Fic: Reverseverse Ep 1: 'Popular', Part 5
Title: Ep 1.1: Popular, Part 5
Fandom: Glee
'Verse: Reverseverse
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Challenge/Prompt: The original ‘A Little Role Reversal’ fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme .
Rating: PG, for the odd unexpected f-bomb.
Word Count: (This part) 2373
Genre: AU
Copyright: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone . I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Summary: Part 5 of episode 1, Popular. ‘Don’t Stop’ has just the right amount of popular appeal and musical kudos.
Author’s Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal'before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in. Fics in this verse will be tagged 'reverseverse', 'cos it's an awesome word, alright?
Will locks the door to his office, fitting the McKinley High Thunderclap 1992/93 tightly under his arm, in case any other nosey member of staff notices it and puts two and two together.
It’s not that he’s nostalgic, Will thinks sullenly, as he takes his time making his way through the darkened after-hours hallways to the parking lot. His Glee Club never won anything. In four years they only made it to Nationals once. It wasn’t something to be proud of. Will remembers pretty vividly being mortified for eighteen months straight when Mrs Adler made him captain, and he took enough slushies to the perm to make Carrie’s pigs’-blood makeover look like a Top Model photoshoot.
Damn. He’s going to have to get that machine removed from school premises.
So no: definitely not nostalgic. But what he said to Emma was true: he’s wanted to be the one to catapult the New Directions into greatness ever since he got back to this school. He knows he can do it. After all: he’s the man with the golden touch. He’s the over-achiever extraordinaire. He’s the Head Bitch In Charge, dammit! And now Sue Sylvester and Vocal Adrenaline and Figgins’ freakin’ budget calculator have decided he’s not worth the risk?!
Will curses under his breath, slamming his yearbook open at the sheet of paper slipped into the middle pages. An application form: H W Menken: accountants.
Go with the money, Emma’s voice tells him; and his common-sense agrees. Congressmen lining his paycheck to get their kids into Julliard-league showchoir competitions? Becoming the only showchoir director to make the New York Times most influential? His own slot on WOHN? It’s all starting to sound like a beautiful, gorgeous, dollar-soaked daydream.
He’s wallowing deep enough in his self-pity that he hardly notices the double-doors to the auditorium are unlocked. But as he strides past, something catches his ear; a strain of music; a weirdly familiar chorus that he can’t place.
Curiously, Will backtracks, nudging open the heavy swing door to the auditorium. The music gets louder.
Without considering it too hard, Will slips inside, deciding he is in exactly the right mood to find and punish whatever dreadfully foolish extracurricular has decided to make use of his performance space without permission.
He takes a few steps, holding the door so it doesn’t bang closed behind him. Overhead, he realises the auditorium lights are dimmed, the stage in front of him illuminated in a basic white wash with some blue overheads.
Onstage are New Directions- the six of them, including that irredeemable moron Finn Hudson. They’re all wearing red shirts and jeans, so Will immediately realises they’re rehearsing something-but he doesn’t recognise the costuming, and after ten seconds listening to the music blasting from the auditorium’s sound system he realises this most definitely isn’t a Schuester-approved addition to their repertoire.
Damn kids.
He knows the song though. A band from way back: Journey. Eighties pop-rock gods.
Will puts a hand to his head as he watches that clumsy frankenteen harrumph around the stage, finding Rachel Berry as she steps out of the chorus-line and swinging her around carefully by her spindly waist. God, if that football freak breaks his female lead there will be hell to pay.
Behind them, Kurt, Mercedes and Tina race over to three standing mics, exhaling backing acapella as Finn and Rachel power their way through the bridge. Will’s never seen any of them voluntarily defect to backing vocals before. He takes a few steps closer, padding quietly up the centre-aisle. While Rachel and Finns’ smiles seem wide enough to permanently disfigure their faces, the others’ seem to be wavering a bit round the edges: but not like they’re fake; more like they’re not convinced they’re allowed to have this much fun while singing.
Well they’re right, they shouldn’t, Will reprimands silently. It’s Journey, for crying out loud. It’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.
Yeah, that’s it: ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.
Artie kicks in with the guitar-solo, Tina rushing across to grab his wheelchair and spin him around the floor, looking simultaneously like she’s really enjoying herself and like she’s really, really not allowed to do that. As he spins, Artie’s eyes remain fixed on his guitar, but Will can see him grinning and singing along with his chords.
