Rating: R (for language)
Word Count: 2,878
Summary: "I can tell you precisely one thing about this whole situation: I totally didn’t see it coming at all."
Author's Note: I'm still nervous posting in fandom, but I enjoyed writing this. It's been sitting around for a while on my computer and I finished it last night... which may explain why the ending is so abrupt. But it needed to end! Can you tell I have a thing for Puck singing Bublé? The title of the fic comes from a song from the French musical Les chansons d'amour. The title means "I Only Love You." If you ever get the chance to see the film, do. It's fantastic. Anyway, enjoy. <3
I can tell you precisely one thing about this whole situation: I totally didn’t see it coming at all.
Look, I know I’m not, like, exactly the most innocent or, I guess, the most faithful guy out there. And I’m pretty sure that some of the things I’ve thought about Quinn lately have been, well, inappropriate given my circumstances. But there’s a huge difference between having your impulses, and then acting on them. And yeah, I may have occasionally thought, “I bet Rachel is wild in the sack” but that doesn’t mean I actually did anything about those thoughts. To be honest, even though she’s hot, I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole—not again, anyway. I’m not a fan of crazy psycho bitches.
Well, Kurt’s kind of the exception to the rule. He’s not nearly as batty as Rachel but sometimes he’s a bit scary. Kurt may be crazy sometimes, but when he’s passionate about something, he’s downright psychopathic. Like, for instance, right now he’s calling me out in the middle of the lunch room because he “heard from Mercedes who heard from Tina who heard from this guy in her homeroom who heard from this girl who heard from her cousin who heard from her neighbor who heard from this kid that YOU, Noah Puckerman, were making out with Ashley West at Connor Low’s party three weeks ago!”
And I’m standing there taking it all in, and then I’m like, “What the fuck, Kurt, I don’t even remember three weeks ago. Connor Low’s party was lame and I wouldn’t hook up with Ashley West if you paid me. She’s got bad teeth and I’m pretty sure she doesn't wear deodorant.”
He takes this giant breath and uses all the power in his chest to shout, “As of right now, Puckerman, you and I are through!” And then he stomps off defiantly in the opposite direction.
So I guess my explanation wasn’t really worth anything, because he didn’t believe me, and I guess I haven’t really given him reason to, but I’m not gonna lie. I’m a little pissed, because I didn’t even do anything. I may be a habitual liar but there are times when I’m honest and I don’t get why people think everything that comes out of my mouth is a lie.
Like I said, I didn’t see this coming, because I haven’t ever really lied to Kurt about anything this significant. Sometimes I’ll lie about having done my homework so he’ll make out with me, and occasionally I’ll tell him that I haven’t seen his expensive tank top when really I spilled orange juice on it and gave it to my mom to wash because I don’t really know how to get stains out, but I would never lie to him about cheating. Surprise, surprise, I kind of like Kurt Hummel enough to not want to screw him up emotionally like I have with pretty much every other person I’ve dated. And that means I wouldn’t cheat on him willy nilly, or even at all. He’s a nice kid and he’s sexy when he wants to be and he really knows how to use his mouth and, okay, secretly I’ve always had a weird soft spot for him. I know it’s weird sounding considering I bullied him non-stop for years but you know how guys are, right? Showing vulnerability is like going into a shark-infested ocean with an open wound. Guys can smell that on you, and pretty soon you’re in the hospital and you’re missing a leg and you have like, four hundred stitches in your scalp and the doc’s like, “Yeah, don’t do that again” and you’re like, “Well shit.” I mean, I’ve never lost a leg or had four hundred stitches but the metaphor is still there. Tough guys, kinda like sharks, are high on the food chain, and weaker beings (not-so-tough guys, or surfers) are mauled and then feasted on for sustenance. It’s the circle of life.
Anyway so now I’m in this predicament, and Kurt’s not talking to me and it’s so frustrating because “God fucking dammit, Kurt, I didn’t do anything! Why won’t you believe me?”
“Because you’ve never been an honest person, Puckerman,” he says, and he slams his locker so loudly that it echoes off every wall like a laser shot off in a hall of mirrors. “There shouldn’t even be rumors floating around. The fact that there are tells me something is still wrong here, and I’m sorry, but liars piss me off.”
That strikes a chord for some reason, so I say, “I’m going to the store later, did you want me to pick you up some tampons while I’m out? Because you must be on your period, you’re being more hormonal than Quinn and that girl is pregnant.”
Kurt wheels around and he slaps me so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if my head did a complete 360-degree turn on my neck.
“You are such a fucking asshole,” he growls. “Stay out of my life.”
As he struts off to biology class, I shout at him, “Maybe I will!”
