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fakeplasticsnowTitle: Sue Sylvester: Matchmaker
Fandom: Glee
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Kurt/Puck, Kurt-Sue friendship (yes, really), and I don't want to spoil this one because it'll ruin the punch line, but: brief mention of (highlight to read) Sue/Burt
Genre: slash, with faint undertones of crack
Words: 7,607
Summary: The mere sight of Sue Sylvester is enough to make Cupid piss his diapers. That candy-ass little bastard doesn't stand a chance.
A/N: I saw an episode of Bravo's Millionaire Matchmaker once. That lady was scary. The show didn't inspire this fic, though -- I was just trying to figure out how I could force Kurt to bond with Sue. Hee.
Featured song: "Poker Face" - Chris Daughtry (Lady Gaga cover)
[ETA 03/15/2009] Cover art: YOU KNOW WHO'S A CHAMPION?![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thisfishflies IS A CHAMPION:
The thing is, Kurt's in the glee club. It's not like he has any other options.
If he gripped the arm of the leather couch any tighter, it'd moo. His eyes dart from side to side, surveying the contents of Sue Sylvester's disproportionately huge, lavish apartment. It's like in those cartoons where they enter a tiny tent and it's actually thousands of square miles of space inside. Sue Sylvester herself stands in the middle of the living room, tall and regal in her yellow tracksuit, like the lovechild of Mussolini and Big Bird.
Kurt would sweat, but apparently even his pores are terrified of Sue Sylvester.
"Hummel, right?" she says, and Kurt's pretty sure he has now managed to puncture the couch with his nails. "Where'd you hear about my new matchmaking service?"
"One of those business cards you made Brittany hand out during lunch period," Kurt mumbles. He clears his throat. "It's, um. I'm in the glee club, Coach Sylvester. It's not like I can get a boyfriend on my own. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?"
"Hmm." When she sits down next to him on the couch, he edges so far away from her that he can feel the armrest bite into his hip. "I want you to understand one thing: I'm not suddenly going to turn into this lovey-dovey guru just because I started a matchmaking service, okay? Cabo was fun, but now I'm bored. When you're Sue Sylvester, long periods of unproductiveness just won't do. And the Sue Sylvester Hovercraft Fund needs all the contributions it can get." She takes his chin between her thumb and forefinger, and inspects him with those petrifying blue eyes. "You won't be my Sistine Chapel, but maybe you can be my Dali melting clocks painting. Something along those lines."
"Um, sure?"
With a firm grip on his chin, she drags him into her home office. It contains a wooden spin-the-wheel contraption. Pictures of different football players occupy each division of the wheel.
"What are we doing here?" Kurt asks. His eyes widen when Sue reaches for the heavy, newly-sharpened dagger lying on her desk.
"I call it the Sue Sylvester Compatibility Test," she says, caressing the blade. "100% fail-proof."
"But I want Finn --"
She steps uncomfortably close and points the dagger between his eyes. "I'm not your pimp, kid, I'm your matchmaker. I call the shots."
"Got it," he squeaks.
"Now, why don't you be a doll and go spin that wheel over there?"
Kurt staggers zombie-like to the wheel, now completely sure that he's paid through the nose for his own death warrant. It's always a wild card when Coach Sylvester is involved. He spins the wheel and crosses his fingers behind his back, hoping, at least, that the wheel won't stop on Puck or Karofsky.
Sue doesn't budge. "Spin it harder, you pansy!"
He does, and he barely steps back when she hurls the dagger hard enough to knock the whole contraption over. He shrieks before he can stop himself, then claps his hand over his mouth.
She approaches the prone wheel, and they lean in simultaneously to see whose picture the dagger punctured.
Kurt winces.
Well, it's not Karofsky, at least.
"Congratulations, kiddo," Sue says, slapping him on the back. "You're gonna be Noah Puckerman's new arm candy. For what it's worth, on a good day you're more elegant than Santana Lopez."
"He's -- I don't think Puck is --"
"I am Sue Othello Sylvester!" she booms. "Are you questioning my abilities?"
Kurt bows his head. "No, Coach."
"Good, 'cause I don't give refunds."
He gulps.
"You won't be sorry, kid. It's a real bang for your buck -- with Sue Sylvester, you get a matchmaker and a life coach." She crosses her arms, lifts her chin, and gives him a once-over. "You know what your problem is, Hummel?"
"The fact that my idea of 'heavy lifting' is wearing a Gucci sweater? Or that I believe Cher can take Rambo in a fistfight, no matter what anyone says?"
"No, and Cher can take Rambo in a fistfight. I know it to be true," she says. "Your problem is that you lack confidence. So before we commence with step one, I want you to drop and give me fifty. And with each push-up, I want you to yell, 'I am a champion!' Say it enough times, it might come true. Like Dorothy. So get to it, Dorothy."
Since objections earn him nothing but that cold, murderous glare, Kurt obediently drops to the floor instead. By push-up/"I am a champion!" #10 his cheeks are burning up; by push-up/"I am a champion!" #23, the only thing that keeps him from bursting into tears is his sudden hallucination of Cher enthusiastically belting "Pants on the Ground."
Sue walks over to the stereo and plugs her iPod in. "Poor Unfortunate Souls" is the first thing that plays, and it's really quite fitting.
Only Sue Sylvester can make Kurt feel like a little mermaid.
Step 1: Bend and Snap
Kurt hasn't dreaded a post-gym class shower as much as he does this one.
Curiously, Sue's nefarious scheme of conning Puck into being Kurt's boyfriend begins with an attention-grabbing move filched from Legally Blonde, of all things, and Kurt has to wonder if perhaps Santana made Sue a counter-offer to humiliate Kurt in the worst possible way. Maybe they're in Sue's office watching him on surveillance right now, cackling like Dr. Evil and his pint-sized minion.
But it's too late to back out now, since Puck's done with his shower. He steps through a cloud of steam.
Showtime.
Kurt tightens his grip on the towel around his waist and stares hard at the contents of his gym locker, trying to remember Sue's advice. "It's not exactly like in the movie, because those girls looked like dumbasses. Keep it simple. Drop something. Bend but don't snap. Bend slowly. Veeery slowly."
He can hear the blood rush in his ears as he "casually" knocks over a bottle of moisturizer. The thud it makes upon impact echoes against the locker room walls.
This could either go marginally well, or end with Kurt in the emergency room.
"Oopsies," he says, hoping that came out as an actual word and not a faint chirp.
Spine straight. Shoulders back. Hitch up the towel. Bend over "veeery slowly."
It's really fucking stupid, Kurt thinks. It's like there should be a perky Captain and Tennille song playing in the background for added irony.
But then, it happens.
"What happened?"
"I heard it," he says. "I heard him clear his throat and rush out the locker room half-dressed. I think he even stubbed his toe on the way out."
Sue laces her fingers together on the desk, like any good Evil Boss would. "Excellent, grasshopper. This might be easier than I'd thought it would be. You know -- and I'm telling you this man to man -- your butt isn't half-bad. Almost like mine. But you don't have my muscle definition."
Kurt blinks at the demi-compliment. "...Okay."
