Fic: That Hallmark Jazz (PG-13)
Title: That Hallmark Jazz
Author: Dark-Dreymer
Recipient: starryskies
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 8250
Warnings: Little hints of neglectful/abusive parenting
Summary: AU where Will is the student and Finn is the teacher.
Author's Notes: This was going to be a lot longer, but timing is not my strong suit. This may develop into a little 'verse because there's all this background that I just couldn't work into this snapshot.
The fifteen minutes Will Schuester spends in the car with his dad every weekday morning is, on average, the longest space of time he spends with either one of his parents in any given week. His father will, on occasion, feel a burst of guilt over not bonding with his child enough and they'll have an unplanned heart-to-heart that treads over the same old ground every time and never seems to bring them genuinely closer, or sometimes they'll take a trip out to St. Mary's State Park and the teenager will regret the temporary loss of sanity he'd experienced at age twelve when he'd expressed an interest in fishing. But even when he's hunched over in his favorite hoodie to avoid the chill, hours before sunrise in a rowboat that stinks of worms, maggots and other such unsavory bait; Will has to acknowledge that his father does at least try, something he cannot say for his mother.
Things have been strained between them for the past couple of months, ever since Will passed his test he's wanted to drive to school by himself and his dad is against it on the grounds that: a) a car is a big responsibility, b) an extra car on the road would add to pollution and the congestion problem on Jackson Street that Mayor Berger's latest traffic budget reforms still haven't fixed, and c) he's an unrelenting jerk who doesn't want his only son to have a little freedom sometimes, even though he's earned it.
Will runs his fingers over the array of badges and logos on his messenger bag, idly considering re-pinning the design into a new order and half-listening to the stilted attempts at conversation coming from the driver. His dad mentions the Invitationals performance at the school that evening and Will knows it's merely an attempt to get him to open up, so he answers with a level 'Yeah' and doesn't elaborate; if his dad wanted to know more about the performance he could have gotten an evening off from the stupid case he's been working late on all month and come to watch.
“I'm working late again,” The older man informs as he pulls the Lexus up to the curb alongside the park and watches his son unbuckle his seat belt. “It'll just be you and your mother for dinner tonight.”
“Sure,” Will responds autonomously. He'd taken chicken out of the freezer to defrost before he left that morning.
“Okay,” The older man leans out of the window as his son starts walking the last couple of blocks. “Have a nice day, Billy.”
The young man turns back and sighs at the genuine tone. There's a couple of kids his age walking on the other side of the street, nobody he knows, but his dad is really trying dammit; so he lets the cold shoulder thaw for a single moment and shouts back, “You too.”
On the very corner of the street a young redhead is seated at a bus stop bench, swinging her mismatched-sock clad feet to a perky, internal rhythm and laboring over the A3 sketchpad open on her lap with a graphite pencil. As he approaches, she turns away from observing more details of the Market Street laundromat directly opposite and spots him.
“Hey Will.” She smiles softly and slides the pencil away into a Strawberry Shortcake pencil box and closes the sketchpad.
“Morning Emma,” He responds with similar casual cheer. He waits beside the bench for a few moments as she smooths down her skirt and gathers her belongings up, falling into step alongside her as she sets off down the street with the large pad tucked under one arm. They make idle chitchat as they walk: the progress of the sketch Emma is making with the five to ten minutes she spends waiting for him every morning, the nasty piece of Lit analysis Mr. Wilde set them for homework, the latest gossip about what Holly got up to when she was cutting Chemistry last Tuesday, their nerves about having to perform to their first real audience that evening. The conversation is bland and simple because of the depth and longevity of their friendship, Will knows that if he had anything big to talk about it would be Emma he'd turn to without a second thought... Except, there is that big thing he could talk about that he just can't seem to find a way to bring up.
Outside the main gates of McKinley High, Terri Delmonico is hanging about with her older sister and a gang of older girls; noticeably an outsider for being the only one not puffing on a cigarette. When she sees them approaching, the blonde taps her sister on the shoulder, whispers something and then heads over to greet them.
“Hey Will,” She purrs. Her voice is sharper when she looks in the redhead's direction and adds, “Grace.”
“Emma,” She corrects swiftly, well used to the treatment.
“Whatever,” Terri dismisses. “So, Will. I was thinking that I really haven't had as much time to work on the dance moves as everyone else in the club, so maybe you and I could get together after school and get in some last minute rehearsal.”
“Isn't Ken just as unpracticed as you,” Emma prompts. “Why don't you ask him?”
Terri glares, so Will cuts into the situation before a catfight can break out, “Sorry Terri, I have a meeting with the newspaper club today.”
“How about after?” The blonde suggests.
