Fic. My Mind is Set on You
Title: My Mind is Set on You
Author: alicebluegown16
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Will hasn't had a decent night's sleep in thirty-three days. But who's counting, right?
Pairing/Characters: Will/Finn, Puck, mentions of Rachel, Sue, Brittany
AN: For the winn prompt meme: Will has insomnia and Finn is the only one who makes it better. This is a sequel to All in My Head and is essentially a song fic for So Tired by The Beatles. Previous stories in this series Closer and Hollywood Ending. Sleepy Time tea is awesome. The Machinist is a creepy movie. Spot The Simpsons and Twin Peaks references and win a prize.
Warning: Angst. Will's dirty, dirty, sleep deprived mind. And angst.
Did you know that after three days without sleep, you start hallucinating little twinkly lights?
Will knows that.
Because Will has insomnia.
He’s never had it before but oh, does he have it now.
Three days of no sleep and then a few days getting four or five hours and being grateful for that and then after that it’s back to the no sleep…lather, rinse, repeat. He hasn’t had a decent night’s rest in almost a month and he has no idea why (liar, liar, liar.)
At this point, he figures he should be grateful that twinkly lights are all he’s hallucinating, he’s probably lucky he’s not seeing midgets talking backwards or leprechauns telling him to burn things.
He thinks he’s losing his mind.
He wants to sleep. He’s tired, correction, he’s exhausted. But despite wanting to sleep he inevitably ends lying in the dark, thoughts darting around at a mile a minute. Staring up at the ceiling and telling himself, “If I fall asleep right now, I’ll get six hours…If I fall asleep right now, I’ll get five hours…If I fall asleep right now, I’ll get four hours…”
It’s like the most fucked up Dick Clark countdown ever.
And then he gets down to two hours and he’ll realize what’s the fucking point, he won’t even get a full REM cycle, so he might as well get up and start mainlining coffee now so that he can somewhat function.
He feels like shit. He looks like shit (as Sue cheerfully informed him. He’d told her to fuck off and die and she’d stared at him in utter shock and what might possibly be construed as something resembling hurt as if to say ‘William, that’s not the way this game is supposed to work.’)
His hands have taken on a slight tremor that has Figgins giving him the side eye and talking about random drug testing.
He’s having trouble following conversations. Walking into rooms and then not remembering what he went in there to get. Forgetting words. He’s snappish and irritable with everyone, even Finn.
(And the look of hurt on Finn’s face instantly transforming into a guilt inducing combination of concern and patient understanding when he’d apologized and explained what he was going through made it all a thousand times worse. The next day he’d brought Will a package of chamomile tea. “I figured it would help because it has the word sleep right there in the name and the box has a bear in a nightshirt and little nightcap on it and that seemed, you know, promising.” Will honestly almost started bawling.)
He thinks the low point was hearing Kurt speaking French and having a momentary panic attack that he’d forgotten how to comprehend English.
Will worries he’s going to end up an emaciated wreck like Christian Bale’s character in The Machinist.
Or in a straight jacket.
He’s tried everything.
Choking down Finn’s guilt tea (See what he did there, with the pun? Because it’s tea that makes him feel guilty...)
Warm milk.
Counting sheep.
A long hot shower.
Working out (running until his legs felt like cooked noodles, swimming laps until he thought he might develop gills.)
In desperation, he’d even tried sleeping pills but he’d just felt foggy, cotton brained, and vaguely nauseous the next day. A hangover without any of the fun the night before.
(That’s the one thing he’s drawn the line at, using alcohol to help him sleep. He’s not going to let himself be that guy. That three scotches with dinner and a fourth before bed guy. Mostly because that guy was his father.)
“You wanna try to get some shut eye, Mr. Schue?”
“If I can’t fall asleep in my bed, what makes you think I’ll be able to on the back of a bus?” He says this sharper than he intended to and winces at how ugly it sounds.
“I’m sorry, Finn.”
“S’okay. I know you didn’t mean it.” That same maddening ‘I don’t deserve it and it makes me feel bad things’ patience.
As a peace offering, Will closes his eyes. They have a two hour drive to the performance (something he’d arranged ages ago and didn’t have the heart to cancel simply because he hadn’t felt up to going), so he might as well stare at the inside of his eyelids from a different setting.
He thinks he may have finally cracked when he feels the arm around his waist, a hand easing up under his jacket and drawing soothing circles on the small of his back.
“Finn…what are…?”
“It’s what my mom used to do for me to help me go back to sleep after I had a nightmare. It always worked for me.”