"If we didn't get a reaction out of Puckerman, I might've had to pull out my Chess Club wheel," she says, eyes shifting to a cabinet at the corner. "Anyway. Now that we've got our target's attention, we have to maintain it. This involves actually talking to the guy now."
He feels his face turn a whiter shade of pale.
"I know, I know, but Puckerman doesn't go for shrinking violets. Be a man, Hummel."
"Yeah, but I -- I can't compete with those girls, Coach," he stammers. "I'm not a cheerleader, I'm not a perfect ten, I don't have half the school worshipping the ground I walk on --"
"Useless accessories," Sue jeers, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "You don't need those. You've got Sue Sylvester as your matchmaker-slash-life-coach, and that's all you need, end of story. I'll make a champion out of you, grasshopper, even if it means I have to rip you a new one every Wednesday afternoon for the rest of your life."
"I...appreciate your good intentions, Coach."
Step 2: Make Your Presence Known
For this Very Special Edition of glee club practice, Mr. Schue borrows the school projector to play a YouTube video of Johnny Cash's cover version of the Nine Inch Nails song "Hurt."
"Remixes," Mr. Schue says when it ends, clasping his hands together as he gets into his usual Inspiring Lecture Guy mode. "Reinventions. Taking concepts so firmly established in public consciousness, then turning them on their heads to create something new and fresh. We do remixes all the time in glee club, but this week I want you all to take it to a whole new level. Pick a song and rework it in a genre completely antithetical to its original. This will be a duet, so everybody pick a partner."
It's the worst-case scenario that takes place, of course, because Murphy's Law perpetually tugs at the hem of Kurt's pants leg like an annoying little sister.
Mercedes looks at him expectantly. Santana struts over to Puck, and Quinn bats her eyes at him like a helpless doe. Kurt can hear Coach Sylvester's voice growling "tick, tock, tick, tock" in his head.
Then, at the very last second, Kurt makes a beeline for Puck. He mouths an apologetic "I'll explain later" to Mercedes before facing him.
"Hi Puck, let's be partners!" he chirps. "Um. Not like that. I mean, for this activity. You know."
Puck narrows his gaze at him. "But you hate me."
"I don't hate you," Kurt insists, voice still unnaturally high in pitch. "I see that you're experiencing some emotional growth, and I respect that. People can change. ...Please be my partner?"
Puck glances from side to side, then back up at Kurt. "Yeah, you're probably less baggage than my other options. Why not?"
He does have a point. Between a baby mama who may or may not be leading him on and an ex-girlfriend who, when provoked, could probably rip the whole wrestling team to shreds without breaking a nail, Kurt is easily the most harmless option.
"My place or yours?"
After spending half an hour surfing YouTube in the computer in Kurt's basement bachelor pad, Kurt and Puck decide on Chris Daughtry's unplugged cover of "Poker Face." It's a good compromise -- acoustic stylings for Puck, Lady Gaga song for Kurt.
When Puck plays the guitar, he doesn't even have to look down at the strings. Instead, he focuses on whoever's singing. His eyes are fixed on Kurt this time, and Kurt finds himself more than a little unnerved by his stare. Puck probably has no idea, it's maybe just a music thing for him, but it definitely has a bigger effect than he realizes. Kurt's careful to sit on the side of the bed opposite Puck, so he can keep his back turned when he wants to.
Then Puck trips up on a note. He lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale, sets his guitar down. "Sorry, man," he sighs. "Got a lot on my mind right now."
Kurt turns his head to look at him. "It's okay. I know you're doing your best," he says, and they both probably know that Kurt's not just talking about the song.
Puck gives him a sad little smile and says, "If you could carry me, I'd let you throw me into the dumpster as many times as you wanted."
Kurt laughs. "Don't worry about it. It, um, it builds character?"
"Seriously, man. I was an ass. You don't have to be so nice to me."
"Yeah, well, you're part of the glee club now. That means something," Kurt says. "You don't have to carry Artie and his wheelchair up and down the bus or auditorium steps, right? But you do. And it's not like I haven't been there, haven't done things I'm not proud of -- believe it or not, I wasn't always this fabulous."
"Hey, you're pretty damn fabulous now."
Kurt beams. "I totally am."
Puck reaches for his guitar. "From the top?"
"Are you out of your mind?" Mercedes yells, forcefully enough that it almost makes the windows of the diner vibrate.
"Crazy, no. Desperate, possibly." He feebly twirls his fork in the apple pie. "It's too late for me to get my money back now, and weirdly, I think Coach Sylvester's plan could maybe actually work. She's definitely hell-bent on it. I've got nothing to lose."
"But with Puck? That's like staring trouble in the face and challenging it to an arm-wrestling match. Do you even like him?"
"No, but I could," he says with a mouthful of pie. "One day. Maybe."
"Oh, Kurt."
He sets his fork down on the plate with a loud clang. "Look, if this goes down in flames, I promise I'll let you be the first to say 'I told you so.' Deal?"
"No." She places a hand on his shoulder, the way friends do when they know their friend's being an idiot and they're powerless to stop them. "I'll be there with a bucket and a mop, like always."
Kurt smiles at her gratefully.
Step 3: Pretend to Care
Mythbusters is the only TV show Kurt and his dad have in common, so it's a Hummel ritual to watch it together in the living room every Wednesday night. His dad likes the science and the explosions, while Kurt likes watching the interaction between the hosts (plus, Tory's pretty easy on the eyes).
Neither of them is too happy about the doorbell ringing in the middle of the show.
"I'll get it," his dad says.
Kurt doesn't think much of it until he hears the familiar deep voice that fills him with dread.
"I'm here to see Kurt Hummel."
He turns and kneels on the couch, leaning over just enough to see Sue standing by the doorway in an ominous black tracksuit. Like the Angel of Death, but more butch.
Kurt's dad remains unimpressed. He crosses his arms. "And you are?"
Sue mirrors his crossed arms. "Coach Sue Sylvester," she says. "There's a pressing concern regarding your son that needs addressing."
Kurt blanches. If his dad finds out he paid a massive sum of money to a tyrannical cheerleading coach to help him out of his no-boyfriend-since-birth status, he'd be deader than Mr. Schue's shot at a career in rap. Kurt sprints to the doorway to intervene while his dad's in the middle of making an excuse for him: "Hey, hey, I know Kurt's not the most hardworking kid in gym class, but he really tries --"
"Hi, Dad!" Kurt pants. "Hi, coach! What brings you here?"
Sue doesn't even look at him. "You don't have to worry about a failing grade, Mr. Hummel. Quite the opposite. I'm here to talk to Kurt about his impressive potential in rhythmic gymnastics."
"Rhythmic gymnastics?" his dad asks.
"You know, the one with the ribbon twirling. Little Kurt here is tailor-made for it."
"Huh. And?"
"Well, I'd rather talk to Kurt alone about this. Have a little heart-to-heart with him."
The idea of a heart-to-heart with Sue Sylvester makes Kurt's palms turn ice cold.
His dad isn't nearly as fazed. "You try to browbeat him even one bit into this ribbon twirling crap, lady, and I'll be on your Adidas-whoring ass faster than you can say 'Nancy Kerrigan.' Nobody orders the Hummels around -- I got a sandblaster, and I'm not afraid to use it."
Sue smirks. "Kinky."