“I already have plans,” He answers apologetically. “But I've already seen your steps and you've got them down great. I'll see you tonight.”
“Yeah, sure. See you tonight, Will.” Without bidding goodbye to Emma, the blonde turns away and heads back to her sister.
Emma waits by his locker as he puts the books for his later periods away and lightens the load of his messenger bag. They cross the hall to her locker and he stands aside as she does likewise, then they head to home room.
“So you still want to go to the art gallery this afternoon?” Emma prompts. “Or was that just to make Terri-ble go away.”
“I figure if we go by bus we can get a good hour in at the installation before we'd have to leave to get ready for tonight,” He answers. “What are the odds you can get Bryan to drive us, though?”
“About three out of five,” She replies calmly.
“Are you sure? I mean, you'd have to convince him to stick around until the newspaper club lets out?” He queries skeptically.
“The first meet of the girls gymnastics team is after school today,” She answers drily. “Open invitation to the student body to come and watch.”
“Okay,” He answers calmly. There are few things that can be counted on in this world, but Bryan Ryan being an irredeemable pervert is one of them. “Will you see him there, or find him some time before?”
She searches through her backpack and retrieves a neatly folded sheet of paper. Unfolding it, she traces a finger along the bottom row. “I have a free period when the Seniors are at lunch today,” She declares a few moments later, tapping an empty square in the grid. “I normally use it for extra studio time but I can track him down to ask him for a ride.”
“Thanks, Emma.” Will smiles his thanks and then lets his eyes drift to the timetable. The first square on Friday is labeled 'Psychology. Room 301. Mr. Hudson'. It's a class he shares with his friend and Will feels himself smile a little brighter at the sight of it.
*
Mr. Hudson is seated behind his desk, fiddling the the connection cable between his laptop and the digital projector which seems to always be on the fritz. The class slowly arrive and take their seats as he unplugs and reconnects the device several times, but at last the projector light comes on and the image from the laptop screen is presented on the whiteboard for them all to see. The teacher grins triumphantly and pushes a hand through his hair, sending the mass of upright spikes into further disarray. The thick, rectangular-framed reading glasses slide down his nose a little and he folds them closed neatly before he sets them down on the desk, standing up to address the class about the day's topic: Emotions.
There's some tittering and a few silly jokes as Mr. Hudson leads the opening discussion on what we think of when we consider emotions, but he calmly allows it and doesn't lose his cool. Once they've covered the basic understanding the teacher prompts a few people to, with deep reluctance, read from the textbook on the topic of how emotions are considered in a psychological context. Will scribbles down notes and steals occasional glances at the teacher as Mr. Hudson dictates some key points that will aid them when they come to review the information for the upcoming test. The psychology teacher is young for the profession, not even thirty yet, affable and welcoming; as well as just damn gorgeous. Tall, broad, a little relaxed in meeting the school's recommended dress code, with big, chocolate brown eyes and an easy smile. He's a major target of student crushes and Will... Will's one of them. So there it is, the big thing that he can't quite think how to talk about with Emma. Even in his own head, it's this big thing that he sort of acknowledges but spends a lot of time tiptoeing around.
When the bell rings at the end of class Will is still copying a few final bullet points from the summary at the end of the chapter in the textbook, so by the time he's packed everything away into his messenger bag; he and Emma are the only two students left in the room.
“You should hurry or you'll be late to your next class,” Mr. Hudson advises, clicking through the documents on his hard drive to bring up the presentation for the next class.
“Sure thing, Mr. H,” Will agrees, swinging his bag over his shoulder and heading to the door.
“Oh, and Will, Emma,” The teacher calls. “I'll see you this evening, okay?”
Will glances back to the friendly smile, the slight lift of an eyebrow, the glimmer of excitement lurking in the teacher's eyes and feels a tremble run through him. He knows that there's no real point in going to Business Mathematics because he's only going to spend the whole lesson obsessing over that cheery grin and the big, epic crush he has on the psychology teacher.
*
The school newspaper is the biggest waste of time and money going on at McKinley High, but Will doesn't mind being involved because with the right attitude it can be a lot of fun. Figgins is the club president and self-appointed editor-in-chief, he's utterly at the mercy of Sue Sylvester who managed to take her 'Sue's Corner' segment at the bottom of the back pages to a fully developed sports section. Will is the culture columnist and has not had the same success in branching his section out to greater glory. At first, he put genuine effort into his articles but it got depressing to have his hard work shot down all the time and he learned to see the lighter side of journalism. Now his role is mainly film critic, club smart-alec and to occasionally remind the student body that the Allen County museum has a new exhibit.