The innocence of this statement makes him feel like the dirtiest of ‘would you like some candy little boy’ creepers.
“Finn, I don’t think this is appropriate.”
He’s proud of the fact that his voice remains steady. And then he wonders if the mere act of pointing out how inappropriate it is just made it even more inappropriate.
“No one can see us, Mr. Schue. Just close your eyes and relax, okay? I wanna try this. I’m really worried about you.”
He does as told; all the while telling himself there is nothing untoward about this.
It’s all completely innocent.
The midget and leprechaun that he hasn’t started seeing yet ask him who the fuck he’s trying to fool, helpfully reminding him that he once had a dream about Finn telling him to close his eyes and relax and he sure has hell hadn’t been stroking Will’s back.
Will ignores them (Because they’re not really there. Oh my God, Schuester. You need to seek professional help.)
Finn’s hands are huge.
And warm.
Like mini space heaters.
Without warning, a knuckle presses into a knot in his lower back. Will lets out a startled hiss and when the knot eases, he feels himself almost melt into a puddle of goo.
The moan that slips out at this isn’t exactly innocent.
“Sorry-sorry. It was just there. Like the size of a freaking rock.”
“No, it’s-” Somehow ‘fine’ doesn’t seem like the right word.
“Thank you.”
Will slows down and evens out his breathing, trying one of those meditation techniques from that .5 seconds of Terri being obsessed with yoga.
“You’re relaxing every part of your body. First, relax your toes…and breathe in…and breathe out… Feel all of your stress and tension empty out each time you exhale…Now relax your feet…”
The next thing Will knows, he’s waking up with his head on Finn’s shoulder.
The bus is parked.
They’re here.
He slept the entire trip.
For almost two hours and it was the most restful sleep he’s had in ages. He’s so happy, he can’t even make himself care about the fact that he fell asleep on Finn.
Because he slept.
So when Finn just gives him a soft smile and says that he knew his trick would work and how since he apparently makes the best pillow ever, if he’d like to sleep next to him on the ride back that’d be cool, Will just smiles back and jokes that he might take Finn up on that.
And God help him, he does.
It’s the same on the ride back.
Will’s out like a light the moment he’s (very discreetly) curled up against Finn’s furnace warmth.
He’s slightly mortified that this time it’s Rachel waking him up as Finn is equally dead to the world, one arm actually thrown over Will’s shoulder, pulling him closer.
Then it’s him and Finn untangling themselves (and Finn doesn’t seem at all concerned about their slightly compromising situation, simply smoothing down his ‘just woke up’ cowlick, rubbing his eyes and offering up a sleepy grin) as Will tries to (not freak the ever loving fuck out) discreetly wipe the tiny bit of drool from the corner of his mouth, doing his best not to blush at Rachel’s regretful tone when she says that she hated to wake them since they both looked so peaceful.
He has to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out that he hated to be woken up.
He’s half dreading some sort of reaction from everyone else, but all he gets is Brittany commenting about how maybe now that he’s gotten some sleep won’t be so grumpy all the time. And if even Brittany has noticed how on edge he’s been lately, he must have been really bad.
Okay, so that’s all it is.
He’d finally reached the point where his body had crashed and by some strange coincidence, both times it had been near Finn.
There’s nothing more to it than that because there can’t be more to it than that.
The important thing is that he finally got some sleep, right?
And that must mean that his insomnia has started to run its course.
This is a good thing.
He doesn’t even really mind that when he gets home that night, he once again tosses and turns.
That’s not unexpected, he assures himself.
He’d slept about four hours already and that’s what’s been the norm for him lately. He’ll level out again in a couple of days. Now that his body knows he can sleep, it’ll get back into his normal circadian rhythms in no time.
And then he doesn’t get any sleep the night after that.
Or the night after that…
He’s doing his usual staring up at the ceiling and counting down the hours when he’s struck by the sudden vision of showing up on the Hudmel (Kurt and Finn’s little portmanteau and damn if it hadn’t caught on with everyone else) family doorstep and oh so politely asking if he can climb into bed with Finn since he’s the only one who can keep the twinkly lights and the midgets and leprechauns at bay.
He really must be losing his mind.
**
He hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in thirty-three days.
But who’s counting, right?
Will almost choked on his own tongue today when after Glee, Puck asked him matter-of-factly, “So, have you tried rubbing one out right before you go to bed? That always helps me when I’m too wired to sleep.”
You know, like one does.
As if this were anything remotely resembling acceptable small talk to have with one’s teacher.
