck tells Finn and Mike nods his head in confirmation.
"The only reason she's studying dance is because she already knows how to sing," Finn tells them, as he proudly adds, "She's going to be on Broadway, one day."
Mike lets out a snicker (and Puck knows that means he's already had a few drinks too much— probably one since Mike wasn't really that big on alcohol anyway) and he shakes his head at Finn's awestruck expression as Rachel sends him a wink. He spots Quinn in the corner of his eye, standing by herself in the back.
She looks so pretty with her hair down and jeans on and he doesn't think he has ever seen her so— relaxed? He can't help but make his way over there, and he's not a weird stalker like his colleague Jacob Ben, okay? He has pictures of his 'girlfriend' stapled all over the wall and once told him he got turned on by 'girls who weren't afraid to say no' when he offered them a 'piece of Jacobus'. Creeper.
He just thinks she's really beautiful and talented and he likes the way she sometimes sends him a smile when no one else is looking. A very small one but he notices nonetheless.
"What are you doing here all by yourself?"
"When you spend all your time in a dance studio you don't really tend to befriend anyone. The only reason I'm not in a dance studio right now but at a party, is because the doctor only permitted minimal movement and somehow I let Rachel and Santana talk me into looking like a complete loser," she says bitterly, before taking another sip of her drink. She frowns a little turning her head to look at him, "I'm sorry, I think I drank a little too much. I never talk this much to someone I don't know."
He remains silent for a while as they both watch Rachel (he better start remembering her damn name now Finn seems fucking hellbound on marrying her and impregnating her, cue a roll of the eyes) and Santana perform a duet by Kelly Clarkson.
People finally seem to have loosened up a little. He would give Rachel and Santana credit but he has a feeling it's because of the amount of alcohol that's disappeared within the last few minutes.
"Well, I don't think you look like a loser. I think you look nice," he finally says as he turns to look at her.
She looks up at him with a frown, her arms crossed and he can't help but notice he really likes the braid in her hair on the top of her head. She is really pretty, no matter if she wears that damn bun on the back of her head or down like she does now.
She ignores his previous statement with ease, "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with Michael and Finn?"
"Nah, they're fine without me. Shouldn't you be having fun?"
"What makes you think I'm not having fun?" She retorts and God, her eyes are really something.
"Well, it seems like you're thinking about ballet shoes and how to do the most pirouettes in ten seconds. You get this tense look on your face, it's pretty funny," he smiles, taking a swig of his own beer.
"Look, this might sound hilarious to you," her jaw tightens just a little, just enough for him to notice it does, "But ballet is everything to me. And this year is my last chance."
"What do you mean? You're a sophomore, right? You still have two and half years. Look, if it's about your foot.. Your foot—"
"Long story short," she empties her cup in her mouth in one gulp before continuing, "My parents don't think dancing is something to brag to their high profile friends about. They don't consider it a profession. They told me if I didn't get a serious offer from a company this year, I'd have to go to Yale."
"That sucks major ass," he flat out admits and her head snaps to face him. She gives him an incredulous look before a small laugh bubbles up her throat.
"Yes, it kind of does, doesn't it?"
He thinks this is the first time he's heard an actual laugh come out of her and he can't help but laugh along.
"You're really talented. I don't even like ballet and I can see it," he tells her honestly (and since when is he honest while picking up a chick? He's not even sure if this is just a pick-up anymore— what the fuck?). He continues, "Your ankle will get better soon enough and you still have half a year to get a company to contract you— or you know, whatever."
"Thank you," she smiles up at him and literally, it's the best smile he's ever gotten (and he doesn't think anyone could ever defeat it again).
By now, Rachel and Santana are off in a rendition of so what from Pink and the latter one points at him at the words 'you're a tool' and doesn't hesitate to send him a glare.
"What's her problem anyway?" Puck knits his eyebrows together as he leans his shoulder against the wall next to him, taking a sip of his beer.
"There's a reason you can't spell Santana without the word Satan," she gives him a serious look before they both laugh.
He's looking in her eyes and she's looking back and he's feeling all of these things and gross, what is even happening? Before he knows it he hears Mike yell through the microphone 'Asians unite' and Quinn laughs again, nodding towards his friend.
"I think he's going to throw up." She bites her lip as she watches Mike wave his shirt above his head before he lazily winks at Santana, throwing his shirt around her and pulling her closer. He doesn't think he's ever seen anyone looks this disgusted before.
Puck scrunches his face up as his eyes follow a random dude becoming the victim of the ugly drunk Mike Chang. "I think he just did. Well, that's my cue."
She grabs his wrist as he's about to walk away. "Wait.."
"Yeah?" He turns his head to look at her, and he's never been really good at reading faces but there's something about the look in her eyes that tells him she's actually really insecure.
"Thank you. Again."
"No problem."