Parker, the copy-editor, is his only real friend at the club. They became close after she helped him to format his snubbed article about the bookstore closing down on the High Street because of falling profits into a six-inch column they could squeeze onto the bottom of a page of local advertisements, she also helped to ensure that the formatting would make the article an acrostic of 'douchebag' as an act of protest against their leader.
He hands over his flash drive to Figgins at the start of the meeting and then takes a seat beside Parker as she flicks through a dozen different Word documents on the club room’s clunky old desktop computer.
“How's it going?” He inquires, watching her retype a sentence to fix its syntax.
“I'm editing Sylvester's articles,” Parker responds. “I kind of what to bludgeon her with a copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves.”
“Hey, don't talk about her like that,” Will instructs, glancing from side to side. “Not when she might hear you anyway.”
Parker snorts and adds a necessary Oxford comma to a list of goal scorer's from last week's football game, “Miss 'That's how I C it' is taking notes on the girls gymnastics meet, she'll have the article in on Monday and no doubt expect me to crowbar it into the layout before we go to print.”
“Hey, if you need to cut something feel free to remove my summary of the latest installation at the art gallery,” He offers.
She frowns, “I thought you said that the sensory pod thing was cool.”
“It is,” He insists. “That's why I don't want anyone else to know about it. Can't have the whole school showing up and ruining my new hangout. I made my writing as dull as I possibly could so that nobody would want to go after they've read it, but if you cut the article out then I don't have to worry about people reading it.”
“I don't think you'll have to worry about people reading it whether it's in the paper or not,” She reminds.
“Good point.” He shrugs apathetically. “Emma and I are going to the gallery today, you could tag along.”
“I don't know,” She eyes him warily. “I wouldn't want to crash your date.”
He stumbles over his denial, but she only grins and meets his insistent remarks that he and Emma are only friends with obvious disbelief. Will hates that so often in his life, people take their own interpretation of him rather than just listening when he tries to talk. He's a friendly face among the Sophomore class, reasonably popular and yet when it comes down to it, that makes him feel all the more lonely when he has nobody to really talk to.
*
Will meets Bryan and Emma in the parking lot when the newspaper club is over and the older boy greets him unenthusiastically and unlocks the doors to his lightly-dented Plymouth.
“Will!” The teenager turns round automatically in response to his name and is surprised to find Terri walking across the lot towards them.
“Uh, hey Terri,” He greets awkwardly.
“So you're done with the newspaper now, right?” The blonde questions.
“Yeah, but, I still have plans,” He reminds. “Emma and I were gonna-”
“I could go with you,” She suggests brightly.
“I'm happy to take her along,” Bryan informs, sending a slanted grin towards Terri.
“You can't, Bryan,” Emma insists.
“Why not?” He demands.
“You don't turn 18 until May. The law says on a restricted license a minor is only allowed one other person under the age of 21 in the vehicle with them while they're driving,” She informs calmly.
“Well, you and Will makes two, so you'd already be breaking the law,” Terri points out.
“Family doesn't count,” The redhead explains.
“You aren't even his real sister,” The blonde argues.
“Hey!” Bryan exclaims, slamming the driver's door of the Plymouth sharply and speaking in a gravelly manner to the girl who'd just insulted his foster-sister. “I'm the only one who's allowed to say that.”
Terri blinks her heavy, mascara-laden lashes a few times and then ducks her head a fraction, “I'm sorry.”
“Good,” Bryan states plainly. “Now, are you coming to the museum or not?”
“Museum?” Terri repeats aghast.
“We're going to look at the art installation,” Will explains.
She swings her arms and inhales with false-thoughtfulness, “That sounds really great, but I just remembered that Kendra wanted me to stop by the grocery store on the way home today. I'll see you all this evening though, right?”
“You'll see us there,” Will agrees, watching her beat a hasty retreat with mild amusement.
*
The art gallery is really just a wing of the Allen Country museum. There's a few halls of permanent fixtures: old oil paintings from nobody of real renown and a wall of photographs documenting the development of Allen Country through the decades. The large main display hall runs on a rotation of installations, one is on display for several months and then something else takes it place; if there's nothing new to fill a gap, then an old display comes out.
The sensory pod installation is in its first showing and seems to have been met with profound apathy. Will made a visit to the gallery looking for something to write about for the school paper during the first week of the showing and dragged Emma along to see it with him a few days later. Since then, they'd been hanging out at the display a few days every week after school.
There are five different pods on display and they've tried them all, but 'Shell' is their favorite and so the one they gravitate to when they arrive. Leaving their shoes by the entrance, they crawl in through the entrance hole and lounge on the plush leather interior, listening to the sounds of the sea crackling over the audio system built into the design and breathing in the musk of salt air. Emma settles into her chosen groove in the design of the shell and retrieves a copy of Macbeth to read over while Will makes a start on his Algebra worksheet. By half an hour later he's finished the sheet and checked over his answers, so he takes his own copy of the play out of his bag and runs a few lines with his friend. They amuse themselves by using the glowing red circle focal point in the center of the sensory pod as a stand-in for the Three Witches bubbling cauldron, then abandon 'Shell' in search of a better environment to read Shakespeare.