He turns around and it’s like we’re in third grade again. “Good!”
But he doesn’t take the bait, merely straightens his posture, twirls back around and marches off to the science lab, and I’m still standing in the hallway and I think maybe I will buy him a box of tampons because he’s being such a little bitch right now, god damn. Then I turn around and find my way to Spanish class. Schue asks why I’m late, and I don’t lie like I usually do and instead I say, “I had a fight with my boyfriend. On with your lesson.”
The expression on his face is priceless enough to be in a Mastercard commercial. I wish I had a camera. Fuckin’ Kodak moment.
So it’s been three weeks and Kurt is still being a dickhead and he won’t even look at me. Every time I get near him to try to explain that I didn’t do shit with Ashley West, and that if I had I definitely wouldn’t still be trying to win Kurt’s affections back, but he’s acting like every angry girl on the face of the planet. I know it’s really bad to call Kurt a girl, but I’m not going to lie, the way he’s acting, he totally is. And I’m more than aware that he’s a dude, okay, I’ve seen the proof, so his behavior is totally ridiculous and uncalled for.
And none of the Glee kids are helping, because they’d all rather side with Kurt, except for Finn because he’s my best friend and Rachel for some odd reason that I think is just her way of trying to get on Finn’s good side. The whole “taking sides” thing has really segregated the club, and Schue is really pissed off about it and I’m sitting on my lonely side of the room thinking that I always hated Matt and Mike and shit, Schue, I’m really pissed off too, okay?
I’ve had just about enough of all the bullshit and after glee club, I wait for the room to clear and go up to Schue and say, “I know you notice the separation here.”
“And I assume that you’re the cause of it, Noah,” he says in that Mr. Schuester way of his and it’s kind of comforting but also kind of infuriating that he just assumes this shit about me but at least he’s not taking sides.
“Yeah,” I say, “and I want to make the situation right, but Kurt won’t even glance at me, let alone talk to me, so until I can get him to acknowledge my presence, the whole glee club is fucked. Not that I care as much about Glee as I do about, you know, having my boyfriend not hate my guts for something I didn’t even do.”
Schue frowns, like, I can’t believe your lack of commitment to our club, and I want to smack the look out of his eyes. Instead he says, “Did you have any ideas?”
“I do, actually,” I say.
I explain my plan. It’s pretty cheesy, and I can see he feels the same way, but nonetheless, he gives me some tips. Come on, if anyone can give me tips on how not to continue making a huge ass of myself, it’s Schue. Even the teachers get their panties in a twist over him. He’s a player. He’s old, but he’s a player. So I ask him to teach me everything he knows.
Pro-tip: everyone likes being sung to. It’s just natural. Have you ever seen a movie where a guy sings to a chick about how much he loves her, and she’s like, “Get the fuck out?” No, because it never happens. Even in that one movie about hookers with that guy who played young Obi-Wan and that hot chick married to that country singer. You know the chick I mean, she’s like, fucking 6 foot something, she’s huge. And she’s Australian. You can’t miss her.
Anyway in that movie, like, Obi-Wan is all trying to get up in that chick’s business and she’s like, “Fuck that, I’m an escort, not a prostitute” and it’s basically the same thing but Obi-Wan is like, “I love you” and he sings to her on this giant elephant, and she’s all like, “Oh my god!” and she tries to play hard to get but it doesn’t really work because he sang a fucking song to her. So don’t fight me on this one. Everyone digs it when someone sings a song for them.
Honestly, I’d never heard of Michael Bublé until Kurt played me one of his songs and I swear the kid swooned when the guy started singing.
“He’s a crooner,” Kurt said at the time.
“A what?” Because what the hell kind of word is that?
“A crooner,” Kurt replied. “Like Frank Sinatra.”
I may be stupid but everyone knows Frank Sinatra. And Kurt was totally swaying with the music and he told me, “I’d love someone to sing one of these songs for me.”
I feel so weird sneaking into my sister’s room looking for his CD, but I find it and listen through some of the songs. It’s not that bad, and I choose two songs and when I can’t decide, I swallow my pride and call a girl.
“How can I help you, Puckerman?” Rachel asks when I call.
I present her the two options: I can either sing the soppy ballad about wanting Kurt back, or the upbeat song about how cute he is and how much I love him and it’s all very sweet and either way he’ll think I’m awesome again, so which do I choose?
She tells me to pick the upbeat song.
There was another movie I saw one time. Well, actually, I didn’t technically watch the whole film, but everyone knows the scene. The one with the dude, and he’s got a boombox, and he’s playing Peter Gabriel under the chick’s window? Yeah, you know the one. Well, I’m almost positive that chick pretty much dropped trou for him right then and there. Either that or she had to change her panties. Point being, after dude played that cheesy romantic song? He was so in.