The group comes back together, every voice joining in for the air-punching chorus. They stride in a line across the stage, and even the normally unflappable Kurt Hummel looks reluctantly exhilarated. As Rachel’s voice soars above, they stretch their hands imploringly up to the heavens and the last, triumphant “Don’t Stop!” is a perfect musical punch in the throat.
Their heads and hands fall in perfect synchrony, as the lights cut and only the vague blues remain, lighting the six sweat-drenched figures arranged across the stage. For a few long seconds, the only sound in the suddenly silent auditorium is the embarrassing huff of exhausted heavy-breathing.
Unable to help himself, Mr Schue begins a slow, sharp clap.
Rachel’s head is the first to snap to attention, and for almost a full second she looks utterly horrified, before wrestling her features back into slightly quizzical neutrality. Kurt isn’t quite so good, and manages to just look defensive, staring Mr Schue down through the hair falling in front of his eyes.
Will rests his hands on his hips, raising unimpressed eyebrows at his yuppied-up Glee kids.
“What the hell was that?”
*
Puck pushes himself straight from where he’d been resting his arms against the metal safety grating of the lighting box. He’d had to slip Lauren Zizes ten bucks and a pack of double-stuffed Oreos to let him up here, but it’s definitely the best view in the house, especially for a so-called ‘closed’ rehearsal.
Doesn’t give a great view of the doors though; and Puck had been so mesmerised by the performance onstage he hadn’t noticed Mr Schuester until the teacher had made his way halfway down the centre aisle, and by then it was way, way too late to warn anybody.
Puck cringes as the showchoir director’s Applause of Epic Sarcasm ricochets around the auditorium like a mis-judged sniper bullet. Rachel immediately glances up, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders, closely followed by the others.
“What the hell was that?”
There’s a few seconds of general wide-eyed confusion, then, almost simultaneously, everyone on stage looks at Finn.
Even from twenty feet up, Puck can see his best friend’s teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he steps out of formation. “It was, uh… ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’. It’s a Journey song.” Finn offers, accompanied by an awkwardly apologetic shrug of his shoulders.
“I know it’s a Journey song Finn; unlike all of you I was alive when it first came out, and even my three year-old self knew to barf over my Wheeties at the stomach-churning sentimentality.”
Finn glances unhappily down at his size twelves; “It’s… the most popular song on iTunes.” He argues, and Puck can see him trying to steel himself for a fight. “I think… I think it’s just the kind of song New Directions needs, if we wanna get enough members to compete at Sectionals.”
“I think it’s a great song.” Rachel says loudly, and Mr Schue looks ever-so-slightly flabbergasted. The tiny brunette fixes him with a haughty, no-nonsense gaze: “Finn’s right. We have an entirely new demographic to attract, and ‘Don’t Stop’ has just the right amount of popular appeal and musical kudos.”
Mr Schuester crosses his arms. “Popular appeal?” he repeats disdainfully. “I think you’re forgetting the entire ethos of this club guys-”
“-No, we’re not.” Tina corrects, lifting her chin and flipping her long dark ponytail over her shoulder. “Maybe eighties rock isn’t a natural fit for our traditional wheelhouse. But then,” she gives Finn a rare half-smile: “neither are football players.”
Mercedes looks defiant from behind her microphone: “Figgins wants to shake things up?” she says “We’re shakin’ things up Mr Schue. We’re not going down without a fight.”
From his perch in the rafters Puck pounds his fist off the railing, forcing himself not to cheer. Fuck yes.
Mr Schuester looks back at them all, face still painfully unimpressed.
Finn squints a little, tilting his head.
“What’s that Mr Schue?”
Puck follows his gaze, and for the first time notices a book in Mr Schuester’s hand. It’s a bright red McKinley High Thunderclap. He can’t see the date from here but it sure doesn’t look new.
Mr Schuester glances down too, looking at the front cover of the yearbook like even he hadn’t seen it before. For a long moment he stares at it, expression studiously blank, as on-stage the New Directions huddle a bit closer together, looking oddly defensive in their near-identical red and denim uniforms.
“Finn.” Mr Schue says finally, and Finn looks about ready to piss himself.
“Mr Schuester?”
“That chorus? If you want to kick ass with this song you’re going to have to hit that high B. Rachel?”
“Yes, Mr Schue?”
“You need to make the ones and the fives.”