'Heart' is designed to resemble the inside of a human heart, the walls feature seats made up to resemble valves and ventricles; the steady throb of the sound system reminds Will of the tentacle hentai Levi made him watch once. They find a comfortable spot on either side of the pod and run through the 'Is this a dagger I see before me?' monologue to appease Mr. Wilde's insistence that they practice reading aloud. When they're done, they set homework to one side and spend the remaining half hour of their visit just hanging out.
“Emma?” Will grabs his friend's attention from where she's listening to her iPod with one earbud in.
“Yes?” She prompts, pausing the song and giving him her undivided attention.
“Are you okay with the fact that people think we're dating?” He asks warily.
She bites her bottom lip and fiddles with the threaded friendship bracelet on her wrist, both signs of nervousness, “What do you mean?”
“It's just, people think we're dating and I...”
“Is that a bad thing?” She inquires, carefully composed.
“Well, no. It's just, it isn't true,” He tries to explain.
“So you're saying you don't want to date me?” She summarizes timidly.
“What? No!”
“So, you do want to date me?” She watches him hesitantly.
“That isn't what- I don't want to date you, but I don't want to not-date you either.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Even with the person he feels he can talk about anything with, it's so hard to get past the layer of misconceptions sometimes. “It annoys me that people won't believe me when I say we're just friends, that's all.”
“No, it's- Hey, I understand.” She smiles thinly and he can see the disappointment even as she's trying to push it aside.
*
When he gets home Will heads up to his room and empties his messenger bag out onto his desk, sifting through it to make sure he puts his completed math assignment to one side where it won't get lost. Kicking his Converse under the bed, he heads back down the stairs and peers round the door frame of the lounge. His mom is passed out on the couch with a soap opera playing on the TV at muted volume. He switches the television off, picks up the half-empty bottle of wine and accompanying empty glass and carries them through to the kitchen. He sets the glass down with the dirty breakfast dishes beside the sink and has to resist the urge to upend the liquor bottle and send its contents pouring down the drain; he's older and wiser now than he was a few years ago when he tried that one and while the bruise on his cheek may have faded, the memory is still enough to make him flinch. He sets the bottle in the fridge next to the milk and yoghurt, then retrieves the defrosted chicken. When his mom is in a good place, he'll only have to cook dinner about 50% of the time. When she's not in a good place, like she's been for the past few weeks, he ends up cooking more often than not.
He serves a bowl of chicken pasta with tomato and garlic sauce for himself and puts the rest into a Tupperware container for when his mother wakes up or his father gets home, whichever happens first. He scours the pan and then loads up the dishwasher, setting it going before he heads up to his room to check over his daily websites for updates before he has to leave for Invitationals.
*
The first song goes okay... for exactly 20 seconds, then Terri inexplicably steps out of formation to pull Will into her arms, collides with Ethan who is going the other way and manages to send Will sprawling backwards and headfirst onto a light-fixture. Faith and Hamish handle it like pros and manage to keep the audience's attention on them as they belt out Starship's iconic ballad Nothing's Gonna Stop Us and the rest of the club fix the commotion going on behind them and fall back into the practiced choreography. Will finishes up the number feeling dizzy, with glaring light filling up his vision and a sensation like the back of his head has been split open like the flimsy tissue paper eggs they made for Easter in grade school.
When they're done, Levi and Ethan more or less carry Will off stage and back to the dressing room.
“Will, you okay?” One of them leans down over Will as he slumps back in a chair and holds his aching head.
Normally he can pick up on the nuances and tell them apart, but with the pain in his head all he can tell is that it's one of the Chavez twins. “I'm fine,” He chokes out through grit teeth.
“Oh man, I don't think he can go back on like this,” One of the twins mumbles.
“No shit, Sherlock. Look at that goose egg on the back of his head,” The other responds.
“Could everybody just be quiet, please?” Will pleads. His request is answered almost immediately and he is so bewildered to have been obeyed that he opens his eyes and finds the real reason for the sudden silence: their glee director with a face full of thunder.
“Miss Delmonico, please leave,” Mr. Hudson instructs.
“Wha- Bu- Why?” Terri mumbles.
“You cannot be a member of this club if you can't follow simple instructions and ensure the safety of your teammates,” The teacher surmises. “You're out of Glee, don't come back.”
“But it was an accident,” Terri puffs herself up angrily.