Maybe if Kurt smiles hard enough, the bile would go back down on its own.
"I'll talk to Coach Sylvester by the pool, okay, Dad?"
"Don't take too long. Adam and Jamie are gonna blow up that car in less than fifteen minutes."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Sue's eyebrows perk up at the mention of explosions. "Can I watch?"
Kurt stares at her.
"So, Kurt," Sue says, sitting down on the pool chair next to his. "How's the ol' love life?"
"Uh, nonexistent? I did what you asked me to, though. I even got Puck to be my partner for this new glee activity."
Her expression hardens at the mention of glee club, but she brushes it aside and forces on a smile. "And how's that working out for you?"
"Well, he's nicer than I expected. I mean, I still think we'll only end up being friends, but it's not like that's such a bad --"
"Yeah blah blah, can it," Sue snaps. She leans back in her chair. "See what I did there? Came over to your house, sat you down, called you by your first name, got you to talk. I just demonstrated step three: pretending to care."
"What's wrong with plain old caring?"
"You can care if you really want to. But caring is optional," she says. "See, that's the one thing Puckerman sorely lacks -- people who actually give a crap about him. He's a grade-A douchefart with zero redeeming value, so it's to be expected, but now the whole school knows he knocked up his best friend's girl and everyone, even the football team, is on Team Finn. Sweet Moses, it's like Twilight." She grimaces. "And that's where you come in. You bat those big baby blues at him, rest your chin in your hand and pretend his little problems matter to you. He'll be putty in your hands by the end of the week."
"He's actually not that douchey --"
"Hummel, pretending to care is not my job. It gives me a migraine." Sue stretches and gets up from her chair. "Let's go, I don't want to miss the rest of Mythbusters."
Kurt and Puck, sitting in a tree. L-I-T-E-R-A-L-L-Y.
Sitting under a tree, anyway.
He'd never in a million years expected to spend a lunch period alone with Noah Puckerman, but somehow it's less of a surprise now than it would have been a month ago. In a school where everyone's on Team Finn, it's not that hard to find Puck alone, though it still comes as a bit of a shock when Puck approaches him after Chemistry class to ask him if he wants to swing by the 7-11 across the street for Cheetos.
"I haven't had the chance to talk to anyone since the shit hit the fan," Puck explains later, while unwrapping a Pop Tart. "It's not a football thing to even talk about feelings in the first place, but."
"But it's harder to talk now that nobody's on Team Puck?"
"Yeah. It's weird that you of all people would be the only one to bother to see my side of things. You and Quinn, but I guess she's doing her own thing now. I don't know. It's nice not to spend lunch alone for once."
"Getting ostracized sucks -- I should know," Kurt says. "But it's high school. I think when we're older, we'll be grateful it happened."
Puck furrows his brow. "Why?"
"Because it changes you. If you were in your twenties and still the same obnoxious jerkface you were two months ago, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't live to see 30."
They're sitting close enough that their knees are touching, which Kurt only notices now. He gingerly edges his knee away.
"Well, thanks for officially being the only person in school to think I've made any kind of improvement."
"Step one in world domination is forging alliances with all parties," Kurt says matter-of-factly.
"Do I get to be your evil minion?" Puck asks.
"I'll let you shine my shoes."
"Good deal."
Puck turns to him, his face barely inches away. He looks into Kurt's eyes, then down at his lips. Kurt flushes, clears his throat and sinks his teeth into his Pop Tart.
"You what?"
"Well, I did an hour on the treadmill when I got home..."
Sue bangs her fists on the desk. "Have you learned nothing, grasshopper? When a man looks at you like that, it's a non-verbal plea for you to plant one on him!" She clucks her tongue. "Dropped the ball there, kiddo."
"I'm sorry," he says absently, though the cogs of his mind are still stuck on the batshit idea that Puck would even consider kissing him.
She holds up a hand, her expression pensive. "No, wait. No, actually, this could be a good thing." She opens one of the drawers under her desk and pulls out a notepad. She scribbles on it. "Yes, this is Step 4. Especially effective on a boy like Puckerman, who wants what he can't have. That's why he was so hung up on Q -- she either insulted him or ignored him most of the time. If girls gave it away too easily, he'd toss them aside. Good thinking there, Hummel. I'm impressed."
Kurt squints at her. "What am I supposed to do, exactly?"
"What I've trained my Cheerios to do so very well."
Step 4: Dangle the Bait
Sue has quite helpfully written out this step for him so he wouldn't forget anything:
Kurt shoves it back into the pocket of his trench coat. He enters the auditorium, where Puck and his guitar wait by the stage. Kurt sits next to him on the edge, positioning himself at the proper angle for him to look Puck in the eyes when he sings. That's when he sees it, and it makes his cheeks burn but he can't look away.
"Luck and intuition play the cards with spades to start, and after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart."
He almost loses breath during the chorus; he's never had a guy look at him with that much want before. It's kind of exhilarating.
The song has barely ended when Puck sets his guitar aside, rests one hand on the stage, and leans in, head slightly angled to the side. Kurt mirrors the movement, parts his lips, feels his heartbeat triple its pace even though that's not part of the script.
Then he backs away, nearly falling off of the stage as he does. "I'm sorry, I can't."
He doesn't stop running until he reaches the parking lot. His breath comes out in faint white mist.
Everything's going according to plan, except for one problem: he maybe meant what he said, more than he should have.
While Kurt wants a boyfriend, he doesn't want to be a player, and all of these rules and set-ups are just that: playing. It's arguable that Puck deserves a lot of what's coming to him, but Kurt's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be played.
Sue's made a habit of dropping by on Mythbusters nights, even though she has a perfectly massive plasma TV at home, and the discussions she has with Kurt could just as easily be held in her home office. His dad doesn't have a problem with her frequent visits, even though Kurt's declared multiple times that he has zero interest in "ribbon twirling." Eventually, Kurt gives up on it, figuring that it at least saves him gas money.
Once his dad is out of earshot, Kurt scoots over to the edge of the couch nearest Sue's armchair.
"Coach Sylvester, I can't do this. Last-minute ethical dilemma." He screws his eyes shut and braces himself for the impending ass-whooping.
It never comes. Sue just sighs. "You are not to tell a living soul about this, grasshopper, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I can't draw blood from a stone."
Kurt hesitantly opens his eyes. "Huh?"
"Meaning, I wouldn't have tried to hook you up with Noah Puckerman if I didn't see anything there to begin with. I'm brilliant, and godly, and one hell of a strategist, but I'm no miracle worker. It's matchmaking, not voodoo. Stop freaking out. Only losers have ethical dilemmas," she says. "We're not tricking him into falling for you. All I'm doing is giving you a step-by-step guide to help him realize what's been there all along."
"Right..."
For the first time, she grins at him. "You know what this means, though?"
"What?"
"Now you care about him, too. You're scared as hell of hurting him."
"I guess." He rests his chin in his hands.
Sue reclines in the armchair, folding her arms behind her head. "God, I'm awesome at this Cupid crap."
Kurt and Puck knock it out of the park when it's their turn to perform. Kurt had initially feared that the tension between them would make it awkward, but perhaps it goes well because he can now sing the lyrics like he means them: "No, he can't read my poker face."
