Fic: Reverseverse Ep2: 'Nomance', Part 5 - PG
Title: Reverseverse Ep 2, part 5
Verse: Reverseverse
Author: test_kard_girl
Rating: PG, for some sweary language.
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Genre: AU
Warning: Puck and Kurt not being themselves.
Spoilers: Say through Season 1, although as it's AU, in a very roundabout, squint and you'll miss it kind of way.
Disclaimer: 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 :).
Author's Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. The original fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme. 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.
Word Count: (This part) 3728
Summary: The "social ladder" is upside down. Puck gets bullied by one ice-queen Kurt Hummel. Doesn't mean he isn't head over heels though. The Reverseverse, episode 2 part 5: Auditions finally happen, and Puck gets up the courage to voice a few home truths... Not that anyone thanks him for it.
The rest of Dr Woo’s words fade like the volume being turned down on the stereo. Terri’s brain simply stops computing, which yeah, Will would probably say is not all that unusual, but she’s not an idiot; she’s not one of those kinda slow kids from her high school class that took summer jobs at the gas station after graduation and never left. She knows it’s been a month since her last period; she knows she’s put on six pounds in the last three weeks; she knows that nausea that makes her slide out of bed in the mornings and run a bath over the sound of her chucking her guts up so she doesn’t have the humiliation of Will listening in; she knows knows knows what being pregnant feels like, and now this Doctor whoever-the-hell-he-is with bored eyes and squishy sonogram gel all over his hands is telling her that her hysterical, terrified body’s been making it up?
Terri’s head thuds back against the padded headrest of the gynaecologist’s chair, and she stares up into the stark white fluorescent bulb smiling serenely down on her. There's a treacherous writhe in her stomach that probably has nothing to do with her apparently imaginary baby, but is more likely just pure fear.
Will’s gonna be so mad. She thinks hollowly. So mad.
She presses her lips together, fighting tears. What can she tell him? How can she tell her husband she was just hallucinating their child?
Then, she feels a tiny, tiny spark of hope; and that makes her even more terrified:
Maybe she can leave.
Maybe now, she can leave.
*
Puck strums his fingers mechanically across the strings of his guitar; squeezes his eyes shut; listens to the reverb.
He does it again.
And again.
And again.
He long ago abandoned actually tuning the thing-- this is just giving himself something to do with his hands other than wrap them round Santana Lopez's neck and squeeze hard.
"Nervous?"
He almost craps his pants at the soft purr of Quinn's question so close to his ear. His fingers slip, and his guitar yelps like he dropped a brick on it.
"...Shit." He mutters, and re-positions his hand.
He really doesn’t have the smarts to spare for Quinn Fabray right now; but she doesn't take the brush-off. He doesn't know why he's surprised: she never does.
Puck watches her out the corner of his eye, shifting compulsively from foot to foot.
"So, I've been meaning to ask.... Do you think your boyfriend's seriously putting the moves on Finn, or was that just one of you twos fun, psychological abuse things?"
"Oh god Fabray, change the record already." Puck grates, giving up and slinging his guitar back by his side. "Finn's with Rachel." He spells out for her. "Rachel. Not you. He's happy with her."
"It's insane."
"Yeah, well, does anything of the last coupla weeks make any kind of sense to you?" Puck shoots back, voice dripping sarcasm: "We're auditioning for Glee Club."
Quinn makes a huffy little noise; but she doesn't say anything else, and Puck snorts to himself. It's not like she can deny the big fucking hot mess that's about to crash and burn right in the middle of the stage.
He starts strumming again, and grins ghoulishly to himself at the feel of the steel strings slicing into his fingertips.
"I didn't know you could play the guitar." Quinn offers quietly, after a long, tense minute.
"Hidden depths." Puck grunts back. Then, grudgingly: "Didn't know you could sing."
Quinn shrugs tinily:
"...I love it."
It's weirdly honest for her-- Like, Quinn's always honest, in the proper church-person sense of the word; Puck's pretty sure Quinn Fabray's never even lied to get out of math. But she's never, like, vulnerable. Or at least not with him.