Rachel looks bizarrely happy, looking at Finn with wide, shining eyes.
“Yes, Mr Schue….”
“The rest of you:” Mr Schuester eyes the other four, clustered away from Finn and Rachel’s puppy-love. “I want to see more energy. Buckets more energy. If you really want to sell ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ to this school, you need to actually believe it.”
Puck is glad he’s so high up and no-one can see the huge stupid grin on his face. He bounces up and down on his heels, this close to jumping around in delight. God, he is such a dork. He glances down and watches as Mercedes pulls Kurt into a surreptitious side-hug, and the boy moues at her for mussing his hair, but Puck has never seen him smile so genuinely. He looks ridiculously gorgeous and Puck has a sudden realisation of how freakin’ lucky he is and it almost makes him trip over his own feet.
Down below, Mr Schuester rocks back on his heels. He surveys the six teenagers lined up in front of him, and beneath the customary expression of scheming on his face, Puck’s sure he can see a flicker of something that might- on a generous day- look like to pride.
“Fine. You want to beat Figgins’ at his own game? We can do that. But it needs a hell of a lot more practice. That was a nine guys. I don’t expect nines in my Glee Club. Get back to your starting positions. Right… From the top.”
*
Kurt shakes the creases out of his red flouncy shirt and hangs it up in the costume wardrobe beside the rest of the ‘Don’t Stop’ outfits. He isn’t one for classic rock, not really; especially Journey; especially when his part is freakin’ monosyllabic backing vocals… But he’s gotta admit: they sounded, well… pretty tight.
He slips his bag over his shoulder and heads out to the parking lot. He’d expected Noah to make an appearance, and he’s not quite sure how he feels that he didn’t. Sure, it was a closed rehearsal… but it’s not like the other boy has ever objected to hanging around Kurt like a gummy octopus before.
Maybe something more important came up?
Don’t be ridiculous.
The sun’s still bright in the late September sky, and Kurt smiles at the warmth on his face and thanks American Beauty for SPF 15 moisturiser. He digs a hand into his bag, searching absently for his sunglasses.
“Hey.”
Kurt comes up short, almost running smack into the broader figure suddenly in front of him.
“Noah.” He says as his gaze refocuses, managing to keep the surprise mostly in check. He takes a step back: “I’m surprised to bang into you; isn’t it Elementary English on a Tuesday night?”
“Sure, but I’m on Elementary Two now.” Noah responds, flushing a bit like the jokey comeback was totally beyond his control. He pushes his teeth into his bottom lip, but looks nowhere near as nervous as he usually does. It’s puzzling.
They look at each other for a few moments more, until it starts to get awkward.
“So. You guys sounded great in there.” Noah offers clumsily.
Kurt’s fingers curl round the strap on his bag:
“You were listening?”
“Yeah, I was kind of… skulking. But I caught the end. It was really, really good.”
“Mr Schue didn’t think much of it.” Kurt points out, and mentally kicks himself for showing weakness.
Noah’s eyebrows screw together: “He gave it nine out of ten.”
Kurt shrugs: “Yeah.”
One corner of Noah’s mouth curls upwards: “Well, I thought it was awesome. I thought you were awesome.”
Inwardly, Kurt rolls his eyes at the soppy predictability: “Of course you did--” But he finds the words die on his tongue as Noah curls a big, calloused hand around his neck and tugs their lips together.
The wall at his back is warm and solid as Noah presses him gently back into it, his broad, toned body a welcome pressure against Kurt’s, chest to chest. Automatically, Kurt’s hands go to Puck’s waist, dazedly curling in his belt loops to keep him close.
The sun feels hot on Kurt’s skin as the sound melts away from his world, leaving only the rush of the sea in his ears; the thrum of his heartbeat in his veins; in his head and chest and fingertips and lips as he kisses back his boyfriend.
He feels a sudden flare of anger; but it doesn’t last, diluted in the odd wave of contented dizziness that seems to emanate from that hand holding tight to Kurt’s hip.
After a few moments that really aren’t long enough, Noah pulls away again, retracting his palm from Kurt’s cheek like he can’t hold on too long or he might burst into flames. Kurt’s not sure why that thought makes him feel shame somewhere deep in his stomach.