/
He's getting really sick of Finn always making out on the couch with Rachel and Mike's constantly out with another Asian who goes to NYADA because she's the only one who 'gets him'— whatever the fuck that may mean.
And work isn't everything either. He was fine at first with just making money, it didn't really matter what he was doing— but when he sees Finn studying another lame ass occurrence in history about music or sees Mike stay up until two a.m. to perfect his plié or piqué or pliotron, he feels kind of empty.
It's not like he's ever going to admit that. He's not a pussy. He just needs to continue being him, like always.
/
He's bringing over Mike's notes on 'glossary' or whatever (it sounds like something you'd find in a chick's purse to him) when he spots Quinn. He's about to say hi (what dudes can say hi, too) when he notices she's not alone.
"You're never going to make it if you continue dancing like this, Ms. Fabray," a tall, dark haired woman in a pencil skirt tells her. "I know you're worried about being contracted and about your parents but I think somewhere along the way you forgot you were here to dance. That is you solely purpose, Ms. Fabray. Dance. Ballet."
"I know you took a chance on me, Ms. Corcoran. I've been practicing really hard ever since I sprained my ankle and I caught up with everyone else in the dance classes that I missed, I don't know how to prove to you that I'm good enough," she sounds so small and he hates this. He shouldn't feel bad because she does— they're not even in a fucking relationship. They're not even friends. She wraps her arms around herself as she looks down at her pink ballet shoes.
"Listen, Quinn, I know you can dance. I know you're good enough. I'm even sure you're better than ninety percent on this school. When it comes down to technique," the woman puts a hand on Quinn's shoulder, "But you've lost your passion. There's no emotion when you dance. You need to loosen up. You need to find that spark that made me want to take a chance on you."
Quinn remains silent as the woman stares at her intently. "Dance for you, Quinn. Not for me, not for your parents. Or a company— or, or because you feel like you need to prove something. The final showcase is coming up soon, Quinn. You can do it. I know you can. Now you just have to learn to start trusting yourself."
Quinn nods her head, a frown on her face and the woman offers her one final smile and a shoulder squeeze before leaving the dance studio, passing him.
"Good morning, sir."
"'Sup." He nods at the woman, pretending he was just casually hanging around there.
"Were you eavesdropping?" He hears the blonde sneer from behind him.
"No, no, I came here to find, Mike, to bring his notes," he holds up the folder and when he sees her face soften he feels kind of bad for lying.
"Oh, I'm— I'm really sorry. I'm kind of.. Out of it today," she smiles a little, but he can tell it's not real (and he wonders at what point of a relationship guys figure out the difference between a real smile and a fake one and he wonders if he isn't completely out of his mind for pursuing a girl who's obviously so out of his league and so not into him) her soft pink cardigan slipping of her shoulder.
He slips it back over her shoulder in a reflex and she blushes a little as his hand comes in contact with her soft skin. It feels kind of weird touching her, this weird feeling creeps over his spine and he's touched a lot of girls— a lot, but none of them made him feel like this with one single touch. He doesn't like it one bit.
"W-well," she shivers a little, finishing her sentence before biting down on her lip, "I think Mike is on the second floor in the recording room with Finn and Rachel. I could show you where it is?"
"Sure."
/
"Hi Puck," she smiles at him at the beginning of her rehearsal. He hadn't really planned on being there today since for some reason the cd store is been quite busy lately (he blames it on all those indie bands on the radio claiming piracy is for dicks— hipsters were invading his store like no tomorrow) but Finn had asked him to come check out their dress rehearsal before showing it to Corcoran, claiming they needed an outsiders opinion since they were all biased.
Well, he kind of is, too. Because— because Finn and Mike are his friends, so...
"Hey," he smiles back at her before Finn slaps him on the back of the head. "Focus. Okay, so you need to look out for anything..."
"Hey Puck, marry me, let me have your babies," he hears Santana mock her and she glances over at him quickly, but he pretends like he's listening to Finn intently. "Let me leave scratch marks on your back during sex because I haven't gotten laid since pre-school and I've resorted to dating people from the South Bronx. The South."
"Shut up, Santana," Quinn nudges her as she continues stretching (and sure he isn't still looking at her) as Santana lets out a chuckle. Rachel sends Santana a glare before skipping over to Finn, initiating a third make-out session for that day (2 a.m. on the couch when he came back from inventorying and before breakfast and continuing during breakfast— or as he liked to refer to it Puck's daily hurling hour).
"Okay, let's take it from the top," Quinn announces as she tightens her ponytail, testing out a pirouette before going to stand in position with Mike.
They finish within a few moments and he doesn't really know what to say.
"Well although the dancing was perfect," his eyes land on Quinn and she smiles nervously, "It was basically the same thing you guys have been doing since the first showcase. It was kind of predictable. And boring."