He almost wishes Puck could read his poker face, see that Kurt shares what's in Puck's eyes. He certainly didn't expect to feel the way he does right now; the realization hits him like a brick to the face. Sue Sylvester is a genius of the most frightening level.
And Puck's stare is burning hot.
After everyone's left the rehearsal room, Kurt fumbles for his cellphone and keys in Sue's number. "Coach? How do I know when to stop the teasing?"
"Trust me. You'll know. Or rather, he'll know."
Step 5: Give It Good
Kurt's perfected it by now. He and Puck pass each other in the hallway after the last period, and Kurt shoots him a potent, forlorn, Grey's Anatomy-esque I-want-you-but-we-really-shouldn't gaze.
Puck glances left and right. He grabs Kurt by the wrist and drags him into the nearest empty classroom.
He pins Kurt up against the blackboard by his wrists and kisses the hell out of him. Like, full-on tonsil hockey, dragging his lips across Kurt's, and in a second there's biting involved. Kurt tries hard to hold back, grasp onto every last thread of control, but it doesn't take him long to cave in and part his lips a little more. It's not quite as romantic as Kurt imagined his first kiss would be, but it's a billion times more electrifying, and Kurt is so not complaining. It's so good that he finds himself wrapping his legs around Puck's waist, so he's now suspended only by his wrists and Puck's chest pushed up against him.
Puck breaks the kiss for a moment and rests his forehead against Kurt's. "Why did you say you couldn't?" he pants.
"What?"
"The first time I tried to kiss you. You said, 'I can't.'"
"Oh." Kurt's so dizzy from the kiss that he can barely come up with a decent answer. "I just...I thought you might have been...confused?"
"The fuck I am," Puck growls. He grinds his hips up against Kurt's, making Kurt whimper. And to further prove his point, Puck kisses him even harder this time, with lips and tongue and teeth colliding.
But an alarm goes off in Kurt's head the second Puck reaches down for his zipper. "Wait, wait, wait."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm not that easy, Puck," he says, jutting his chin out. "I won't put out if someone doesn't buy me dinner first."
"You free tomorrow night?"
"Possibly."
"I'll pick you up."
He wriggles against Puck's grip. "Um, let me down?"
Puck keeps a firm hold on Kurt's waist as he steps back and helps Kurt back on his feet. It's almost polite.
Normally, Kurt would think that McDonald's take-out on the first date is totally beneath him, but tonight, with Puck, it's pretty damn perfect. They've driven to a low, grassy cliff overlooking the town, which with all its city lights looks like an exact mirror-image of the starlit sky. "I never take anyone with me when I go here," Puck says, "but I figured I needed something to distract you from the fact that I can't exactly afford dinner at the Four Seasons."
Kurt's seated on one corner of the blanket, with the greasy, high-calorie contraband spread out on the rest of it. At this point in the evening, Puck's comfortable enough to rest his head in Kurt's lap while Kurt feeds him french fries.
When Kurt asks why, why now, why is this happening, Puck shrugs. "It's not that complicated? I just looked at you once and kinda wanted to know what it would be like to kiss you."
Kurt looks away.
Then Puck continues, "But I'm still around because you have this freaky habit of, like, getting hotter every time I see you. And because I'm maybe sorta happy when I'm with you, and I haven't been happy in a long fucking time." It's a damn good reason.
Sex with Puck is a lot less rough and tumble than Kurt imagined, but it's romantic in its own little way, and Kurt is so not complaining. It's all limbs and kissing and hands all over each other, and Kurt feels fluttery the whole time, chilly on the surface but burning up underneath his skin. Their clothes lie in a pile on the grass beside them. They're naked under the stars, warming each other up and trying not to be too loud. Kurt comes with a little cry and his nails digging crescents into Puck's shoulder blades.
Puck wraps the blanket around them. It's not a big blanket, so they have to squeeze together underneath to fit.
"This is so weird, isn't it," Kurt giggles, pressing his face against Puck's chest. "This. Us."
Puck's fingers stroke his hair. "It totally is," he says. "But maybe it's like remixes, you know?"
"Remixes?"
"Yeah. A remix looks weird on paper, but when you hear it, it surprises you with how cool it is. So you're like a remix of everything I ever thought I wanted in someone. I obviously didn't expect to feel this way, but I like it. It's pretty awesome."
Kurt holds him tighter.
Step 6: Sink Your Claws In
Tonight, Sue takes off her sneakers, rolls up her pants, and sits next to Kurt to dip her feet in the pool like he does.
"Status report, Hummel?"
"We've gone on a few dates now," he says.
"And?"
"And it's...going well."
Sue probably notices the flush in his cheeks, because thankfully, she doesn't demand the full play-by-play. "Good. So my work here is done?"
Kurt nods. "Thank you, Coach," he says, and when he smiles this time, it isn't the least bit forced. "I don't know that he'd be the kind of guy to stick around long-term, or stick to one person, anyway, but I did get some hot stuff out of the deal."
"Hey, hey. You paid me to get you a boyfriend, not a two-week fling," she says. "Sue Sylvester doesn't do half-assed."
"It's okay, really --"
"No, it's not. Especially not when it's so easy. You know what most high school girls in celibacy clubs usually can't give? Good blowjobs. Now, either I can get a banana and demonstrate this shit, or if you have even a modicum of knowledge of how to use the internet, this would be a hell of a lot easier for both of us."
Kurt gulps. "I can Google-fu."
"Holy shit, marry me."
"I'm pretty sure that's just the orgasm talking, Puck."
"At least let me take you to the prom?"
"...Okay. Okay, yeah."
Kurt thinks they may have gotten somewhere when, a few days later, he finds a mix CD in his locker. There's no signature, but he recognizes the handwriting on the cover that reads, My Favorite Remixes.
Step 7: Seal the Deal
Puck, covered head to chest in grape slushie, sits next to Kurt in the guidance counselor's office, and Kurt honestly couldn't be happier. He's got a shit-eating grin, and he doesn't even try to hold it down. Karofsky sits to Puck's left, whining like a little bitch as he nurses his black eye.
Miss Pillsbury folds her hands together and addresses them all with a sunny smile that matches the wallpaper of her office. "So, any of you boys want to tell me what happened?"
What happened was that half an hour earlier, Kurt stood by his locker, getting his geometry books. He didn't notice Karofsky approach with a slushie until about two seconds before Karofsky hurled the cup forward. Kurt turned his face away and covered his hair, but not a single drop of corn syrup hit him -- Puck had jumped in at the last moment to shield Kurt from the impending slushie attack. And then he took Karofsky down with one fist to the eye. It would have been more, but Mr. Schue stopped the fistfight just in time.
"Yes, these slushie incidents are becoming a problem," Miss Pillsbury says. "And such a waste of food. And messy," she adds with a crinkle of her nose. "You're spending two weeks in detention, Mr. Karofsky. Puck, see me tomorrow for a brief anger management session, okay? And Kurt, if you see anyone else being wasteful with slushies, you let me know."
"Got it, Miss P."
"Are we done here?" Karofsky doesn't even wait for a response before he storms out of the room.
Puck and Kurt grin at each other.
Later, in the men's room, Kurt carefully dabs away each drop of slushie with some tissue paper. "You're insane, Puck. Jumping in front of a slushie stream? Seriously?"