He knows his eyes are stupidly wide and he’d like to say something witty; but before Kurt can find his voice again, Noah smiles and mutters a blushing: “See you tomorrow”, before he grabs his bike and starts pushing it towards the gates.
xxx
Fandom: Glee
'Verse: Reverseverse
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Challenge/Prompt: The original ‘A Little Role Reversal’ fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme .
Rating: PG, for the odd unexpected f-bomb.
Word Count: (This part) 2373
Genre: AU
Copyright: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone . I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Summary: Part 5 of episode 1, Popular. ‘Don’t Stop’ has just the right amount of popular appeal and musical kudos.
Author’s Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal'before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in. Fics in this verse will be tagged 'reverseverse', 'cos it's an awesome word, alright?
Will locks the door to his office, fitting the McKinley High Thunderclap 1992/93 tightly under his arm, in case any other nosey member of staff notices it and puts two and two together.
It’s not that he’s nostalgic, Will thinks sullenly, as he takes his time making his way through the darkened after-hours hallways to the parking lot. His Glee Club never won anything. In four years they only made it to Nationals once. It wasn’t something to be proud of. Will remembers pretty vividly being mortified for eighteen months straight when Mrs Adler made him captain, and he took enough slushies to the perm to make Carrie’s pigs’-blood makeover look like a Top Model photoshoot.
Damn. He’s going to have to get that machine removed from school premises.
So no: definitely not nostalgic. But what he said to Emma was true: he’s wanted to be the one to catapult the New Directions into greatness ever since he got back to this school. He knows he can do it. After all: he’s the man with the golden touch. He’s the over-achiever extraordinaire. He’s the Head Bitch In Charge, dammit! And now Sue Sylvester and Vocal Adrenaline and Figgins’ freakin’ budget calculator have decided he’s not worth the risk?!
Will curses under his breath, slamming his yearbook open at the sheet of paper slipped into the middle pages. An application form: H W Menken: accountants.
Go with the money, Emma’s voice tells him; and his common-sense agrees. Congressmen lining his paycheck to get their kids into Julliard-league showchoir competitions? Becoming the only showchoir director to make the New York Times most influential? His own slot on WOHN? It’s all starting to sound like a beautiful, gorgeous, dollar-soaked daydream.
He’s wallowing deep enough in his self-pity that he hardly notices the double-doors to the auditorium are unlocked. But as he strides past, something catches his ear; a strain of music; a weirdly familiar chorus that he can’t place.
Curiously, Will backtracks, nudging open the heavy swing door to the auditorium. The music gets louder.
Without considering it too hard, Will slips inside, deciding he is in exactly the right mood to find and punish whatever dreadfully foolish extracurricular has decided to make use of his performance space without permission.
He takes a few steps, holding the door so it doesn’t bang closed behind him. Overhead, he realises the auditorium lights are dimmed, the stage in front of him illuminated in a basic white wash with some blue overheads.
Onstage are New Directions- the six of them, including that irredeemable moron Finn Hudson. They’re all wearing red shirts and jeans, so Will immediately realises they’re rehearsing something-but he doesn’t recognise the costuming, and after ten seconds listening to the music blasting from the auditorium’s sound system he realises this most definitely isn’t a Schuester-approved addition to their repertoire.
Damn kids.
He knows the song though. A band from way back: Journey. Eighties pop-rock gods.
Will puts a hand to his head as he watches that clumsy frankenteen harrumph around the stage, finding Rachel Berry as she steps out of the chorus-line and swinging her around carefully by her spindly waist. God, if that football freak breaks his female lead there will be hell to pay.
Behind them, Kurt, Mercedes and Tina race over to three standing mics, exhaling backing acapella as Finn and Rachel power their way through the bridge. Will’s never seen any of them voluntarily defect to backing vocals before. He takes a few steps closer, padding quietly up the centre-aisle. While Rachel and Finns’ smiles seem wide enough to permanently disfigure their faces, the others’ seem to be wavering a bit round the edges: but not like they’re fake; more like they’re not convinced they’re allowed to have this much fun while singing.
Well they’re right, they shouldn’t, Will reprimands silently. It’s Journey, for crying out loud. It’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.
Yeah, that’s it: ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.
Artie kicks in with the guitar-solo, Tina rushing across to grab his wheelchair and spin him around the floor, looking simultaneously like she’s really enjoying herself and like she’s really, really not allowed to do that. As he spins, Artie’s eyes remain fixed on his guitar, but Will can see him grinning and singing along with his chords.
