Untitled Puckofsky, unfinished
Ficlet for Wallyofthewest; prompt: no smut, struggle with sexuality, boy kisses with fluffy, happy ending.
In retrospect, Puck knew he never should've let his defenses drop when it came to Dave Karofsky. If he'd been smart about it, he would've stayed pissed off and defensive long after the kid had settled down and started wearing red satin blazers to school.
Instead he chose civility, one conversation at a time, and that asshole turned out to be funny. They liked the same movies for the same juvenile reasons, played the same games on the same consoles, had the same sense of humor. . . What was he supposed to do? He enjoyed the dude. They had a good time together. He'd even found a way to explain geometry to Puck that made sense, and put a B on his last test in that class.
If it'd stayed that way, simple, clearly defined, Puck wouldn't have spent half of his summer break wallowing in confused self-analysis and frustration. He wasn't a thinker. Thoughts happened to him as commands - eat, talk, avoid Lauren's wrath. Discovering affection beyond the usual for a friend, a male friend, it introduced too many new concepts, and the underlying fear that not all was as it seemed in him.
The shift was so unexpected. They'd gone swimming a dozen times since the temperature rose. That particular day, though, sweating hot at the public pool and laid out side-by-side, browning in the sunlight, Puck couldn't help but catalog the differences in their body types as he drifted in and out of a lazy nap.
He’d made a lifestyle of the sports he played and crafted himself to suit the image. Puck spent more of his free time in exercise than almost anyone he knew with the exception of Sam, and the result was a lean foundation, a neat and tidy outline of strength. When he touched himself, he had no give, solid as stone.
Dave was bigger than he was, bigger in every way, and you could see the swells where muscle rooted underneath his skin, but he wasn’t as firm. His look was that of an older man, the trustworthy sort, strong enough to fight but still comfortable to lean on. And that was it - comfort, the very word he came up with (entirely by accident), while scanning Dave over. He became rigidly alert when he found himself wondering what it might feel like to pass a hand from his own chest to Dave’s in comparison, his tight to Dave’s thick, and realized he’d been looking at him too long.
That was where the complications began.
That was the turning point between Dave being a guy he argued with over gaming strategies and a thought that occurred to him constantly. He saw reminders of him everywhere he went, heard that ridiculously common name in the hallways at school and always turned to look, even discovered he had to struggle not to glance at him when they were alone together, studying the strange, hard line of his jaw.
He became instantly more aggressive in his pursuit of Lauren, shamed and scared by the implications, but even the great accomplishment she'd turned her affections into couldn't help him navigate back to a place of calm.
Just the same, he never tried to avoid Dave. He didn't dodge Dave's calls or turn down invitations. If anything, he convinced himself that constant exposure would get the two of them sick of each other, uncover the natural competitiveness that went on between men or simply increase a petty irritation or two. Then he'd lose whatever this awful fixation was, and everything would be normal again.
That was how he found himself flat on his back across Dave's bed in early July, tossing a football in the air and catching it over and over again while Dave tried on polos for a job interview. What Puck knew about fashion (or impressing an employer) would've been too little to scrawl on a Post-It note, but that hadn't stopped him from agreeing when Dave texted this morning. And now, there he was, shifting his eyes from the ball to Dave's back whenever he was unsatisfied with a selection and took it off. The definition of his shoulder blades, their thickness, their bulk.
Whatever. He didn't care about a guy's shoulders. He didn't care about his shirt, either.
But Dave had already noticed the stolen glances, and shifted nervously, then covered the moment with a sudden outburst of pent-up anger. "This is stupid," he announced. "I don't get why you have to dress like some stuffy douche to get a job."
Puck was grateful for the distraction. "I know," he commiserated, spinning the football in his hands. "You should want to hire me 'cuz
I'm awesome, not 'cuz I'm wearing some lame shirt. Why you want a job anyway?"
Dave ripped off the offending polo, balled it up and threw it into the closet. "Couldn't tell you. Dad said to get one, so I'm getting one. I think he thinks I'll get in trouble over the summer or something, like he has to keep me entertained."
Puck understood the tone, and would've no matter what Dave told him. Things were more tense between Dave and his father now than they'd ever been when he was actually acting out - Mr. Karofsky seemed stuck permanently on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but trying to convince Dave things were fine. If he had to guess, Dave wasn't that disappointed at the idea of spending a few hours a day out of the house this summer.
"Well, don't stress it, man. Just pick anything with a collar, I guess. That black shirt you had on the other weekend."
Through a heap of tossed-aside choices, Dave rummaged for the one he meant, tugged it on, turned around. "Good?"
"Yeah, that one," Puck said, trying to sound disinterested and neutral. But somehow, a low-voiced, "Looks really good on you," came tumbling after.
Dave's reaction was just as unguarded - he slipped quickly back to bad behavior, an instinctive reaction to the vulnerability a man's attention still inspired in him. "You gone homo now too?"
If they'd been at school, Puck would've recognized the harm in it, but it was a vulnerability shared. There was a dark compatibility between them - two men who covered feelings that troubled them with insult or violence. Instead he stood up, bristled and defensive.
"Dude, I'm not even. You're the one who wanted my opinion on your outfit."
Dave reddened from the back of his neck to the tips of his ears, but nowhere else. He never blushed in the face, never - Puck noticed that. He noticed himself noticing that. This needed to stop. He was tired of noticing Dave.