Of course, Will reminds himself, this is Puck. For him, it probably is.
And he’d ignore it; just brush it off as Puck being Puck (perhaps with a very firm “Let us never speak of this moment again.”) except that once he’d stopped coughing, Puck just gave him a long look and, in a voice more serious than Will has ever heard from him, said “You need to do something, Mr. Schue. Otherwise you’re going end up falling asleep at the wheel and crashing your car into a tree. And it’s such a piece of shit, it’d probably explode. Which, not gonna lie, would look cool as hell but you’d definitely end up extra crispy and that would kind of suck.”
Puck is concerned about his health and well being.
That’s more than a little terrifying.
Which is why he’s here now, staring up at his ceiling, boxers thrown off somewhere next to the bed, nerves jangling so much that he can’t even stand to have the sheets touching him he’s so buzzed, like there are ants crawling under his skin.
He’s got to relax, got to calm the fuck down.
He closes his eyes and imagines a curvy blonde.
No.
He backtracks and his fantasy changes.
Brunette.
A sexy brunette with china blue eyes and a nasty-nice smile.
He might have seen her in a magazine or a movie poster or maybe he just made her up, pieced her together from faces seen on elevators or at the grocery store.
But she’s good, tonight’s girl of his dreams.
Licking her fingers, tracing slow lazy circles on her stomach, goosebumps rising on her perfect pale skin.
A little smirk and a wink at him and she’s stroking her clit, gasping, hips rocking forward.
Grinding up against him, mile long legs wrapping around his waist, moaning in his ear.
Her hand on his cock, thumb teasing, brown eyes dancing (blue, they’re blue) when he throws back his head and groans, huge hand on his hip, calluses catching slightly on his skin, long fingers (spinning a set of drum stick’s between them, wrapping around a football.)
Will curses to himself.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
He tries again, tries to get back his fantasy girl, but she knows when she’s not wanted and has apparently wandered off to parts unknown.
And now it’s just him and he’s trying to get this over with, do it fast before he imagines something he can’t take back.
Because dreams are one thing, he can’t control what happens in his mind at night, but he cannot think of him right now. If he lets himself think of him now, he loses that last shred of plausible deniability.
But it isn’t working; he just feels impossibly more frustrated, more tense and finally his subconscious waves the white flag and he thinks to himself, ‘Fine. I give in.’
As suddenly as the thought comes to him, Will decides he’s not particularly scared of the possibility.
Because so fucking what if he thinks of Finn right now, huh?
He’s tired of feeling guilty. He’s tired of hating himself for wanting Finn. Finn is sweet and funny and good looking (he’s saying this in a purely objective, facts is facts sense of the word) and they spend a lot of time together. In the past year Will’s been through the emotional ringer and Finn was one of the people who helped him get through it. It makes sense that he’s going to develop some sort of crush/attraction/fascination. It’s like those people that develop feelings for their therapists, what’s it called? Transference. It’s not real, it’s just a combination of gratitude and proximity.
And yes, Finn is his student, but Finn is seventeen years old, not seven. And while he’s a little naïve, Will knows there’s far more going on beneath the surface with him than most people realize. This idiotic idea that Finn’s some sort of wide eyed innocent babe in the woods that has to be protected from Will’s less than honorable intentions is complete bullshit.
Maybe this is what he needs, to just stop running from it and get it all out of his system.
Maybe that’s what all of this is, the appeal of the forbidden, and once he lets himself think it, he can finally, finally move on.
Fuck it.
He’s fucking tired. He’s mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted and if he wants to jerk off to fantasies of Finn then he’s going to goddamned do it.
And you know what?
He’s not going to do this halfway, either.
If he’s going to do this, he’s going to fucking enjoy himself.
So, he closes his eyes and now it’s Finn’s hand stroking him. Finn’s hand tightening around him, Finn pressed against him heavy and solid.
Finn on his knees, the image flashes behind his eyes, hotter and more dirty wrong than anything his little brunette fuck toy could ever be and Will digs the heel of his hand into his thigh to keep from coming immediately.
And maybe he’s finally snapped, but he goes with it. Doesn’t even feel the tiniest bit ashamed as he pictures Finn sucking his cock, cheeks hollowed out and moaning, holding his head still and fucking his throat and Finn lets him, just takes it, because he’s loving it, can’t get enough.
Finn tied up to the bed frame, all wrapped up for him like a gift. Wanton, begging, fighting against the restraints but he doesn’t actually want to be let out, not really (He asked Will to do this, he instantly decides. Yes, he can just see it. Finn handing him the ties, ducking his head and then staring at up him though his eyelashes as the blush crept across his face and neck. And how could Will say no to that?)