"What does he even know? He's just here to stare at Quinn Fabray's pretty ass." Santana huffs, crossing her arms and Rachel nods her head in confirmation. (He's learned to just ignore Santana ever since he ended up with a scare the size of one of her claws.)
"No offense, Noah, but you don't even know anything about ballet. We're already one of the more modern and advanced ballet groups for even using a drumbeat in our piece. Some ballet schools still consider that alone as an outrage. A blasphemy. A travesty. We're already out on a limb."
"Bullshit," he spats and Rachel gasps in shock.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You guys are just afraid to be different. Sure, you took the initiative by using uncommon music, but what you're actually doing is just using a drum beat. It's still a boring beat. It still sucks. You should loosen up," his eyes land on Quinn again and he can't help it but he knows she knows he's right. He is right. Fine, they're good, but they don't stand out. He's seen enough prissy showcases to affirm that.
"I must object. I know I'm talented and although Quinn has the lead doesn't mean we, in your choice of words 'suck'. I consider myself as simply outstanding—"
"Dude, that is so not cool, you don't know how long we've worked on getting this right—"
"You've just crossed the line, Puckerman. You're about to experience some of Snix's wrath and it's not going to be pretty—"
"He's right," Quinn interrupts them. Everyone looks her way (and he thinks he actually sees Rachel's jaw drop to the fucking floor) and she swallows hard. "We need to stop being so focused on being precise and being in sync. We're too, too— uptight."
He thinks Rachel's crying.
"We need to loosen up," Quinn looks at all of them before glancing questionly at him. He gives her an encouraging nod (because it's kind of hot when she bosses everyone around).
Mike shrugs, turning towards Puck, "What do you suggest?"
/
Sometimes you're waiting for something and you don't even know. He's felt like he's been waiting for something his entire life but on a Tuesday night in an abandoned school he finally gets it.
"Oh no," Rachel mutters as she sinks down onto the floor and feels under the couch with her hand.
"What are you doing, dwarf?" Puck looks away from the Notebook (a fucking lame ass movie Rachel made them watch as payback for watching too much ESPN. There is no such thing as 'too much' ESPN but since Finn is Rachel's personal little bitch there really wasn't much arguing). "We're watching this movie for you. Now is not the time to go down on, Hudson."
"I am appalled by your language, Noah, and no— I am simply looking for my phone."
"Didn't you have it on you earlier?" Finn starts feeling around on the couch as Rachel gets up and checks her purse before checking in Finn's room.
She shakes her head, "It's not here. I think I left it at school." She sighs, "I need to get it before anyone else steals it in the morning." She's about to slip back into her shoes when Puck protests.
"I'll get it, please, let me get it before I grow a vagina."
Finn snickers and Rachel glares at Puck before giving in, "Fine. Anything for me to be able to stay with my Finnybear."
"Don't throw up, Puck. Do not throw up," he yells so he's sure they know he's grossed out as fuck by them as he slips into his jacket and makes his way out.
He's surprised when the school is actually still open and he makes way through the building as if he himself had build it. He stops momentarily at the 'wall of honor' and can't help but smile when he sees Quinn, Santana, Rachel and some other blond chick posing like they're in the fucking swan pond or whatever. He remembers he's here to do something else and quickly shakes his head. He really needs to get over this silly little infatuation he has with Quinn Fabray.
He's already stuffing Rachel's sparkly, pink phone in his pocket when he hears music coming from one of the dance studios.
He quietly follows the sound when he spots Quinn. It's the music from her routine with Mike and the others. He suggested they'd make it a little bit more 'rock' and start out with normal dance steps and they had managed pretty well up until now. Especially Quinn. So, what the hell was she doing here at twelve-thirty?
He watches her try to a turn and then another and another before jumping and then turning so many times he gets dizzy. He watches her try it again and again. She runs a hand through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror before trying it again. She slips after the second turn, falling down onto the floor.
She doesn't get back up and for a second he's worried she's really hurt herself this time. He rushes to her aid but when he gets closer he notices she's crying.
"Quinn?"
"Puck?" She quickly wipes her cheeks with her wrist before trying to get up. Halfway there, she falls back onto her butt and she winces as she rubs her ankle.
He sinks onto the floor next to her, "Does it hurt?"
She shakes her a head a little, sniffing, "No, not really. What are you doing here?"
"I came to pick up Rachel's phone. What are you doing here so late?"
"I—I just need this to be perfect. I need this to be perfect so when I don't get interest from anyone, I'll know I was the best I could be," her voice is trembling a little and she refuses to look at him.
"You really need to stop being so fucking hard on yourself," he blurts out and her head shoots up.
"Excuse me?"
"Look, I know if anyone is going to be great— It's going to be you," he tells her and she blinks a few times, swallowing hard.