In retrospect, Puck knew he never should've let his defenses drop when it came to Dave Karofsky. If he'd been smart about it, he would've stayed pissed off and defensive long after the kid had settled down and started wearing red satin blazers to school.
Instead he chose civility, one conversation at a time, and that asshole turned out to be funny. They liked the same movies for the same juvenile reasons, played the same games on the same consoles, had the same sense of humor. . . What was he supposed to do? He enjoyed the dude. They had a good time together. He'd even found a way to explain geometry to Puck that made sense, and put a B on his last test in that class.
If it'd stayed that way, simple, clearly defined, Puck wouldn't have spent half of his summer break wallowing in confused self-analysis and frustration. He wasn't a thinker. Thoughts happened to him as commands - eat, talk, avoid Lauren's wrath. Discovering affection beyond the usual for a friend, a male friend, it introduced too many new concepts, and the underlying fear that not all was as it seemed in him.
The shift was so unexpected. They'd gone swimming a dozen times since the temperature rose. That particular day, though, sweating hot at the public pool and laid out side-by-side, browning in the sunlight, Puck couldn't help but catalog the differences in their body types as he drifted in and out of a lazy nap.
He’d made a lifestyle of the sports he played and crafted himself to suit the image. Puck spent more of his free time in exercise than almost anyone he knew with the exception of Sam, and the result was a lean foundation, a neat and tidy outline of strength. When he touched himself, he had no give, solid as stone.
Dave was bigger than he was, bigger in every way, and you could see the swells where muscle rooted underneath his skin, but he wasn’t as firm. His look was that of an older man, the trustworthy sort, strong enough to fight but still comfortable to lean on. And that was it - comfort, the very word he came up with (entirely by accident), while scanning Dave over. He became rigidly alert when he found himself wondering what it might feel like to pass a hand from his own chest to Dave’s in comparison, his tight to Dave’s thick, and realized he’d been looking at him too long.
That was where the complications began.
That was the turning point between Dave being a guy he argued with over gaming strategies and a thought that occurred to him constantly. He saw reminders of him everywhere he went, heard that ridiculously common name in the hallways at school and always turned to look, even discovered he had to struggle not to glance at him when they were alone together, studying the strange, hard line of his jaw.
He became instantly more aggressive in his pursuit of Lauren, shamed and scared by the implications, but even the great accomplishment she'd turned her affections into couldn't help him navigate back to a place of calm.
Just the same, he never tried to avoid Dave. He didn't dodge Dave's calls or turn down invitations. If anything, he convinced himself that constant exposure would get the two of them sick of each other, uncover the natural competitiveness that went on between men or simply increase a petty irritation or two. Then he'd lose whatever this awful fixation was, and everything would be normal again.
That was how he found himself flat on his back across Dave's bed in early July, tossing a football in the air and catching it over and over again while Dave tried on polos for a job interview. What Puck knew about fashion (or impressing an employer) would've been too little to scrawl on a Post-It note, but that hadn't stopped him from agreeing when Dave texted this morning. And now, there he was, shifting his eyes from the ball to Dave's back whenever he was unsatisfied with a selection and took it off. The definition of his shoulder blades, their thickness, their bulk.
Whatever. He didn't care about a guy's shoulders. He didn't care about his shirt, either.
But Dave had already noticed the stolen glances, and shifted nervously, then covered the moment with a sudden outburst of pent-up anger. "This is stupid," he announced. "I don't get why you have to dress like some stuffy douche to get a job."
Puck was grateful for the distraction. "I know," he commiserated, spinning the football in his hands. "You should want to hire me 'cuz
I'm awesome, not 'cuz I'm wearing some lame shirt. Why you want a job anyway?"
Dave ripped off the offending polo, balled it up and threw it into the closet. "Couldn't tell you. Dad said to get one, so I'm getting one. I think he thinks I'll get in trouble over the summer or something, like he has to keep me entertained."
Puck understood the tone, and would've no matter what Dave told him. Things were more tense between Dave and his father now than they'd ever been when he was actually acting out - Mr. Karofsky seemed stuck permanently on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but trying to convince Dave things were fine. If he had to guess, Dave wasn't that disappointed at the idea of spending a few hours a day out of the house this summer.
"Well, don't stress it, man. Just pick anything with a collar, I guess. That black shirt you had on the other weekend."
Through a heap of tossed-aside choices, Dave rummaged for the one he meant, tugged it on, turned around. "Good?"
"Yeah, that one," Puck said, trying to sound disinterested and neutral. But somehow, a low-voiced, "Looks really good on you," came tumbling after.
Dave's reaction was just as unguarded - he slipped quickly back to bad behavior, an instinctive reaction to the vulnerability a man's attention still inspired in him. "You gone homo now too?"
If they'd been at school, Puck would've recognized the harm in it, but it was a vulnerability shared. There was a dark compatibility between them - two men who covered feelings that troubled them with insult or violence. Instead he stood up, bristled and defensive.
"Dude, I'm not even. You're the one who wanted my opinion on your outfit."
Dave reddened from the back of his neck to the tips of his ears, but nowhere else. He never blushed in the face, never - Puck noticed that. He noticed himself noticing that. This needed to stop. He was tired of noticing Dave.