The group comes back together, every voice joining in for the air-punching chorus. They stride in a line across the stage, and even the normally unflappable Kurt Hummel looks reluctantly exhilarated. As Rachel’s voice soars above, they stretch their hands imploringly up to the heavens and the last, triumphant “Don’t Stop!” is a perfect musical punch in the throat.
Their heads and hands fall in perfect synchrony, as the lights cut and only the vague blues remain, lighting the six sweat-drenched figures arranged across the stage. For a few long seconds, the only sound in the suddenly silent auditorium is the embarrassing huff of exhausted heavy-breathing.
Unable to help himself, Mr Schue begins a slow, sharp clap.
Rachel’s head is the first to snap to attention, and for almost a full second she looks utterly horrified, before wrestling her features back into slightly quizzical neutrality. Kurt isn’t quite so good, and manages to just look defensive, staring Mr Schue down through the hair falling in front of his eyes.
Will rests his hands on his hips, raising unimpressed eyebrows at his yuppied-up Glee kids.
“What the hell was that?”
*
Puck pushes himself straight from where he’d been resting his arms against the metal safety grating of the lighting box. He’d had to slip Lauren Zizes ten bucks and a pack of double-stuffed Oreos to let him up here, but it’s definitely the best view in the house, especially for a so-called ‘closed’ rehearsal.
Doesn’t give a great view of the doors though; and Puck had been so mesmerised by the performance onstage he hadn’t noticed Mr Schuester until the teacher had made his way halfway down the centre aisle, and by then it was way, way too late to warn anybody.
Puck cringes as the showchoir director’s Applause of Epic Sarcasm ricochets around the auditorium like a mis-judged sniper bullet. Rachel immediately glances up, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders, closely followed by the others.
“What the hell was that?”
There’s a few seconds of general wide-eyed confusion, then, almost simultaneously, everyone on stage looks at Finn.
Even from twenty feet up, Puck can see his best friend’s teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he steps out of formation. “It was, uh… ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’. It’s a Journey song.” Finn offers, accompanied by an awkwardly apologetic shrug of his shoulders.
“I know it’s a Journey song Finn; unlike all of you I was alive when it first came out, and even my three year-old self knew to barf over my Wheeties at the stomach-churning sentimentality.”
Finn glances unhappily down at his size twelves; “It’s… the most popular song on iTunes.” He argues, and Puck can see him trying to steel himself for a fight. “I think… I think it’s just the kind of song New Directions needs, if we wanna get enough members to compete at Sectionals.”
“I think it’s a great song.” Rachel says loudly, and Mr Schue looks ever-so-slightly flabbergasted. The tiny brunette fixes him with a haughty, no-nonsense gaze: “Finn’s right. We have an entirely new demographic to attract, and ‘Don’t Stop’ has just the right amount of popular appeal and musical kudos.”
Mr Schuester crosses his arms. “Popular appeal?” he repeats disdainfully. “I think you’re forgetting the entire ethos of this club guys-”
“-No, we’re not.” Tina corrects, lifting her chin and flipping her long dark ponytail over her shoulder. “Maybe eighties rock isn’t a natural fit for our traditional wheelhouse. But then,” she gives Finn a rare half-smile: “neither are football players.”
Mercedes looks defiant from behind her microphone: “Figgins wants to shake things up?” she says “We’re shakin’ things up Mr Schue. We’re not going down without a fight.”
From his perch in the rafters Puck pounds his fist off the railing, forcing himself not to cheer. Fuck yes.
Mr Schuester looks back at them all, face still painfully unimpressed.
Finn squints a little, tilting his head.
“What’s that Mr Schue?”
Puck follows his gaze, and for the first time notices a book in Mr Schuester’s hand. It’s a bright red McKinley High Thunderclap. He can’t see the date from here but it sure doesn’t look new.
Mr Schuester glances down too, looking at the front cover of the yearbook like even he hadn’t seen it before. For a long moment he stares at it, expression studiously blank, as on-stage the New Directions huddle a bit closer together, looking oddly defensive in their near-identical red and denim uniforms.
“Finn.” Mr Schue says finally, and Finn looks about ready to piss himself.
“Mr Schuester?”
“That chorus? If you want to kick ass with this song you’re going to have to hit that high B. Rachel?”
“Yes, Mr Schue?”
“You need to make the ones and the fives.”
Rachel looks bizarrely happy, looking at Finn with wide, shining eyes.