By now I’m sure you’ve figured out my plan. All it needs is moonlight, a guitar, and sexy clothes.
I happen to know that Kurt gets turned way the fuck on by satin. I’m out seventy bucks, but I know it’ll be worth it.
Here’s why this plan works: Noah Puckerman doesn’t do romantic. And Kurt, of all people, knows this very well. Date night will never be a candlelit dinner, rose petals or a bath. Date night may or may not involve a movie and will always involve dirty bed activities. Date night always means at least two condoms and clothes at the foot of my bed.
So essentially, the plan is fool-proof. That’s what I’m trying to think, anyway, as I’m driving to Kurt’s house. I mean, there’s always the possibility that he’ll still hate me—in that case, fuck him—but more likely than not he’ll realize that I do like him, enough to try. Enough to make an effort.
I pull into the driveway. There are logistic things I’ve had to take into account. Like how Kurt’s bedroom comprises the entire basement of his house. In the backseat are a number of objects: my guitar, tape, paper, and markers. I fish some paper out and scribble a note: GO TO THE LIVING ROOM WINDOW. I set the guitar on the pavement and run around back to Kurt’s window. Kneeling in the dirt, I peer in to see what he’s doing. He’s got his back to me, but he’s down there.
Here goes nothin’. I tap on the window loudly, and quicker than Flash Gordon, I tape the note to the window and run back to the car. It’s all very covert and ninja-like. Too bad I’m not dressed in black.
In front of the living room window, I position myself on the car with the guitar perched in my lap, another sign held in my hands. OPEN THE WINDOW.
Deep breaths. In and out. Your relationship hinges on this moment. Don’t fuck up.
The living room light flicks on. Good thing Burt’s not home. No doubt he’d run me off the lawn, cursing me for hurting his little boy. But Burt is probably at the shop, finishing up repairs. Sometimes he stays late, which is pretty sweet for us. And it works to my advantage right now.
Kurt’s silhouette appears on the curtains, and then they are yanked aside. When he sees me, his face contorts. He looks pissed off, and I want to just give him the finger. Well, fuck you too, Kurt! Instead, I point at the sign. He pushes the window open.
“What do you want, Puckerman?” he asks. “I don’t have all night, so make this quick.”
I know if I try to give an introduction, I’ll wind up calling him a whiny bitch. So instead I just jump right in.
“You’re a falling star, you’re the getaway car…”
The gasp is so loud I can hear it over the guitar. Immediately his eyes begin to sparkle, his face reddens, and his face breaks out in this adorable, huge grin. It practically divides his face in half. I’ll admit it. Watching him like that? It makes my heart beat faster, makes my stomach whirl around and around. I feel like I’m spinning on a merry-go-round, twirling in circles and I feel dizzy.
Well, I’m back in, I guess.
When I finish, I have barely put the guitar back in the case when Kurt says, “If you don’t get the fuck in my house right now, I will have to jump out the window and have sex with you on your car.”
I clasp the case up and look at him, smirking. “That doesn’t sound half bad,” I say, slowly standing.
“Get in here,” he growls. Fuck, he’s so sexy. But I take my sweet-ass time, I want to make him wait. I’ve never seen him so horny. It drives me crazy but I sure as hell ain’t gonna show it.
“Bring the guitar,” he says darkly. “You’re not done playing tonight.”
I turn around. He looks serious about his threat to jump out the window, and as much as car-sex turns me on, I don’t think Burt will appreciate coming home to his son being fucked on top of a car. So I pick the guitar up and the door flies open before I’m even halfway up the stairs.
Best thing ever.
Kurt’s real cute. After sex, he wraps himself up against me and curls into me, like a cat, and breathes against my neck. He nuzzles himself all up in that little area, the crook of my neck, and his breath is warm and soft against my throat. It gives me goosebumps, makes me shiver. I gather him up in my arms and hold him. I know I’m not one for romance, and definitely not one for afterglow cuddling, but Kurt is quite demanding about it. One time I tried to leave and he had pulled me back down onto the bed, wrapped his legs around my waist and promptly fell asleep.
That was the first time I ever stayed the night at a—well, a hook-up’s house.
“Noah,” he says. He’s dragging his fingertips down my chest, right down the sternum, and it’s making all the hairs on my arms rise.
“Yeah?” I murmur.
“I’ve known for a while that you didn’t even look at Ashley West with your ‘dangerous sexual predator’ look at Connor Low’s party,” he says. “I just wanted to see how far you’d go to win me back, if you’d try it at all.”
I push him. “You asshole,” I say. “Dickhead.”
He entwines his fingers with mine and says, “I love you too.”