"That's sweet but I don't, I don't think I have what it takes. Ms. Corcoran told me to dance for myself and I try to, I do, but all I can think about when I'm performing is whether my back is straightened enough or my toes are pointing well enough or if my last battement développé was on time— I just, I can't let go," she tries to get up again and he helps her. She tries out her foot, and she seems pleased it doesn't hurt when she spins.
"I know I'm just a random guy with little education, especially not when it comes to lame ass shit like ballet, but I know that you're something special. Anyone can tell by just looking at you. I could," he pauses, hesitating before adding, "I think I kind of fell in love with the way you dance the first time I saw you." He knows he shouldn't be saying this, shouldn't be feeling this but he can't help himself and he just fucking wants her to be great. He knows she can be.
"I believe in you," he assures her, his hand on her cheek as he wipes away her tears with the pad of his thumb.
She kisses him, her hand landing on his wrist. And it's like he finally finds something he's been looking for his entire life. That sounds so incredibly gay and corny and fucking gross that he almost feels disgusted by himself but then he remembers Quinn Fabray is kissing him and honestly? He fucking couldn't care less.
It's short but he doesn't think a kiss from her will ever be long enough. "I'm sorry," she apologizes but he shakes his head and kisses her again.
He takes a hold of her hand and puts it on his shoulder, taking a hold of the other as he rests his free hand on her waist. "Dance with me?"
She nods her head against his chest, "I'd be honored to."
/
"Shh," she tells him, putting a finger to her lips as she leads him to her room. "If we wake up Santana I won't live to see another day."
She squints her eyes as she looks at him, sitting down on her bed. "You kind of look like you have a mustache on your head."
"I think you're a little drunk," he chuckles lightly as he sits down next to her. She touches his head, a small smile forming on her lips.
"I've never really been drunk," she replies, laying down on her back as she closes her eyes. "I have never even drunk before."
"If I would've known that I wouldn't have given you two pink drinks," he tells her teasingly as he brushes her damp hair from her forehead.
"Everybody hates me," she mumbles, opening her eyes to stare at her ceiling. "It's because I'm a bitch."
"I don't hate you," he retorts, not even missing a beat. He knows she's just being a self pity drunk but his mom always told him that a drunk speaks the truth— and he's had his fair share of alcohol himself. "And you're not a bitch for knowing what you want."
He pokes her side softly when she doesn't reply, "Santana, however.."
"You're sweet," she giggles, her eyes twinkling as she plays with the hem of her shirt. She puts one hand on the back of his neck and pulls him down, kissing him hard. She starts pulling on his shirt, "Do you want to.."
"I don't think it's a good idea," he takes her hand off his neck and holds it instead.
"Do you hate me, too?"
"No, I like you too much," he answers, squeezing her hand. There's no way he's going to crash this plane before it's even gotten off the ground. He can't help but hope she won't remember any of this in the morning.
"Ugh," she closes her eyes again, scrunching her nose as she pouts. "Fine. Will you lay here with me or is that too sexy for you?"
He kisses her forehead, laughing as he lays down next to her. She puts his arm around her waist and he can't believe he's spooning with a damn girl he hasn't even had sex with. This is getting out of hand and he can't even stop it. He can't stop his feelings from taking over.
"Thank you," he hears her mutter faintly before drifting off to sleep.
/
"I want the chocolate one and the strawberry," she tells him, her fingertips pressed against the glass as she leans forward to get a better look at all of the flavors of ice cream.
"Both? Risky choice," he teases her and her head snaps towards him, raising her eyebrows.
"Are you going to get me my ice cream or am I going to have to find myself a date who knows how to have fun?"
"Two flavors of ice cream is your idea of fun?" It's his turn to raise his eyebrows as he takes the ice cream from the employee and hands one to her. He quickly shoves a five dollar bill on the counter, telling him to keep the change.
"Getting me drunk is your idea of fun?" She retorts, licking ice cream of her hand— the warm weather already causing it to drip— as they start to walk.
He bumps his shoulder into hers as he licks his own ice cream, "Hey, I did not get you drunk. How was I supposed to know you'd get drunk after one sip? Besides, that was weeks ago, are you going to hold that against me forever?"
"You're an egghead," she laughs, shaking her head as they sit down on a bench in the park. She maneuvers her ice cream from one hand to another as she takes of her denim jacket and rests it on her lap.
He puts one arm on the bench behind her as he leans back on the bench, "I'm an egghead?" He gives her a look and she nods her head, her hair blowing in the wind as she smiles.
"I'm not the one who's wearing ice cream on my face," she states with a grin as she reaches out to wipe the liquid of his chin with her thumb.
"Yeah, you kinda do," he says, pushing his ice cream against her nose causing her to gasp.
"I can't believe you just did that," she elbows him in the ribs as she takes a tissue from her purse and wipes her nose.