"I guess at least this way we get in whatever happens." Puck says, trying not to think about everyone sitting out there just a couple of metres beyond the curtain. Mr Schuester. Miss Pillsbury. All of New Directions, lined up in one big unforgiving row of psycho perfectionism.
"As long as we get out there and sing we're good." Quinn agrees, crossing her arms. She nods strongly to herself, as if agreeing with some invisible life coach. "This is how it should be you know. No prejudices. Just talent."
"Just talent, right." Puck mimics. "And, uh, faculty blackmail."
Quinn quirks an eyebrow at him, corner of her mouth curling to match it. "Right."
To his surprise, Puck finds himself sharing her smile. Then his insides give one great big heave and he has to fight not to puke his guts up in impending horror. He can hear the whispery babble of noise beyond the curtain start to settle down and can only guess Mr Schue's ready to start.
Cold sweat begins to prickle at the back of his neck. God he hates an audience. Why the fuck is he even here? What the hell was he thinking?
"You're better than they are."
"What?" Puck snaps, Quinn's voice phasing in and out under the sudden pounding of blood in his ears.
"You're better than they are." She repeats. "Go out there, and sing a love song to your boyfriend. Even though he's a bitch. And doesn't deserve you."
"He's not a bitch." Puck mutters automatically, although all Puck’s evidence of that is a kind of MIA at the moment.
"See?" A bit awkwardly, Quinn nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. "You're stupidly loyal. All that squirming in your stomach? Don't you feel like that everytime you look at him?"
"I'm gonna hurl." Puck hisses through his teeth, gripping the neck of his guitar so tight he thinks he's gonna snap the thing. Kinda wishes he would, then he could get outta this.
"Well, yeah, love's like that." Quinn drawls, and Puck has no idea what percentage of her is being serious. She isn't smiling anymore, and her lips have gone very pale as she presses them together; but her eyes are glinting with excitement. She turns her head to meet his gaze, and for really the first time, Puck feels she's actually looking at him.
"Take all those feelings," she instructs "and get out there, and sing a love song to your nympho boyfriend."
Puck glowers at her:
"Stop saying stuff like--"
"-Whatever; get out onstage and remind Queen Hummel that you're doing this to be with him. It's amazing how much sense things start to make when you're singing your heart out."
"Noah Puckerman."
Puck's breath turns to ice halfway up his throat. Schuester sounds bored as fuck already.
"Go on!"
Puck feels Quinn's finger poke him in the ribs and suddenly, without thinking about it, Puck finds his feet leading the rest of him out of the wings and across the stage, to stop a abruptly right in the middle of the big white circle of the spotlight.
He squints, and automatically lifts a hand to shield his eyes. He can feel his fingers quivering against his forehead.
They’re all there. All of them.
Puck hadn’t expected that. Kurt; yes (or, y’know, mostly yes). Rachel; of course. But he hadn’t expected the whole six of them. He didn’t think they’d care.
The breath catches suddenly in Puck’s throat and he makes an awkward, choking wheezing noise into the mic that screeches round the whole room.
Shit shit shit shit
Puck squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to run off the stage.
"Well?" Schuester rolls the word around his tongue like he’s enjoying tormenting Puck with just that one impatient syllable.
Puck opens his eyes. He can’t look at Kurt. He can’t. Instead, he scans the row until he finds the one face he’s sure will be on his side. He’s not hard to find: Finn’s like some awkwardly built Jenga tower, towering head and shoulders above the rest of the row. He’s staring right back at Puck, face like a moose caught in headlights; but when their eyes meet he grins, and Puck almost manages to start breathing again.
"I'm, uh,” he clears his throat “Noah Puckerman, and I'm gonna sing, um, ‘Sweet Caroline’, by Neil Diamond."
His eyes find Finn again, and the other boy nods frantically, sticking two surreptitious thumbs up just out of Rachel’s eye-line.
“Whenever you’re ready, Mr Puckerman.” Schuster drawls, head lolling into his hand as Miss P stares stonily ahead beside him.