Will runs his hands over Finn’s chest, pinching his nipples and Finn lets slip a high pleading whine.
“Such a slut. Look at you, legs spread, begging me to fuck you.”
Finn’s hips moving in desperate circles, needing contact, needing Will to touch him, whimpering and gasping like he’s never needed anything more in his life.
It’s a good look for him.
Will leans down to whisper in his ear.
“So beautiful. Want you so much.”
No. That’s not right at all. This is his fantasy. Finn should be begging for him.
“Need you, need you please, Will, please. Touch me, fuck me, please.”
Yes, that’s better.
Finn pressing back against his fingers. Breathing so uneven it’s almost a sob. Biting down on his lips, dark and swollen, kiss bruised.
On his hands and knees, Will’s nails digging into his hips, fucking him, driving into him.
Hot and harder and more, yes please more. Gonna fuck him, fuck Finn til he screams, til he passes out, mine, mine, all mine…
Squeezing, pulling at his cock, no substitute for how good it would feel to be inside Finn, perfect, so perfect. Will sucks two fingers into his mouth and pushes them into himself, almost arching up off the bed in pleasure, shaking from his eyelashes to his toes. Fuck, yes, so hot, bright bursting pinwheels of color behind his eyes, blind, like he’s being ripped open, ripped apart.
Finn begging Will to let him come. Begging Will to kiss him. Begging Will to touch him.
Finn rubbing his back, massaging his neck and shoulders, easing all the knots out.
Finn bringing him a cup of tea while he grades papers.
Finn curling up against his side as they watch a movie on the couch.
Finn’s hip bumping against his as they move around the kitchen cooking dinner together.
Finn with that just woke up cowlick and sleep blurred smile. Slow morning kisses, arms wrapped around each other and legs tangled together.
Finn holding his hand.
Will wants to stop. Wants to be frightened at the fact that this is now so much more than sex.
But he doesn’t because he’s so very, very close to the edge and he can’t stop, can’t stop picturing it all, Finn above him and Finn beneath him and Finn kissing him and whispering words in his ear that he shouldn’t admit to needing to hear.
“Only you, Will. Want only you, love only you, need only you. Not going anywhere, I promise. Ask me to stay, ask me to stay and I’ll stay, talk to me and I’ll listen, say you love me and I’ll say it back, promise, promise I’ll mean it, forever and ever, please, Will.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He comes with a gasp, almost choking, comes for what feels like forever, keeps his hand moving, wants to make it last as long as possible.
But it doesn’t last forever. And then he’s just a guy, a stupid sad pathetic guy jerking off in the dark.
He wipes a sticky hand on the sheets and shuts his eyes.
He feels almost woozy and weak from the force of his orgasm.
Not peaceful, never peaceful, gave up hoping for that a long time ago.
Just tired enough that he’s able to fall asleep before he has time to feel guilty, before he can even work up the energy to really let himself panic over the fact that he’s apparently more than a little in love with Finn Hudson.
That will likely be waiting for him in the morning.
**
He sleeps through the night.
And the night after that too.
And the night after that.
Within a couple of weeks, he’s back to his regular sleep cycle.
If he dreams, he doesn’t remember them.
The twinkly lights are gone as are the jangly nerves, the trembling hands, the problems concentrating, the memory lapses.
He’s not in danger of driving his car into a tree anymore.
He’s relatively certain of that.
He makes a point of apologizing profusely to those who had to put up with him through the worst of his insomnia and he can practically see everyone around him breathing a sigh of relief that he’s back to his old self.
He thinks he liked it better when he wasn’t sleeping. At least when he’d constantly been toeing the line of a complete fucking breakdown he was feeling something.
Now it’s all just blank.
Empty.
He feels hollowed out, worn down.
God, this is his life.
This is what his life is now.
Wake up and take a shower. Grab a cup of coffee, get dressed, and head to work. Teach his classes, smile, nod, joke, sing, pretend he means all of it, pretend it doesn’t bother him that no one notices he’s pretending.
Come home, stare at the television, eat dinner, grade papers, watch a movie, maybe go for a run or a swim or jerk off. Whatever it takes until he’s tired enough to be able to go to bed, sleep, wake up and then do the same thing again the day after that.
But now he gets to do all of that with this--this stuff knocking around in his head and Christ where had that all come from and isn’t he just absolutely fucking screwed?
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind
Next story in the series: Tell the Truth Now