He leans over and kisses her on her lips. "I'm sorry? You were making fun of my handsome face, it's how I haul all the ladies in."
"Egghead," she repeats, with a smirk, leaning into his side, as she continues eating her ice cream, "As I said."
/
He wakes up to a scream from Rachel. Seriously, he only recognizes it because she's always talking— about herself or Finn or her dreams, when she's not singing of course. He doesn't even know why she's fucking screaming this early, most of all, he can't even get himself to care either.
He sighs, feeling around for Quinn but she's not there. Goddamnit. He gets up, running a hand through his mohawk before entering the kitchen.
"You never told me you guys got together!"
"It's not like that, Rachel."
Oh... Him and Quinn had kind of been seeing each other.. A lot? He didn't really know what they were he just knew it felt really great and that everyday he found out Quinn Fabray was even more amazing than the day before. They hadn't really bothered to tell anyone though, since they didn't really feel like dealing with all the drama.
This drama. Crazy drama. I-feel-like-I'm-in-One-Tree-Hill-and-someone-just-got-shot-again drama. Rachel drama.
"Is this why you want to leave rehearsal early and spend all your lunch breaks alone? You're doing Puckerman?"
Him and Quinn share a look before a sleepy Finn approaches. "Can you guys shut up? It's like 7 in the morning. On a Saturday."
"I'm not doing anyone, Rachel."
"Look, Rachel, it's not like that," he tries to explain but she cuts him off again. "Me and Quinn we're.."
"Oh, what, now you're going to tell me you love her? I know your kind, Noah Puckerman. I have dated your kind. You're not a one woman man. You're not fooling anyone."
"Rachel, calm down," Finn interjects but she puts a hand up, signaling for him to be quiet.
"I do," he states quietly and everyone turns towards him.
"What?"
"I do," he clears his throat, glancing over at Quinn before focusing his eyes on Rachel, "I do love her."
He knows it's soon and they haven't been doing what they're doing for very long and God, what does he even fucking know? He hasn't even been in love with anyone before. Let alone with girls like Quinn. And it's hard, feeling like this while knowing they're so different and there's so much at stake and knowing that she might not feel the same— but if one thing is easy, it's falling in love with Quinn Fabray. It's by far the easiest thing he's ever done.
This might be the best day of his life or the worst. Either way, he's going to find out now.
He faintly recalls seeing Finn pull Rachel away to his room (or more like drag— and man, Rachel really is a kicker, isn't she?) and he finally builds up the courage to look back at Quinn.
"So do you want some breakfast? We have waffles but no bacon, it's not kosher and ever since Rachel practically moved in here I feel like I'm back at my ma's house," he rolls his eyes, avoiding her face as he continues, "I'm sorry, I know how much you like bacon but waffles are better anyway. Would you—" he stops as he notices the look on her face.
"Puck."
"Quinn," he mocks her as he opens the fridge. He tries to act like everything is normal but nearly nothing is. He hates it that he feels this way about her, about someone like her. He hates that ever since he saw her dance he hasn't brought one girl home, he hates how she makes him feel things he doesn't want to feel and he hates how she makes him want to be something, to be a part of something, to be someone. And still, he loves her. (Maybe always will)
She remains quiet.
"I'm not taking it back, Quinn."
She frowns, giving him a confused look, like she couldn't ever believe that he loved her, that he dared to love her.
"Why would you ruin everything like that?"
"I—I," he starts, licking his dry lips as he puts the milk in his hand down and he can't tell if she's about to cry or scream or claim she hates him.
She's breathing heavily as she looks into his eyes and he takes her in because there's still a possibility this is the last time he sees her. He takes in her green eyes and her blonde hair and her lips he likes to kiss so much. She's beautiful, that's for sure. The strange thing is that he likes her more. It fucking freaks him out but at least he's being honest, right?
"I can't," she states and all emotion is gone again. She doesn't quiver or frown or purse her lips. She's really good at closing herself off. It's frustrating as fuck. She has this way of getting under his skin that makes him feel like he isn't worth breathing the same air as her.
"I know you feel the same, you're just afraid. I was, too. Fuck, I—I still am."
"And why is that?" She sounds so bitter, like he's getting in the way of something, like he's just a piece of dirt floating around in her life temporarily.
"Because— because you have this picture in your mind ever since you were taught to dream. This picture where everything is perfect but— but I don't fit. I never have and never will. But you— me— you like things that are perfect. I'm not even close to that and you're afraid that I'll ruin it."
She takes in a deep, shaky breath and with Quinn everything takes time. She's fragile and strong and perfect and broken and full of all different kinds of paradoxes.
He liked how complex she was, okay? It was kind of frustrating but she was definitely worth it And highschool him would have definitely ran away as fast as he could because it was all about the action back then. No peeling back layers to get in someone's pants and not bothering to give the girl his right number because he was hard set on only doing a chick once.