Right. Singing. Right. He can do that.
Puck’s hand seems to jerk of its own accord, strumming the first chord without even thinking. He gulps; looks for Finn’s gaze again; catches it; keeps strumming.
“Where it began, I can’t begin to knowin'…”
He opens his mouth, and the lyrics fall out easy; so familiar.
“but then I know its growing strong…”
Now, as the song reels from his mouth, he can’t help but look for Kurt.
“Was in the spring, and then spring became summer…”
The other boy’s gazing back at the stage: arms crossed, legs crossed; thumbnail poised between his lips the only hint to Puck that he cares about this; that his heart might be beating a little faster too.
It was beating hard when Puck kissed him, that’s for sure. The first time, and every time since.
Puck’s voice gets stronger, remembering Kurt’s arms around his neck; the awkward, silent seconds when their mouths had parted, but neither of them had pulled away, breathing softly against each other’s lips, feeling the warmth of each other’s skin. Some dude had barged in (probably on a dare, the whole freakin’ school had watched Kurt drag him in there) but scuttled out in terror before either of them had looked up.
“Who’d have believed you’d come along?”
For just a second, Kurt’s eyes meet his, and Quinn’s words echo in Puck’s head.
He strums harder, closing his eyes.
“Hands; touching hands.”
Kurt’s hands around his waist; mouth against his ear, making the hair prickle all down his neck.
“Reaching out…”
Kurt standing beside him as Finn’s explains 'Don’t Stop Believin'’; their fingers laced together as they walked to class.
“Touchin’ me…”
Kurt’s hands under his shirt; Puck’s head dizzy from kissing.
“Touchin’ you…”
Puck heaves in a breath, strumming hard.
“Sweet Caroline!”
He smiles as, behind him, Quinn and the cheerios chime in with the echo. When he turns, he sees the blonde smiling tinily at him from the wings, cheeks a little pink under her war-wound.
He looks back out into the auditorium, grinning at the gleeks lined up and unamused in front of him.
“Good times never seemed so good.”
Tina’s gazing at him from behind her hair, her eyes bright. Artie’s smiling wanly, but it doesn’t seem in a bad way, and he isn’t laughing. Mercedes, of course, is scowling like a bitch-- but Puck’s starting to realise Mercedes Jones has a serious grudge goin’ on and even more that he doesn’t give a shit.
“I’ve been inclined, to believe they never would... oh-oh-ohh…”
Finn’s swaying in his seat.
“Sweet Caroline! Good times never seemed so good...”
Miss P looks like she wants him to explode right there onstage. Mr Schuester’s doodling in his notebook; and Puck swings his guitar around, strumming for all he’s worth:
“I’ve been inclined, to believe they never would, oh-no-nooo…”
His eyes land once more on Kurt, and Rachel beside him, wearing identical expressions of complete and total disinterest.
*
The music dies, and Kurt claps politely, avoiding eye-contact. He wants to keep up the show of not giving a crap whether it was Noah up there or some other foliclly-challenged Neanderthal. But fact is: everytime Noah sings, Kurt can feel his chest constricting like it does whenever he wears shirts from Lip Service, and he has these beautiful, scary memories of Noah's lips on his, and his tears smudging faint mascara-y blotches against Noah's really attractively chiselled cheekbones.
As the jock exits stage left, Kurt shifts in his seat, looking at the floor and re-crossing his legs the other way and avoiding any vitriolic whispers that might get aimed in his direction. Beside him he hears Rachel comment, just a tad too loud to be under her breath:
"Well. At least he's Jewish."
Kurt turns his head and just looks at her. To his surprise, she actually seems kind of nauseous, and Kurt bets she's just as nervous as he was, as she watches Quinn Fabray and her posse of slut-skirts taking Noah’s place on the stage from the corner of her eye.
Reluctantly, he turns back to the front.
It doesn't make a big difference that Noah's in the New Directions now, he assures himself silently. After all: he's been hanging around for long enough; everyone’s used to him; and at least it'll give Finn someone to play with. He'll just be a particularly well-built addition to the scenery. He won't make any difference at all.