“I do not want to repeat myself,” Mr. Hudson matches her, his rising anger a far more intimidating feat. The girl blanches and leaves the room as she was instructed. The instant she is gone the teacher deflates, his mouth stretches into an unpleasant frown.
“What do we do now Mr. Hudson?” Aoide is the only one bold enough to speak up in the wake of what just happened. “Without Terri and Will we're two members down for the second song.”
The teacher runs a hand through his hair regretfully, “I guess I'll just have to go out there and tell them we're cutting the show short.”
The club's diva pouts and folds her arms, Bryan insists there has to be something they can do, Faith suggests trying to pass Bryan's ego off as two extra people since it's big enough. In the middle of all the fuss a timid knock sounds at the door and everybody turns to find Ashley standing in the doorway.
“I may have a solution,” The ex-member states, stepping a little further into the room. “I know you all hate me for walking out on you, but I do know all the songs.”
“We'd still need somebody to go on for Schuester,” Bryan points out.
Ashley heads out into the hall and pulls her boyfriend in with her, presenting him like the grand solution of a difficult puzzle.
“Um, hey guys,” The quarterback kicks the floor uncomfortably.
“So Glee club is manly enough for you now, huh Stevie?” Holly remarks toothily. They all know that Steven's claim to be quitting Glee because of the pressure from the rest of the football team was BS, he played 'follow the leader' with his girlfriend: she joined, he joined; she quit, he quit; she's joining again, he'll be right there with her.
“Okay,” Mr. Hudson calls to gather their attention. “Everybody get ready, I want you on stage for Tell Me It's Not True in five.”
There's a flurry of activity to get ready, so Will is able to sit in his chair and ignore everybody as they rush out to give the second performance of the evening. He sits with his eyes closed and tries to soothe the continuing ache in his head by breathing deep and steady, but it only really starts to calm once the others are gone and the room falls quiet.
“Does that hurt?”
Will lurches upright, blushing a little at the reaction when he opens his eyes and finds the teacher still waiting in the dressing room; watching him with open concern.
“It's not so bad,” He lies.
“Uh-huh,” Mr. Hudson remarks dismissively. “I saw the boys carrying you off stage, I bet you didn't even know who the President was for a few minutes there.”
“It really wasn't- Oh,” Will trails off with a little gasp, that he hopes the teacher didn't hear, as Mr. Hudson's fingertips trail through his hair and finds the swelling that's risen on the back of his head.
“Hm,” The older man frowns slightly as he rubs the sore spot. “Hold on a moment.” He stands up and heads to the cooler where the bottled water and soda is being kept, picking up a few ice cubes and wrapping them in a paper towel he sits down beside the teenager and presses the makeshift icepack to the bump.
“That's better,” Will sighs a little with relief as the throbbing eases from the coolness. “Thanks Mr. Hudson.”
“It's no problem, Will,” The teacher assures, his lips starting to turn upwards for the first time since he arrived in the dressing room. With the older man's hand still holding the icepack to his head, Will is suddenly painfully aware of how close they are to each other; how the slight movement of the teacher's lips is far more intimately close to his own than would ever be permitted in casual conversation. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and curses his sixteen-year-old hormones for their valiant effort to create a lump in his pants too.
“I- I've got it, Mr. H.” He reaches up to take the icepack in his own hand, but in doing so finds his fingers running over the bigger hand of the older man. The teacher pulls his hand back enough to pass the icepack over to Will, but the young man still regrets the brief moment of physical contact because he's suddenly contemplating how intimate a gesture holding hands with somebody really is and he wants the large, slightly chilled hand now resting on Mr. Hudson's knee to be threading with the fingers of his own hand.
“Will?” Mr. Hudson sits with his hands on his knees, leaning closer to the younger man with clear concern, “Are you sure everything's okay?”
No. No it's not, it really can't be. Falling into that light-fixture must have knocked a screw loose inside Will's skull because in that moment he finds himself falling forward and capturing the teacher's lips, the lips that rise up so easily into a pleasant smile, in a kiss. His mental process from the moment of contact is a low, subliminal 'oh fuck' and a lot of white noise on top. He'd thought that when he finally kissed someone, some kind of instinct would take over but really all that happens is his lips touching Mr. Hudson's lips and then he freezes and doesn't know what to do with his hands, or lips, or his spleen for that matter.
“That was- I shouldn't have- I- Oh God- Mr. Hudson, I-”
And then there are lips on his lips, but these are the lips of a man who actually knows how a kiss is supposed to go. There's a firm hand cupped under his jaw, tilting his face up to the right angle so that the older man's lips can slide against his. His own shaking hand comes to rest on the teacher's shoulder, just softly resting there like a bird landing on a branch, and he's straining against the zipper of his pants in a way that's really uncomfortable.