"I won't," he promises, "I won't— screw up. You're too important."
Her eyes bore into his, trying to seek the truth or spotting a lie, but he won't back down. He won't look away and let her win.
"Why would you love me?"
"Because you're Quinn Fabray."
She remains silent, picking at the fabric of her— his t-shirt. He can't fucking believe this is it. That he spend all this time with her and she made him fall so fast and hard for her and now she's too much of a coward to admit it was just a temporarily thing. A distraction. Was she some kind of sick martyr?
"Fuck, say something, Q. You're kind of scaring me here."
She presses her cheek against his neck as she hugs him tightly, "I love you, back, too— I love you."
/
"What are you doing?" She asks, placing a kiss on his cheek as she sits down on his lap and looks at his laptop screen. He puts one hand on her waist as he continues scrolling with the other. "Nothing, just looking at a few schools."
"You want to go back to school?"
"Yeah, it's kind of ridiculous, right? I was happy to get out the first time," he tells her mindlessly as he closes his laptop.
"No, I think it's— I think it's great," she smiles and it's like, it's like her smile could make him do anything, you know? She's that great.
"You think I could do it?" He asks with a chuckle in his voice, because he meant what he said. That he got out the first time— hell, that he even graduated— was a miracle caused by God himself. But he kind of feels like he should be doing something with his life, you know? Something great like Finn and Santana and Quinn.
"Of course," she places both hands on his cheeks, "I believe in you. I mean, you are Noah Puckerman, after all." A teasing smile breaks out on her face and he can't help but do the same, placing his free hand on her hip.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, it means that you're the only person who's ever made me skip a dance rehearsal since I was three years old. Besides that one time I got the Asian bird flu, but even then I was begging my mom to let me go," she says, half jokingly as she plays with the collar of his shirt before patting his chest.
"Really? So you're saying I'm a bad influence?" He cocks an eyebrow, moving the hand on her hip slowly upwards, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
She kisses him on the mouth before getting off his lap. She walks off into the direction of his room, but not before calling over her shoulder with a cheeky smile, "Let's take this implied bad influence to the bedroom, huh?"
Well, she didn't have to say that twice.
/
It's one in the afternoon on a random Sunday and they're still in bed. He knows it's a normal occurrence for him but he also knows it's an exception for her. She's totally one of those girls who gets up at seven, no matter what day it is.
And he loves that, you know. Learning more stuff about her everyday. Like how she's an total tv show addict and how she's so smart she could be like a lawyer or something. She's all about equal rights and feminism and it's kind of cool— you know, to date a chick with an actual opinion.
But he also loves how he can make her do stuff like this, like loosen up and relax and shit— because she kind of needs it.
"I think I kind of really love you," she exclaims as he brings her leftover takeout food before sitting back down next to her on the bed. "I was so craving this."
"You think?" He chuckles as he opens something with chicken in it that smells kind of okay and stabs his fork into it.
With her mouthful she tells him, "Well, I love you more than I love me. Is that okay?"
"That does say a lot."
"Hey," she huffs, punching him in the arm, as she takes another bite, "Stop calling me self obsessed."
"Well," his voice trails off teasingly as he puts his arm around her and pulls her back against the headboard, "I think I kind of love you more than I love me, too."
She smiles, leaning up to kiss his jaw before turning back to her food.
"Good."
/
"Miss Fabray, late again," Ms. Corcoran states, looking up from her watch.
"I'm sorry, I was— it was traffic," she lies, her cheeks tainting red as she focuses on getting her breathing back to normal. She tries to ignore the memory of Puck's fingers running over her sides, trying to convince her to stay just a little longer and how she had shamelessly agreed. The little longer had turned into ten minutes and then twenty and she really shouldn't let him get to her like that.
Santana huffs and she sees Rachel step down onto her toes in response. "What? I can practically smell the sex from here." Santana is whispering, but Quinn hears anyway. Bitch.
The older woman raises her eyebrows, crossing her arms, "It's your showcase, Miss Fabray. Not mine. I thought you took this serious. You're not in high school any more, after all."
"I do. I'm really sorry, I should've left earlier," she tells her quickly, already slipping into her ballet shoes and throwing off her cardigan as she nods for Finn to start setting up.
"Impress me," Ms. Corcoran looks down at her notepad, her pencil scribbling down a few words before she adjusts the black glasses on her nose.
Quinn takes a deep breath as the music starts.
When they finish Ms. Corcoran claps lightly, the notepad pressed against her chest. Quinn bites down on her lip, her chest heaving up and down as Rachel's hand slips into hers, Santana's arm already wrapped around her waist.
"It's a risk, but I like what you've done," a faint smile forms on her lips, "Well done, Quinn."
"Thank you."
/
He really likes to kiss her. Like always.