Except...
…Kurt doesn't know what he'll do the first time Mr Schuester pairs him and Noah for a duet.
Because he will pair them. He’s a sadist like that.
Kurt's staring unseeingly at the stage. The morosely un-amused expression takes less than no effort by this point and aside from being mildly entertained by Rachel's squirming next to him, he's actually a million miles away from the opening bars of the Cheerios' audition.
But he feels the seat depress next to him, and he knows it’s Noah.
Kurt fights the urge to re-cross his legs a second time, so Noah doesn't have the impulse to put his hand on his knee. But another part of him would quite like the other boy to try and touch him again. Kurt's stomach squirms, and he tries not to think about it anymore.
Then, all at once, Noah's mouth is far too close to his ear:
"I wanted to say I'm sorry."
It's so absurd Kurt automatically turns, and Noah has to back away so his eyes can re-focus.
"I..." Kurt wets his lips, glaring at the other boy. "..What?"
"I'm just... I wanted to say sorry for y'know..." Noah's mouth tightens in embarrassment. "Tryin’ a, like, jump you in the middle of the corridor."
Oh, that.
"Oh sweetheart, I live for those moments." Kurt deadpans automatically, and Noah's face falls.
"Um. Ok. It's just. I want you to know that I don't wanna treat you like that."
Clearly, Kurt thinks, flashing back to Noah pretty much throwing him off the sofa.
"Well maybe I want you to." Kurt replies, turning back to watch the continuing performance. They're quite good, he thinks vaguely, distracted by Noah's scent sticking in his nostrils.
Noah doesn't say anything to that and Kurt tries his best not to look bothered either way. After a moment the other boy huffs probably louder than he meant to and Kurt feels the movement of his slouching further down in his seat.
And then he feels the movement of Noah leaning sharply over, elbow almost slipping off the armrest:
"I don't get you."
"What an unexpected observation." Kurt hisses back and gestures at the stage. "Do you mind, there’s a performance--?"
"--For the longest time you've acted like you'd shrivel and die if our skin ever touched, and now you're mad at me 'cos I'm not trying to get you naked?"
"Well excuse me if I'm not quite as accustomed to rejection as you are."
Noah's mouth hangs open unattractively for a minute, as he tries to find some retort, but Kurt can see the fiery glimmer in his eyes dying like a smothered candle flame. It's an easy one with Noah Puckerman; the rejection card. It takes almost nothing. Kurt almost feels bad about it.
Finally, the other boy lets out a sigh like bear being steam-rolled.
"Well, I just wanted to apologise, ok?"
“Why?" Kurt finally snaps, twisting round to glare at him full in the face. "Why are you apologising? What do you want me to say? I’m not sorry for the song. I’m not sorry that it pissed you off, it was meant to, that was the point. Oh don’t look all hurt; you knew that. I’m a bitch. You know I’m a bitch. You wanted to get to know me better? Well here’s Kurt Hummel 101-I’m an asshole.”
Puckerman slams his fist off the armrest between them, climbing to his feet, and he's taken three steps away before he thinks better of it and comes storming back, gesturing dumbly with his big jock hands like he's trying to grab words out of mid-air.
“You know what?" He growls, making a supreme effort to ignore the fact that everyone else in the auditorium is now staring at them. Even Quinn and the Cheerios onstage have stuttered to a halt, the peppy beat of the backing track like a tiny child trying to dispel the tension.
Noah stabs a finger at Kurt's face: "You were mad at me, because I was scared to tell my mom I have a boyfriend. Yeah, ok, I was scared. I’m not ashamed of it, ‘cos I love you, but this has been so messed up, Kurt, and honestly? I hadn’t even thought about how I was gonna explain it to her. But you know what I think?”
“What?”
“You’re scared.”
Kurt breathes a laugh: “Excuse moi?”