"Well, first: I know how much you like that jacket, two: I was dying for an excuse to beat the shit out of Karofsky, and c: I taste good now." He smirks down at Kurt. "Lick me and find out?"
Kurt rolls his eyes. He leans up for a long, slow, grape-flavored kiss. It's pretty sweet. Literally.
"So worth it," Puck grins against his lips.
And even though Sue charged an arm and a leg for her services, Kurt is officially sure that Puck is worth every penny, and then some.
"Her?"
"Nah."
"Or her?"
"Nope."
Kurt's eyes fall on a redhead who may actually be marginally hotter than Quinn. She leans against a pillar, lithe and droll, like a perfect Abercrombie girl. "How about her?"
"Not really."
"Why not? I don't understand." He leans back against the tree bark, staring up at the leaves.
"Don't understand why I could maybe not be a manwhore?" Puck places a hand on Kurt's cheek to make Kurt face him. "Look, if I were single, sure. I'd hit that." He points at the girl, then at her friends. "And that and that and that, and maybe even that one if I'm drunk enough. But I'm not single."
"I, um, didn't think that would stop you?"
Puck laughs and shakes his head. "Dude, yeah, I'm a guy and I have needs. But I also have you. And you're like the goddamn Energizer Bunny, so I'm all set."
Kurt shoves him.
Kurt's hands clench the sheets as Puck, already fully undressed, lies on top of him and unbuttons his sweater. Kurt sucks in a breath.
"You're nervous," Puck says. It's not a question.
Kurt reaches for the bottle of lube on the night stand and pushes it at Puck's chest. "I'll be fine."
"No." Puck sets it aside on the bed. He sits back on his heels, studying every detail of Kurt's face. "It's not just first-time nerves. You're scared of something."
Kurt swallows. The air stings his torso. "Scared of where we're going, maybe," he admits. "Scared of falling. I'm basically giving you free reign to break me." A brittle laugh escapes his throat. "That freaks me out."
"I won't break you."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I can't. If I tried, I'd probably break first. You're one tough motherfucker." He grins. "I'd be scared of falling, too, if I weren't already in too deep."
Kurt lies still for a moment, before reaching down and undoing his own zipper. He lifts his hips. Puck shifts to the edge of the bed and slides Kurt's pants off. Kurt arches his back so Puck can remove his sweater, leaving him completely bare and vulnerable on Puck's bed.
Later, as a slick finger pushes into him, Kurt stares at the ceiling. He concentrates his efforts on breathing in and out at a steady pace.
"Jesus, you're tight."
"Puck."
A second finger and an inch deeper is enough to make Kurt's thighs tremble.
"I think we should do this with me on my back," Puck says. He kisses the inside of Kurt's knee. "It'll be easier. You get to control how fast we're going."
"Yeah."
Puck twists his wrist, making Kurt groan before he can think better of it. "If it's too much, we can do it some other time, okay?"
Kurt writhes under him. "Puck, I think I'm ready. Like, now."
"Not yet."
He looks down barely in time to see Puck lower his head. "You --"
The rest of that sentence breaks off as Puck's tongue laves a thick line up Kurt's dick. Kurt shivers. Puck does it again.
Kurt slams a fist into the mattress. "Come on!"
The emptiness left by Puck's fingers pulling out makes Kurt hiss through his teeth.
"You sure?"
Kurt rolls his eyes. "God."
And he pretty much wrestles Puck until he's straddling him.
"Easy, tiger," Puck laughs.
Kurt grabs the condom packet and rips it open with his teeth. He carefully rolls the condom on Puck, following down with his mouth. Then he positions himself back on top of Puck, with his hands on Puck's chest.
Puck holds Kurt's hips firmly. "I got you," he whispers.
He helps guide Kurt all the way down onto his dick. Kurt exhales sharply through gritted teeth; it's a slow slide, a stretch, with a burn that's barely there, but then Puck angles his hips a bit to reach a spot that makes Kurt shudder. Kurt wishes they'd turned off all the lights, because Puck can't stop taking in the whole sight of him, and Kurt has absolutely no poker face when he's exposed like this -- pale, naked, achingly hard, stretched around Puck.
"Good?" Puck asks.
"Yeah. ...Yeah." Kurt pulls up, then sinks down again, taking Puck's hand and holding it up to his own chest so they can both feel Kurt's rapid, pounding heartbeat.
It's irresistible the third time downward. Kurt's body demands a faster pace. It wants more, it wants to go deeper. His spine curls into itself; he makes little broken "ah, ah" sounds with every downward grind, while Puck's hand moves up from Kurt's chest to his face. Kurt leans into the touch, the warmth of Puck's hand contrasted with the beads of sweat rapidly cooling on his forehead. He closes his eyes.
"Just let go," Puck says. "It's okay."
Kurt's head is reeling. His body moves all on its own, jerking up and down with more force; Kurt's embarrassed by how fast he's going but he can't stop, not now. His elbows give and he falls forward, gripping onto Puck's chest and pushing himself up until he finds the wet heat of Puck's mouth to lose himself in. One upward thrust of Puck's hips is all it takes to send jolts up Kurt's spine, through to every last nerve ending. Kurt gasps against Puck's lips and comes almost painfully hard, striping both their stomachs. He stills himself, every inch of skin tingling, face buried in the hollow of Puck's neck, eyes still willfully closed.
Puck, glistening and absolutely gorgeous under the dim orange light of the room, continues to thrust in more erratic motions underneath him. Kurt lies on top of him, boneless, entirely sensitive to each slide of Puck's cock in and out of him.
"Shit, Kurt," Puck hisses, every muscle tensing up, and then his entire body slackens against the sheets. His fingers don't leave Kurt's back, even for a moment.
Kurt finally opens his eyes and looks up at Puck, realizing when their eyes meet that he's actually been in too deep for quite a while now -- he just hadn't admitted it yet.
He cups Puck's face in his hands and kisses him with every fiber in his body, because he's not scared anymore. He's in way too deep.
"Still in one piece?" Puck asks.
Kurt nods slowly. "No breaking here."
"I didn't know she had her own TV segment," Kurt's dad says as he stuffs his face with popcorn.
Kurt nods. "I have to admit, she's a pretty remarkable woman."
Sue's just as regal as she always is, but Kurt finds her slightly less intimidating now. He settles down on the couch and hands his dad a can of soda.
She's got a lavender tracksuit on this time. Daring. "Tonight, I'd like to talk about a topic I've lived and breathed all my life: being a champion," Sue says. "Now, I personally favor the genetically superior, but once in a blue moon, some peon will rise through the ranks and snatch the brass ring in his fat little fingers, and hey, I respect that, too. A winner's a winner. See, the first step in world domination is believing you deserve the world. There's one thing all the great champions have in common, from Che Guevara to Bill Gates to Jay Leno, and it is this: conviction. Hell, Patrick Dempsey is dyslexic, but that didn't stop him, did it? You can have all the natural talent in the world, but if you don't own that talent, you're a loser just like any other. So tell destiny, tell the laws of nature, tell the social hierarchy to shove it where the sun don't shine, because you are the master of your own fate. Hey, Dungeons and Dragons geeks? The babes are never gonna know you deserve a shot if you don't convince them first. Brush your teeth and man up. You'd be surprised how far it takes you. And that's how Sue C's it."