They don't speak when they first break apart; their breaths come with a little more effort, their lips are shiny and a little swollen, it's just easier overall not to say a word. The hand cupping Will's cheek withdraws and the teenager tries to adjust the crotch of his pants as subtly as possible.
“I shouldn't have done that,” Mr. Hudson announces, voice carefully controlled.
“Why not?” Will questions. The teacher arches an eyebrow and the younger man feels an urge to clarify, “I just meant that if-”
“If I knew I shouldn't have done it, why did I?” The teacher finishes. Will is a little surprised that he hasn't gotten lost in a flood of conversation in order for him and another person to find themselves on the same page for once, so he settles for nodding. “Let's just say, I'm not the best at doing what I should.”
“So, does that mean-?”
“I don't regret what we just did, no. God knows I should,” The older man remarks with a sigh.
“So can we-?”
“That one I'll need some time on,” The teacher cuts off, standing up and putting some space between them.
“Why not-?”
“Don't!” Mr. Hudson pleads, his big, brown eyes going wide. “Don't ask me to make a choice when you're laying there all flushed, disheveled and starry-eyed. I need some time to- I need some air.” He loosens the knot of his uncharacteristic tie and rushes out of the room, leaving Will to slump low in his seat and mull over his teacher's words.
The young man pulls the dripping icepack away from the lump on his head, considering the throbbing in his skull and the throbbing in his briefs and wondering which one needs the cool-off more.
*
The rest of the club return from belting out the Blood Brothers show tune and taking lengthy, egocentric bows and basking in applause, a short while later. Will feels a paranoid lurch in his chest that they're all going to be able to read what happened right off of his guilty expression, but Emma sinks down into the seat beside his own and asks how he's feeling; completely oblivious of the actions their teacher had made in that same seat mere minutes earlier.
The sodas get passed out, a few people make the choice to change out of their show clothes and back into their civvies now; among them is Faith, who gladly pulls her top off and lets the boys see her black, lacy bra without concern. Will observes her actions and the reactions from his fellows: open ogling, less-obvious ogling, catcalls or, in Hamish's case, respecting the lady's privacy by turning away. He doesn't feel any particular reaction stir up within him as Ashley and Zoe manhandle the half-bare girl behind the changing screen to finish getting dressed, but when he licks over his lips and can still feel the phantom-taste of Mr. Hudson's lips lingering there, a flush rises from deep inside him and radiates out through his skin.
The teacher is conspicuously absent throughout much of their celebration and Will hopes his voice doesn't crack too much when he lies and says that he has no idea where Mr. H might have gone. Nobody gives him the third degree, so he assumes he's gotten away with it, but he's feeling tense about anybody finding out about the kiss already.
The glee director returns when the spontaneous after-party is winding down; everybody has changed back into their casual clothes and started making plans to head home. The teacher listens to everyone rave about how much they enjoyed the show and makes diversionary remarks whenever somebody asks how he thinks they did to avoid admitting he didn't see the second song.
Emma taps Will on the arm as she and Bryan are heading to leave, “Come on, there's no way you can walk home after that bump you got.”
“That's okay,” He lies smoothly. “My dad's picking me up, sort of an apology for not being here.”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously, but calmly accepts his lie. “Okay, make sure to call me tomorrow. I don't want to get to school on Monday and find out you have amnesia or something.”
He chuckles and makes the promise, watching as she and her foster-brother leave to meet their parents out in the parking lot. A few minutes later, the room is once again occupied only by himself and Mr. Hudson.
“Will...” The teacher begins, then retreats away from the point he'd been about to make, substituting with, “Is somebody coming to pick you up?”
“No,” The teenager answers honestly. He knows it's a gamble and he's gonna have a long walk home if it doesn't pay off, but he has faith in his teacher, “I was gonna walk.”
There should be some hesitance, with the complications that have sprung into existence between them tonight... or maybe they've been there a lot longer than that and they simply didn't want to admit it. Either way, Mr. Hudson makes no deliberation over offering Will a ride home and the unquestioning, unconditional kindness is one of the things that makes Will like his teacher so much.
They don't talk for most of the journey. They don't talk because the knowledge that they should talk about what happened is enough pressure to strike them both dumb. They don't talk until a red light halfway to Will's house when Mr. Hudson looks over from the wheel and finds the younger man watching him with the same level, curious gaze he'd been showing through the whole journey.
“We need to talk about what happened, Will,” The teacher declares, sounding somewhat reluctant.
“Here doesn't really seem like a good place,” The teenager replies.
“Why not?” Mr. Hudson cocks an eyebrow curiously.
“Because I can't kiss you when you're driving,” Will answers plainly.