And not just when it leads to something more— like sex. He lives for sex, sure, he loves it and he loves doing that with her. But there's something about just knowing he can kiss her whenever and wherever and the fact that it feels so good that he really likes.
Like when it's just a simple peck when he comes to see a rehearsal or she comes to his apartment with a rental movie— or those kisses she gives him when she wants him or those slow kisses that just really slowly drive him insane.
It's like her lips are kind of made of magic or something because he couldn't really imagining ever kissing others again. It's like— fuck— she's the one or something, you know? It's insane.
/
He applies to a bunch of schools. A few performing arts schools because he really likes making music, and even to some Hebrew union college or something. That one was partly for fun (and well, he knows a lot of shit about the Torah so) but still. Each and every one of them New York because, well— the main reason he even build up the courage to do this is in New York. So yeah.. Noah Puckerman's going to college.
/
It's going great— It's going fucking amazing. That is until she slips and falls. She gets back up but he sees the pain on her face the rest of the performance.
He finds her backstage sitting on the floor as she tries to take of her ballet shoes, untying them with a certain anger. Rachel is in the corner with her head against the wall with Finn, like a nervous trainwreck, trying to calm her down— and he's pretty sure Santana was the one who just wiped everything off the makeup table in one swipe.
"Are you okay?" He asks as he sinks down onto the floor next to her.
She continues taking off her shoes hastily and obviously frustrated. "I didn't get any offers."
"It's been five minutes, Q," he tells her with a small smile as he puts a hand on her hand, trying to calm her down even just a little. She's acting weird and distant and fuck, he doesn't know what to do or say.
"You know, this is all your fault. I didn't focus because of you. I should've focused and just went along with the original song," she snaps, getting up from the floor and throwing her shoes in her bag slipping into her own flats as she looks around for her sweater.
"Quinn, calm down— it's not over because your parents say it is," he assures her, grabbing her arm because she just needs to slow down for a second, listen to him. "We can, we can figure something out."
"I didn't need you. I didn't need anyone," her voice is shaking as she tells him this, running a hand through her hair as she yanks her arm loose from his grip. She finally locates her sweater and slips into it. "I didn't need you to screw this up but I should've known you would."
"What the hell are you trying to say, Quinn?"
"Let's just say you've done a great job at screwing everything else up in your life. You're a Lima loser, Puck, and you made sure that you weren't the only one suffering."
"Okay, fine. Blame it all on me, Q, but I wasn't forcing you to do this. I didn't force you to spend time with me or to change your routine or to fall for someone like me. You did that all by yourself."
"Did you ever really love me at all? Or were you just trying to have a little fun? Trying to ruin my life?" She narrows her eyes and finally looks at him. She sounds broken all of a sudden as she swings her back over her shoulder. "You know what, I don't need to hear the answer to that."
"Wait.." He begs but she's already gone.
Nothing lasts forever. Fuck, he knew that, alright, but he just wished they'd lasted a little longer.
/
"It's been a month, Noah, it's time to find some other daily occupation besides drinking and watching children's cartoons," Rachel tells him as she picks up a beer bottle and an empty pizza box, stuffing it into a trash bag as she lets out a sigh.
"I'm just fine here. Just tell me if you want me to leave my apartment, Rach," he says bitterly as he empties out another bottle.
"Is this about your job, Noah? What did you expect? You called in sick for two weeks without any genuine explanation," she sits down next to him and gives him ones of those goddamn awful pity looks.
"Life sucks," he retorts, fixing his eyes on a rerun of Spongebob. A rerun, because he's probably seen them all over the course of a month. "And then we all die. What difference does it make if I have a job or not?"
She reaches out and pats his leg. "You can get through this, Noah." Before he's able to reply that she should really learn to shut the fuck up because she only manages to make it worse everytime she talks to him—
Finn walks in, holding up a letter. "A letter from the Manhattan.." his voice trails off as he reads over it again, "School of music just came in for you.I didn't know you applied, man."
He gets up and takes the letter from him, dumping it in the trash. He's seen enough rejection letters for a lifetime. Rachel bites her lip and gives him another one of those looks and Finn just pats him on the back with a sigh.
"Well, it doesn't really matter now, does it?"
/
"What the hell?" He yells as he walks into the kitchen, holding up a few sheets of paper. "Did Rachel put you up to this?"
"What are you talking about?" Finn asks him, confused as he puts his phone down.
"These job applications! Do you guys want me gone, or something? Because you could just say so, you don't have to rub it in my face that I don't have— anything," he spits, throwing the stash of paper onto the kitchen table.
"Calm down, dude, she probably meant it well—"
"Noah," Rachel exclaims happily, "I see you found my gift for you."
"Gift? You call this a gift?"
"Well, you're going to need a job if you're going to go back to school. I mean, it certainly isn't going to pay for itself."
"I'm not going back to school, Rachel!" He yells and she raises her eyebrows, taking a step closer to him.