Principal Figgins stares at Kurt like he just grew a second head.
"I'm just as surprised as you are," Kurt says, holding up his hands. "I mean, I still wouldn't trust her enough to let her anywhere near the glee club, and I certainly wouldn't call her 'nice,' by any means. But Coach Sylvester is extremely good at what she does. She works harder than anyone I know, and she gave me a lot of good advice when I was in the middle of a personal crisis. I just thought I'd let you know."
"Well, I appreciate your feedback, Kurt," Principal Figgins says, writing it down on his notepad.
"We don't have to do this, you know," Kurt says. "Not right now, anyway? We'll do it when you're ready, I can wait."
Puck doesn't let go of Kurt's hand. "But I am ready," he insists.
"It's a big step."
"Yeah, but look: I'm way less of a miserable bastard than Karofsky and the guys are, and I don't have to spend lunch by myself anymore, so why wouldn't I want people to know that I'm a smug motherfucker who gets laid way more often than anyone in this school? Why wouldn't I want them to know that there's actually someone on Team Puck?"
"Hell, I am Team Puck," Kurt laughs. "This won't be easy, you know. Especially not with the football guys."
"Well, fuck 'em. If anyone's got a problem with us, I have nunchucks."
"Cool. Let's do this."
They walk into the cafeteria hand-in-hand, and Kurt can feel people staring but it's okay, because Puck saved him from a slushie facial once and Kurt feels safe with him.
The glee club table falls silent when they approach.
"People," Kurt says, keeping his chin up, "this is my new boyfriend."
He and Puck sit down, and some of his friends nod and smile but nobody says anything until Artie wheels himself between them, pats Puck on the back and says, very solemnly, "Good luck, dumbass."
Everyone laughs while Kurt elbows Artie in the ribs. Kurt looks over at Mercedes, who grins ear-to-ear. She doesn't look the least bit worried about him. Kurt breathes a sigh of relief, and smiles back at her.
In preparation for the next football season, Kurt runs laps around the oval in his new Louis Vuitton velour tracksuit. By the third lap, he hears a familiar booming voice from behind him.
"A little birdie told me that a student put in a good word for me with Principal Figgins a couple of weeks ago," Sue says. She jogs alongside him, barely breaking a sweat.
"Never thought I'd say this, but it's good to have you back, Coach Sylvester."
"I take it things are just peachy with you and Puckerman?"
"It sounds crazy, but he's a fantastic boyfriend," Kurt says. "Me and Puck. Just, wow. You really can do anything, Coach."
"You wanna know something, kid? Looking for a guy who would date you, that wasn't the hard part. My only challenge was in convincing you that you were worthy of a football stud. Once I took care of that, the rest of it was a cakewalk." She puts an arm around him, leans down, and says, "By the way, I'm nailing your dad."
She sprints ahead before Kurt can say anything.
Kurt stops in his tracks. He stands there with his jaw hanging open as he watches her run further away, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. His lower lip quivers, but he doesn't burst into tears.
Because he is a champion.
FIN.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Kurt/Puck, Kurt-Sue friendship (yes, really), and I don't want to spoil this one because it'll ruin the punch line, but: brief mention of (highlight to read) Sue/Burt
Genre: slash, with faint undertones of crack
Words: 7,607
Summary: The mere sight of Sue Sylvester is enough to make Cupid piss his diapers. That candy-ass little bastard doesn't stand a chance.
A/N: I saw an episode of Bravo's Millionaire Matchmaker once. That lady was scary. The show didn't inspire this fic, though -- I was just trying to figure out how I could force Kurt to bond with Sue. Hee.
Featured song: "Poker Face" - Chris Daughtry (Lady Gaga cover)
[ETA 03/15/2009] Cover art: YOU KNOW WHO'S A CHAMPION?
thisfishflies IS A CHAMPION:The thing is, Kurt's in the glee club. It's not like he has any other options.
If he gripped the arm of the leather couch any tighter, it'd moo. His eyes dart from side to side, surveying the contents of Sue Sylvester's disproportionately huge, lavish apartment. It's like in those cartoons where they enter a tiny tent and it's actually thousands of square miles of space inside. Sue Sylvester herself stands in the middle of the living room, tall and regal in her yellow tracksuit, like the lovechild of Mussolini and Big Bird.
Kurt would sweat, but apparently even his pores are terrified of Sue Sylvester.
"Hummel, right?" she says, and Kurt's pretty sure he has now managed to puncture the couch with his nails. "Where'd you hear about my new matchmaking service?"
"One of those business cards you made Brittany hand out during lunch period," Kurt mumbles. He clears his throat. "It's, um. I'm in the glee club, Coach Sylvester. It's not like I can get a boyfriend on my own. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?"
"Hmm." When she sits down next to him on the couch, he edges so far away from her that he can feel the armrest bite into his hip. "I want you to understand one thing: I'm not suddenly going to turn into this lovey-dovey guru just because I started a matchmaking service, okay? Cabo was fun, but now I'm bored. When you're Sue Sylvester, long periods of unproductiveness just won't do. And the Sue Sylvester Hovercraft Fund needs all the contributions it can get." She takes his chin between her thumb and forefinger, and inspects him with those petrifying blue eyes. "You won't be my Sistine Chapel, but maybe you can be my Dali melting clocks painting. Something along those lines."
"Um, sure?"
With a firm grip on his chin, she drags him into her home office. It contains a wooden spin-the-wheel contraption. Pictures of different football players occupy each division of the wheel.
"What are we doing here?" Kurt asks. His eyes widen when Sue reaches for the heavy, newly-sharpened dagger lying on her desk.
"I call it the Sue Sylvester Compatibility Test," she says, caressing the blade. "100% fail-proof."
"But I want Finn --"
She steps uncomfortably close and points the dagger between his eyes. "I'm not your pimp, kid, I'm your matchmaker. I call the shots."
"Got it," he squeaks.
"Now, why don't you be a doll and go spin that wheel over there?"
Kurt staggers zombie-like to the wheel, now completely sure that he's paid through the nose for his own death warrant. It's always a wild card when Coach Sylvester is involved. He spins the wheel and crosses his fingers behind his back, hoping, at least, that the wheel won't stop on Puck or Karofsky.
Sue doesn't budge. "Spin it harder, you pansy!"
He does, and he barely steps back when she hurls the dagger hard enough to knock the whole contraption over. He shrieks before he can stop himself, then claps his hand over his mouth.
She approaches the prone wheel, and they lean in simultaneously to see whose picture the dagger punctured.
Kurt winces.
Well, it's not Karofsky, at least.
"Congratulations, kiddo," Sue says, slapping him on the back. "You're gonna be Noah Puckerman's new arm candy. For what it's worth, on a good day you're more elegant than Santana Lopez."
"He's -- I don't think Puck is --"
"I am Sue Othello Sylvester!" she booms. "Are you questioning my abilities?"
Kurt bows his head. "No, Coach."
"Good, 'cause I don't give refunds."
He gulps.