“You’re scared of being with me, because you don’t know how it’s gonna go. ‘Cos I bet no-one’s ever told you to wait-the-shit-up before. Because you’re not in control of every little tiny detail of this, and it freaks you the hell out. I do know you,” Noah glowers at the rest of the row unapologetically listening in. “I know all of you, and what you’re most scared of, Kurt, is not being in control. Of not being in charge of the school, or the glee club, or this; us.”
Kurt can feel Rachel glowering holes through the back of his skull, but he doesn't blink as he stares Puckerman down:
“Keep it up loser, and there won’t be an ‘us’ to be in control of.”
“Fine.” Puckerman spits. “But while there is, I’m going to do the best I can by you, no matter how much you might wanna crap all over that.”
Kurt opens his mouth again to retort; but before he can form a word Noah’s muttered something about needing some fresh air, and the thick, sound-proofed auditorium doors are swinging shut behind him, muffling his sneaker-clad footsteps.
For the longest minute the auditorium is pin-drop silent.
Then quietly, a few seats down, Mercedes and Artie begin to whisper; begin to laugh; and Kurt kind of hates the grating pitch of his voice as he whips round to snap at them:
“Do you have something to say?!”
Nobody replies.
*
The auditorium is Rachel’s favourite place. Well, at least, her favourite place in the school building. It’s a like a friend to her; in here she can stand in the spotlight, where she should be, and her voice soars above all the others, like she knows it deserves. If McKinley High is her kingdom, this stage, bathed in these spotlights, is her throne.
The music begins behind her: the song she’s taken into her heart this week; that seems to speak to every sharp, cracked little emotion she felt as she watched Finn envelope Quinn in his arms, congratulating her on her audition.
“How about a round of applause? Hey? Standing ovation; yeah, yeah, yeah, hey..”
She would never normally be silent in a situation like this. But something about Finn and Quinn Fabray has confined her to wordlessness, and she’s reduced to speaking with fuming glances; with her flat, open palms.
“Trying to apologise, you’re so ugly when you cry, please, just cut it out…”
Rachel gazes out over the curve of the empty seats, a great blue wave rushing away from the power of her voice. The others have long since left; school’s over: but Mr Kidnee trusts her to lock up and she’ll be done by 7pm.
“But you put on quite a show, really had me going…”
Today, New Directions has four new members. And only four, because Rachel’s grand plan had backfired, and the rest of the school were too intimidated by a glee club performance they could never hope to emulate to even show up. Rachel almost wishes she’d never suggested it now. But even with those four, the Cheerios and Puckerman, New Directions are still two members short of a competitive team. Miss Pillsbury is watching Mr Schuester’s every move like a buzzard, ready to report anymore lapses in judgement straight back to Figgins; Coach Sylvester seems to be lurking around every corner.
“Now it’s time to go, curtain’s finally closing…”
Kurt won’t talk to her, wouldn’t talk to anyone as he stormed out; Mercedes is working up to a full-on diva strop… Even Tina’s eyes were glistening as she pushed Artie from the auditorium, and Rachel-who always prides herself on learning every nuance of her team’s dynamics-doesn’t have a clue why.
“That was quite a show, very entertaining, but it’s over now…”
Rachel begins to sway with the music, losing herself in it.
And then there’s Quinn Fabray.
“And the award for the best liar goes to you…”
A week ago they were so hopeful; even the sticky blue slushie stains were beginning to wash out of her skirt. But now it feels so much like everything’s just falling apart.
Rachel closes her eyes, pushing everything out of her head, and into her voice:
“That was quite a show, very entertaining. But it’s over now, come on and take a bow…”
But it’s over now.
No. No; it’s not over.
Rachel presses her lips hard together.
They might be being assaulted from every side; her own boyfriend might be betraying her; her mortal enemy might be trying to steal her solos… But Rachel Berry has never and will never be a quitter.
New Directions only need two more members; then they can compete at Sectionals.
Two more members. And then they’ll all be stars.
Rachel stares up into the spotlight.
She’ll be a star. If she has to hoodwink two more gormless jocks into singing her backup, she’ll do it.
Slowly, Rachel feels her frown dissolve, replaced by a perfect, beatific smile blossoming across her face.