"I think you are. And if you had taken the time to actually read your acceptance letter to the Manhattan school of music, you would've known classes start in two weeks," she informs him, rummaging through her back as she presses a letter against his chest and into his hands. She continues, by singing the next few words as she pats his chest.
"Better start looking for a job, Noah!"
/
School is awesome. Like, he fucking hated high school. He wasn't one of those kids who hated waking up early or hated learning stuff or hated the kids who went to school with him or something but he just fucking despised going to school. He hated learning a bunch of shit he didn't get nor would ever need.
But college? It was something entirely different. He got to do what he loved— taking classes in guitar and songwriting and he was even learning to play piano. It was all fifty shades of fucking fantastic.
He still missed her you know, but he kind of felt like he finally could prove to himself (and to her) that he wasn't a loser and that he could accomplish something. Life was finally working out for him.
/
He sees her, this one time. A year later or something.
Rachel and Finn are hosting this engagement party and they're both fucking annoying but he loves them so how could he not go?
She's there.
She looks amazing and apparently she's doing amazing, too. He hears whispers about her being disowned by her parents for continuing to study at Juilliard, paying for it herself and all. She's in some fancy company with a name he couldn't possibly ever learn to pronounce. It takes a lot of balls to do something like that but he guessed he always knew she was meant to do something great like that.
He sees her struggling with opening up a bottle of wine and offers to help her.
"Sure, thank you," she replies, handing him the bottle as she smiles a little.
He pours her a glass of wine as he grabs a beer himself. "So, how've you been?"
"I've been great," she answers, biting down on her bottom lip after taking a sip from her wine and he wonders if she knows how much that drives him fucking crazy. "How about you?"
"Fine. I got into the school of music, it's in Manhattan," he informs her, taking a sip before continuing, "It's hard, because when I'm not at school or studying I need to work my ass off to pay for it all. But at least I won't have to work at McDonalds for the rest of my life," he chuckles and she shoots him an apologetic look. She opens her mouth but before he knows it Rachel's calling her over and she tells him she'll be right back.
She isn't right back and he doesn't see her again that night. He keeps telling himself it's for the best. She's happy and so is he and at some point he must have figured out they weren't meant to be.
/
He's in his second year when she comes over to visit. Rachel and Finn are out to see some musical as some lame ass surprise from Finn and he offers her a drink. Just as friends, he assures as she steps him.
He's seen her a few times, hanging around with the midget devil Rachel and he's spoken to her a few times, too. But never more than a hey or a how've you been. He's dated, too. She has, too, obviously. He heard from Finn she dated that guy— who played with Finn, Sam or something— for a while.
And he's happy, he really is. He's busy, too, but he's happy and for the first time in his life he feels worthy— like he's actually accomplishing something.
There's nothing on tv beside some black and white movie with old people and after a while they run out of casualties to talk about.
"I'm sorry for what I said to you back then," she tells him, swallowing hard as she shifts on the couch, facing him.
"It's fine, it's been years ago, Quinn."
"I miss you calling me Q," she smiles faintly as she stares at her hands, which are playing with the fabric of her blouse. She dresses differently now, more grown up. Maybe they're two different people now. She changed, he definitely changed— what's to say they could ever be a damn them again?
"Well..." He doesn't know what to say. He misses calling her Q, he misses her smile, he misses her voice, he misses watching her dance, he misses touching her, he misses her smell, he misses everything. But it was never that simple, not with them, right?
"No, listen to me," she says sternly, "I'm sorry I called you a loser, Puck," she puts her hands over his, squeezing tightly. "You're special, Puck. I know that.."
"Quinn, I don't—" he shakes his head but she won't take no for an answer.
"No, I know because— because the first time I ever saw you, for the first time I didn't think about perfecting my brisé or about how soon I could be back at practice again. I thought— Oh—" she pauses and licks her dry lips as she scoots closer to him, "Wow. He looks like a dream."
"Maybe you should see an optician," he jokes— because he doesn't do intimate, remember?— and she shakes her head this time.
"I'm serious, Puck. I love you. Even now and I was so, so stupid and self-obsessed and reckless, really, back then. I should've seen you wanted the best for me, like I've always wanted the best for you."
He nods his head and presses his lips against hers.
"I'm so sorry—"
"I love you, too. Just— Just stop talking, okay, egghead?" He smiles, kissing her again, his hands on her face.
She breaks out into a smile, pressing her face against his chest as she hugs him before leaning up to kiss him again.
He thinks Quinn might be his dream. He's not saying his entire world revolves around her, because that shit's not realistic— but he loves her still, so much. And having her, now, then, always— means everything to him. So yeah, she's kind of his dream. The reason he does shit like go to school because he wants to be great for himself, but also for her.
And he and Quinn— they're kind of pretty awesome together.
/