"You won't be sorry, kid. It's a real bang for your buck -- with Sue Sylvester, you get a matchmaker and a life coach." She crosses her arms, lifts her chin, and gives him a once-over. "You know what your problem is, Hummel?"
"The fact that my idea of 'heavy lifting' is wearing a Gucci sweater? Or that I believe Cher can take Rambo in a fistfight, no matter what anyone says?"
"No, and Cher can take Rambo in a fistfight. I know it to be true," she says. "Your problem is that you lack confidence. So before we commence with step one, I want you to drop and give me fifty. And with each push-up, I want you to yell, 'I am a champion!' Say it enough times, it might come true. Like Dorothy. So get to it, Dorothy."
Since objections earn him nothing but that cold, murderous glare, Kurt obediently drops to the floor instead. By push-up/"I am a champion!" #10 his cheeks are burning up; by push-up/"I am a champion!" #23, the only thing that keeps him from bursting into tears is his sudden hallucination of Cher enthusiastically belting "Pants on the Ground."
Sue walks over to the stereo and plugs her iPod in. "Poor Unfortunate Souls" is the first thing that plays, and it's really quite fitting.
Only Sue Sylvester can make Kurt feel like a little mermaid.
Kurt hasn't dreaded a post-gym class shower as much as he does this one.
Curiously, Sue's nefarious scheme of conning Puck into being Kurt's boyfriend begins with an attention-grabbing move filched from Legally Blonde, of all things, and Kurt has to wonder if perhaps Santana made Sue a counter-offer to humiliate Kurt in the worst possible way. Maybe they're in Sue's office watching him on surveillance right now, cackling like Dr. Evil and his pint-sized minion.
But it's too late to back out now, since Puck's done with his shower. He steps through a cloud of steam.
Showtime.
Kurt tightens his grip on the towel around his waist and stares hard at the contents of his gym locker, trying to remember Sue's advice. "It's not exactly like in the movie, because those girls looked like dumbasses. Keep it simple. Drop something. Bend but don't snap. Bend slowly. Veeery slowly."
He can hear the blood rush in his ears as he "casually" knocks over a bottle of moisturizer. The thud it makes upon impact echoes against the locker room walls.
This could either go marginally well, or end with Kurt in the emergency room.
"Oopsies," he says, hoping that came out as an actual word and not a faint chirp.
Spine straight. Shoulders back. Hitch up the towel. Bend over "veeery slowly."
It's really fucking stupid, Kurt thinks. It's like there should be a perky Captain and Tennille song playing in the background for added irony.
But then, it happens.
"What happened?"
"I heard it," he says. "I heard him clear his throat and rush out the locker room half-dressed. I think he even stubbed his toe on the way out."
Sue laces her fingers together on the desk, like any good Evil Boss would. "Excellent, grasshopper. This might be easier than I'd thought it would be. You know -- and I'm telling you this man to man -- your butt isn't half-bad. Almost like mine. But you don't have my muscle definition."
Kurt blinks at the demi-compliment. "...Okay."
"If we didn't get a reaction out of Puckerman, I might've had to pull out my Chess Club wheel," she says, eyes shifting to a cabinet at the corner. "Anyway. Now that we've got our target's attention, we have to maintain it. This involves actually talking to the guy now."
He feels his face turn a whiter shade of pale.
"I know, I know, but Puckerman doesn't go for shrinking violets. Be a man, Hummel."
"Yeah, but I -- I can't compete with those girls, Coach," he stammers. "I'm not a cheerleader, I'm not a perfect ten, I don't have half the school worshipping the ground I walk on --"
"Useless accessories," Sue jeers, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "You don't need those. You've got Sue Sylvester as your matchmaker-slash-life-coach, and that's all you need, end of story. I'll make a champion out of you, grasshopper, even if it means I have to rip you a new one every Wednesday afternoon for the rest of your life."
"I...appreciate your good intentions, Coach."
For this Very Special Edition of glee club practice, Mr. Schue borrows the school projector to play a YouTube video of Johnny Cash's cover version of the Nine Inch Nails song "Hurt."
"Remixes," Mr. Schue says when it ends, clasping his hands together as he gets into his usual Inspiring Lecture Guy mode. "Reinventions. Taking concepts so firmly established in public consciousness, then turning them on their heads to create something new and fresh. We do remixes all the time in glee club, but this week I want you all to take it to a whole new level. Pick a song and rework it in a genre completely antithetical to its original. This will be a duet, so everybody pick a partner."
It's the worst-case scenario that takes place, of course, because Murphy's Law perpetually tugs at the hem of Kurt's pants leg like an annoying little sister.
Mercedes looks at him expectantly. Santana struts over to Puck, and Quinn bats her eyes at him like a helpless doe. Kurt can hear Coach Sylvester's voice growling "tick, tock, tick, tock" in his head.
Then, at the very last second, Kurt makes a beeline for Puck. He mouths an apologetic "I'll explain later" to Mercedes before facing him.
"Hi Puck, let's be partners!" he chirps. "Um. Not like that. I mean, for this activity. You know."
Puck narrows his gaze at him. "But you hate me."
"I don't hate you," Kurt insists, voice still unnaturally high in pitch. "I see that you're experiencing some emotional growth, and I respect that. People can change. ...Please be my partner?"
Puck glances from side to side, then back up at Kurt. "Yeah, you're probably less baggage than my other options. Why not?"
He does have a point. Between a baby mama who may or may not be leading him on and an ex-girlfriend who, when provoked, could probably rip the whole wrestling team to shreds without breaking a nail, Kurt is easily the most harmless option.
"My place or yours?"
After spending half an hour surfing YouTube in the computer in Kurt's basement bachelor pad, Kurt and Puck decide on Chris Daughtry's unplugged cover of "Poker Face." It's a good compromise -- acoustic stylings for Puck, Lady Gaga song for Kurt.
When Puck plays the guitar, he doesn't even have to look down at the strings. Instead, he focuses on whoever's singing. His eyes are fixed on Kurt this time, and Kurt finds himself more than a little unnerved by his stare. Puck probably has no idea, it's maybe just a music thing for him, but it definitely has a bigger effect than he realizes. Kurt's careful to sit on the side of the bed opposite Puck, so he can keep his back turned when he wants to.
Then Puck trips up on a note. He lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale, sets his guitar down. "Sorry, man," he sighs. "Got a lot on my mind right now."
Kurt turns his head to look at him. "It's okay. I know you're doing your best," he says, and they both probably know that Kurt's not just talking about the song.
Puck gives him a sad little smile and says, "If you could carry me, I'd let you throw me into the dumpster as many times as you wanted."
Kurt laughs. "Don't worry about it. It, um, it builds character?"
"Seriously, man. I was an ass. You don't have to be so nice to me."
"Yeah, well, you're part of the glee club now. That means something," Kurt says. "You don't have to carry Artie and his wheelchair up and down the bus or auditorium steps, right? But you do. And it's not like I haven't been there, haven't done things I'm not proud of -- believe it or not, I wasn't always this fabulous."
"Hey, you're pretty damn fabulous now."
Kurt beams. "I totally am."
Puck reaches for his guitar. "From the top?"
"Are you out of your mind?" Mercedes yells, forcefully enough that it almost makes the windows of the diner vibrate.