The older man swallows visibly and turns back to the road, “Then maybe this is the best place to talk about this. I need a clear head to think this through without you distracting me.” The little glance the teacher sends towards him with the word 'distracting' sends a pleasant shiver up the teenager's spine.
“From the sound of things, if you have a clear head you're going to give me the answer I don't want,” The teenager surmises, discussing calmly the same way he would express an opinion during class. “If we're going to talk about this, I want a chance to have my say.”
Mr. Hudson looks from Will to the traffic light glowing amber, back to Will and then nods minutely as he takes the hand brake off, “What time are your parents expecting you home?”
“They aren't,” The teenager answers with a perfectly casual shrug.
The older man looks across to the passenger seat, an understanding in his gaze that Will rarely sees. He thinks back to the day in Room 301, two weeks into the beginning of the year, when the glee director had convinced him to join up in spite of all his other extra-curriculars: There are three types of kids who load up on extra-curricular activities: The ones who want to look good for college, the ones who have lots of different interests and the ones who just don't want to go home when the bell rings at the end of the day. Mr. Hudson had fixed him with the same, deeply penetrating look that day and for the first time since the start of high school someone had seen through the crafted mask Will had made to hide his home life, but the glee director had never pushed to know more. For a moment he worries that the older man is going to start pushing now, but Mr. Hudson simply acknowledges the response with nigh-unshakable calm and when he speaks it is to make an offer, “Would you like to come to my apartment?” Will is caught off-guard by the suggestion as he had honestly expected the teacher to merely postpone the inevitable conversation for some undecided future date, but his hesitance makes Mr. Hudson break out in self-doubt. “To talk!” He clarifies sharply, “I mean, that came out wrong; I'm not propositioning you, I- Oh, what am I doing?”
“It's okay,” Will insists. “I get it, yeah. I mean, I'd like to go to your place, if that's alright.”
“Okay,” The teacher exhales heavily and gives a slightly shaky grin to his passenger.
Mr. Hudson lives in a highrise apartment block on Lakewood Avenue, thankfully on one of the lower floors because the elevator is out of order. He opens the door and rushes ahead to perform whatever acts of tidying he believes he'll be able to accomplish in the fifteen seconds it takes Will to follow him. The younger man doesn't mind the mess, the home looks lived in; Will's dad is a big fan of 'spick and span' so the teenager's bedroom is the only part of his own house that doesn't look like a show home.
Will decides to be polite and give the older man a little time to fix the place up to his liking before he goes any further, so he stops in the hall and runs an eye over the photographs on the walls. A picture of Summer catches Will's eye, he's met the teacher's daughter from the couple of occasions where he's been unable to find a babysitter and so brought her along to glee rehearsal after school; she's a withdrawn, serious little thing, but in the photograph she's wearing fairy wings and an expression of total delight. Her dad is holding her up and spinning her round, the edges of his form are slightly blurred from the motion but the equally bright smile on his face is perfectly visible; topped off with a neat mustache, Will acknowledges that he must really have it bad because he even thinks the mustache looks kind of good on Mr. Hudson.
The photo frame to the side of the one featuring the father and daughter must be dated a few years beforehand because it also features the elusive mother of the Hudson clan. The quality of the set makes Will suspect this was the kind of family photo taken as a spontaneous impulse while on a trip to a mall, she doesn't look overly pleased to be there as her smile is more thin and weary that the huge, matching grins of her then-husband and daughter. She looks different to the picture from the decade old Thunderclap of the Captain of the Cheerleading Squad hugging her boyfriend, the Quarterback, after a Titans win; the years are showing on her weary, young face and Will wonders how long after this picture was taken the little family was torn apart by the divorce.
“Will?” The older man appears in the doorway to the lounge and sees the younger man looking at the old family portrait.
“Is she here?” The teenager inquires, gesturing to the pictures of a little girl with her mother's fair hair and her father's dark eyes and cheerful smile.
“No,” Mr. Hudson answers, folding his arms over his chest. “I wouldn't have invited you if she was.”
Something inside of Will rots to the core and plops down into his stomach with the defensive response. He's a stupid kid with a crush on his teacher who hit the one-in-a-million shot of having that teacher like him back, but he's still just a stupid kid and he can never hope to have the picture-perfect life that's sitting up there on the wall.
“I'm sorry,” The teenager mumbles bleakly. “Maybe I should just go.”
The older man's posture relaxes, “I invited you here, Will. Don't think I didn't want you to be here, okay... Summer makes things complicated. Let's just call her point number one on the lists of reasons you don't want to get involved with me.”
“Okay.” Will nods gently, “But just so you know, if there's a list of reasons why I should get involved with you. She's on it somewhere, probably even in the top ten.”