“Yes, Mr Schue….”
“The rest of you:” Mr Schuester eyes the other four, clustered away from Finn and Rachel’s puppy-love. “I want to see more energy. Buckets more energy. If you really want to sell ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ to this school, you need to actually believe it.”
Puck is glad he’s so high up and no-one can see the huge stupid grin on his face. He bounces up and down on his heels, this close to jumping around in delight. God, he is such a dork. He glances down and watches as Mercedes pulls Kurt into a surreptitious side-hug, and the boy moues at her for mussing his hair, but Puck has never seen him smile so genuinely. He looks ridiculously gorgeous and Puck has a sudden realisation of how freakin’ lucky he is and it almost makes him trip over his own feet.
Down below, Mr Schuester rocks back on his heels. He surveys the six teenagers lined up in front of him, and beneath the customary expression of scheming on his face, Puck’s sure he can see a flicker of something that might- on a generous day- look like to pride.
“Fine. You want to beat Figgins’ at his own game? We can do that. But it needs a hell of a lot more practice. That was a nine guys. I don’t expect nines in my Glee Club. Get back to your starting positions. Right… From the top.”
*
Kurt shakes the creases out of his red flouncy shirt and hangs it up in the costume wardrobe beside the rest of the ‘Don’t Stop’ outfits. He isn’t one for classic rock, not really; especially Journey; especially when his part is freakin’ monosyllabic backing vocals… But he’s gotta admit: they sounded, well… pretty tight.
He slips his bag over his shoulder and heads out to the parking lot. He’d expected Noah to make an appearance, and he’s not quite sure how he feels that he didn’t. Sure, it was a closed rehearsal… but it’s not like the other boy has ever objected to hanging around Kurt like a gummy octopus before.
Maybe something more important came up?
Don’t be ridiculous.
The sun’s still bright in the late September sky, and Kurt smiles at the warmth on his face and thanks American Beauty for SPF 15 moisturiser. He digs a hand into his bag, searching absently for his sunglasses.
“Hey.”
Kurt comes up short, almost running smack into the broader figure suddenly in front of him.
“Noah.” He says as his gaze refocuses, managing to keep the surprise mostly in check. He takes a step back: “I’m surprised to bang into you; isn’t it Elementary English on a Tuesday night?”
“Sure, but I’m on Elementary Two now.” Noah responds, flushing a bit like the jokey comeback was totally beyond his control. He pushes his teeth into his bottom lip, but looks nowhere near as nervous as he usually does. It’s puzzling.
They look at each other for a few moments more, until it starts to get awkward.
“So. You guys sounded great in there.” Noah offers clumsily.
Kurt’s fingers curl round the strap on his bag:
“You were listening?”
“Yeah, I was kind of… skulking. But I caught the end. It was really, really good.”
“Mr Schue didn’t think much of it.” Kurt points out, and mentally kicks himself for showing weakness.
Noah’s eyebrows screw together: “He gave it nine out of ten.”
Kurt shrugs: “Yeah.”
One corner of Noah’s mouth curls upwards: “Well, I thought it was awesome. I thought you were awesome.”
Inwardly, Kurt rolls his eyes at the soppy predictability: “Of course you did--” But he finds the words die on his tongue as Noah curls a big, calloused hand around his neck and tugs their lips together.
The wall at his back is warm and solid as Noah presses him gently back into it, his broad, toned body a welcome pressure against Kurt’s, chest to chest. Automatically, Kurt’s hands go to Puck’s waist, dazedly curling in his belt loops to keep him close.
The sun feels hot on Kurt’s skin as the sound melts away from his world, leaving only the rush of the sea in his ears; the thrum of his heartbeat in his veins; in his head and chest and fingertips and lips as he kisses back his boyfriend.
He feels a sudden flare of anger; but it doesn’t last, diluted in the odd wave of contented dizziness that seems to emanate from that hand holding tight to Kurt’s hip.
After a few moments that really aren’t long enough, Noah pulls away again, retracting his palm from Kurt’s cheek like he can’t hold on too long or he might burst into flames. Kurt’s not sure why that thought makes him feel shame somewhere deep in his stomach.
He knows his eyes are stupidly wide and he’d like to say something witty; but before Kurt can find his voice again, Noah smiles and mutters a blushing: “See you tomorrow”, before he grabs his bike and starts pushing it towards the gates.
xxx