The teacher blinks a couple of times, then a soft smile spreads across his face; a sign of parental pride that is so alien to Will. “You should come through to the lounge if we're going to talk about this.”
The teenager sits down on the couch and bends down to unlace his Converse, setting them aside and lifting his legs up to sit cross-legged. “The shoes are off,” He remarks grandly. “So I am not leaving until we've talked this through.”
An amused look passes over the older man's face, “If that's the way you think this is going to be, maybe you'd like a drink.” The same slow-growing sense of panic spreads over the teacher's face as when he'd first invited Will back to the apartment. “Non-alcoholic, I mean, hot cocoa or- or something.” The teenager isn't sure whether the offer of the drink is a sign that this is going to go well, or some kind of peace offering to let him down easy. He has no idea how the conversation is going to play out and he doesn't want to distract from it anymore, so he declines the drink and watches as Mr. Hudson stiffly sinks into the chair perpendicular to the couch.
“Do you know how many ways this is a bad idea?” The teacher prompts.
“183,” Will answers flippantly.
The older man arches an eyebrow, “I don't think you're-”
“No, I get it okay,” The teenager overrides. “This is a stupid idea in so many different ways, but did you ever stop and think about how many ways it's a good idea?”
The teacher bites his lip and drums against his knee with his fingertips, “I have thought about it from time to time, but-”
“So you think we'd be good together?” Will questions with a pleased grin.
“But I don't think the jail time would be worth it,” Mr. Hudson concludes pointedly.
“The only times I've heard about teachers getting arrested is when they're sleeping with their students. We don't have to- I mean, it's- I don't want sex,” The younger man rationalizes clumsily.
“You don't?” The older man cocks a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Not if it meant you'd be arrested,” Will answers plainly. “The kissing was kinda nice and if we could make it up to sex at some point when it's not illegal, I mean; that would be frickin' sweet, but... Have you ever been walking with all these other people around you and all you want is one of them to stop and say, 'Hey, I give a damn about you. I care that you're here.'”
The teacher watches the carpet, “I'm familiar with that feeling.” He looks up at his student, a firm resolve on his features. “What makes you think I could be that person for you?”
“Terri gave me a bump on the head tonight and you came in guns blazing,” The teenager surmises with a smile.
The teacher covers his eyes with a slight grimace at the memory of his actions. “What makes you think that was more than a teacher showing concern for his student?”
“When I kissed you, you kissed me back,” The younger man reminds.
Mr. Hudson exhales softly and lowers his hands, looking at the teenager openly, “What do you expect from this?”
“I don't exactly have a good working model for a healthy relationship at home,” Will makes a relaxed understatement. “-and from what the textbook says, that's gonna screw me up in the long run. So, I was sort of hoping you'd help me figure it out. Lots of people think they understand me: friends, teachers, my parents; but you're the only person I know who really just gets it. So: caring, understanding, support, all that Hallmark jazz, and maybe some kissing in there too because I mean, was it good for you too?” He bites his lower lip with the final question, suddenly anxious of not measuring up to the older man's more experienced expectations.
“Will, I-”
He can see the letdown coming, can see the excuses and the rationalizations; so Will cuts across and slams the ball as hard as he can into the older man's court, “Tell me now that you don't care about me, tell me that you don't want the things I want and I'll leave; right here and now, and I won't come back.” He holds his breath and waits to see if the volley will come, but it whizzes past because the older man can't meet the demand. “Please, we can find a way to make this work.”
The word is softly spoken, “Okay.”
Mr. Hudson stands, Will follows suit and soon finds himself wrapped in the older man's arms. He presses one palm flat against his teacher's chest to feel the rapid rhythm of his heart and presses his face to the crook of the teacher's neck, breathing in the scent that is familiar, but so much stronger now that he's here in the man's arms.
“We'll find a way, Will,” The teacher whispers, delicate fingers running through the younger man's hair and carefully avoiding the lump from the light-fixture. “I don't know how exactly, but... I promise you.”
The teenager trembles slightly, he feels more safe and secure than he ever remembers being, a flush of heat and arousal filling him that is deeply comfortable.
He steps away from the embrace, straightening the older man's tie and meeting the wide, chocolate brown gaze openly, “We don't have to hurry it. We'll figure things out, Mr. Hudson.”
“You can call me Finn,” The teacher remarks.
“You can call me Mr. Schuester,” Will quips. “But that would be a bit weird.”
The nervousness on Finn's face falls away as an amused grin replaces it, the teenager feels a rush of daring and leans up to press his lips against the older man's again. It's little more than a touch of lips on lips, but it leaves a cheerfulness thrumming through Will like a well-played violin and the brightness doesn't leave him as he bids goodnight to Finn and sets off to catch the bus home.