"Crazy, no. Desperate, possibly." He feebly twirls his fork in the apple pie. "It's too late for me to get my money back now, and weirdly, I think Coach Sylvester's plan could maybe actually work. She's definitely hell-bent on it. I've got nothing to lose."
"But with Puck? That's like staring trouble in the face and challenging it to an arm-wrestling match. Do you even like him?"
"No, but I could," he says with a mouthful of pie. "One day. Maybe."
"Oh, Kurt."
He sets his fork down on the plate with a loud clang. "Look, if this goes down in flames, I promise I'll let you be the first to say 'I told you so.' Deal?"
"No." She places a hand on his shoulder, the way friends do when they know their friend's being an idiot and they're powerless to stop them. "I'll be there with a bucket and a mop, like always."
Kurt smiles at her gratefully.
Mythbusters is the only TV show Kurt and his dad have in common, so it's a Hummel ritual to watch it together in the living room every Wednesday night. His dad likes the science and the explosions, while Kurt likes watching the interaction between the hosts (plus, Tory's pretty easy on the eyes).
Neither of them is too happy about the doorbell ringing in the middle of the show.
"I'll get it," his dad says.
Kurt doesn't think much of it until he hears the familiar deep voice that fills him with dread.
"I'm here to see Kurt Hummel."
He turns and kneels on the couch, leaning over just enough to see Sue standing by the doorway in an ominous black tracksuit. Like the Angel of Death, but more butch.
Kurt's dad remains unimpressed. He crosses his arms. "And you are?"
Sue mirrors his crossed arms. "Coach Sue Sylvester," she says. "There's a pressing concern regarding your son that needs addressing."
Kurt blanches. If his dad finds out he paid a massive sum of money to a tyrannical cheerleading coach to help him out of his no-boyfriend-since-birth status, he'd be deader than Mr. Schue's shot at a career in rap. Kurt sprints to the doorway to intervene while his dad's in the middle of making an excuse for him: "Hey, hey, I know Kurt's not the most hardworking kid in gym class, but he really tries --"
"Hi, Dad!" Kurt pants. "Hi, coach! What brings you here?"
Sue doesn't even look at him. "You don't have to worry about a failing grade, Mr. Hummel. Quite the opposite. I'm here to talk to Kurt about his impressive potential in rhythmic gymnastics."
"Rhythmic gymnastics?" his dad asks.
"You know, the one with the ribbon twirling. Little Kurt here is tailor-made for it."
"Huh. And?"
"Well, I'd rather talk to Kurt alone about this. Have a little heart-to-heart with him."
The idea of a heart-to-heart with Sue Sylvester makes Kurt's palms turn ice cold.
His dad isn't nearly as fazed. "You try to browbeat him even one bit into this ribbon twirling crap, lady, and I'll be on your Adidas-whoring ass faster than you can say 'Nancy Kerrigan.' Nobody orders the Hummels around -- I got a sandblaster, and I'm not afraid to use it."
Sue smirks. "Kinky."
Maybe if Kurt smiles hard enough, the bile would go back down on its own.
"I'll talk to Coach Sylvester by the pool, okay, Dad?"
"Don't take too long. Adam and Jamie are gonna blow up that car in less than fifteen minutes."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Sue's eyebrows perk up at the mention of explosions. "Can I watch?"
Kurt stares at her.
"So, Kurt," Sue says, sitting down on the pool chair next to his. "How's the ol' love life?"
"Uh, nonexistent? I did what you asked me to, though. I even got Puck to be my partner for this new glee activity."
Her expression hardens at the mention of glee club, but she brushes it aside and forces on a smile. "And how's that working out for you?"
"Well, he's nicer than I expected. I mean, I still think we'll only end up being friends, but it's not like that's such a bad --"
"Yeah blah blah, can it," Sue snaps. She leans back in her chair. "See what I did there? Came over to your house, sat you down, called you by your first name, got you to talk. I just demonstrated step three: pretending to care."
"What's wrong with plain old caring?"
"You can care if you really want to. But caring is optional," she says. "See, that's the one thing Puckerman sorely lacks -- people who actually give a crap about him. He's a grade-A douchefart with zero redeeming value, so it's to be expected, but now the whole school knows he knocked up his best friend's girl and everyone, even the football team, is on Team Finn. Sweet Moses, it's like Twilight." She grimaces. "And that's where you come in. You bat those big baby blues at him, rest your chin in your hand and pretend his little problems matter to you. He'll be putty in your hands by the end of the week."
"He's actually not that douchey --"
"Hummel, pretending to care is not my job. It gives me a migraine." Sue stretches and gets up from her chair. "Let's go, I don't want to miss the rest of Mythbusters."
Kurt and Puck, sitting in a tree. L-I-T-E-R-A-L-L-Y.
Sitting under a tree, anyway.
He'd never in a million years expected to spend a lunch period alone with Noah Puckerman, but somehow it's less of a surprise now than it would have been a month ago. In a school where everyone's on Team Finn, it's not that hard to find Puck alone, though it still comes as a bit of a shock when Puck approaches him after Chemistry class to ask him if he wants to swing by the 7-11 across the street for Cheetos.
"I haven't had the chance to talk to anyone since the shit hit the fan," Puck explains later, while unwrapping a Pop Tart. "It's not a football thing to even talk about feelings in the first place, but."
"But it's harder to talk now that nobody's on Team Puck?"
"Yeah. It's weird that you of all people would be the only one to bother to see my side of things. You and Quinn, but I guess she's doing her own thing now. I don't know. It's nice not to spend lunch alone for once."
"Getting ostracized sucks -- I should know," Kurt says. "But it's high school. I think when we're older, we'll be grateful it happened."
Puck furrows his brow. "Why?"
"Because it changes you. If you were in your twenties and still the same obnoxious jerkface you were two months ago, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't live to see 30."
They're sitting close enough that their knees are touching, which Kurt only notices now. He gingerly edges his knee away.
"Well, thanks for officially being the only person in school to think I've made any kind of improvement."
"Step one in world domination is forging alliances with all parties," Kurt says matter-of-factly.
"Do I get to be your evil minion?" Puck asks.
"I'll let you shine my shoes."
"Good deal."
Puck turns to him, his face barely inches away. He looks into Kurt's eyes, then down at his lips. Kurt flushes, clears his throat and sinks his teeth into his Pop Tart.
"You what?"
"Well, I did an hour on the treadmill when I got home..."
Sue bangs her fists on the desk. "Have you learned nothing, grasshopper? When a man looks at you like that, it's a non-verbal plea for you to plant one on him!" She clucks her tongue. "Dropped the ball there, kiddo."
"I'm sorry," he says absently, though the cogs of his mind are still stuck on the batshit idea that Puck would even consider kissing him.
She holds up a hand, her expression pensive. "No, wait. No, actually, this could be a good thing." She opens one of the drawers under her desk and pulls out a notepad. She scribbles on it. "Yes, this is Step 4. Especially effective on a boy like Puckerman, who wants what he can't have. That's why he was so hung up on Q -- she either insulted him or ignored him most of the time. If girls gave it away too easily, he'd toss them aside. Good thinking there, Hummel. I'm impressed."
Kurt squints at her. "What am I supposed to do, exactly?"
"What I've trained my Cheerios to do so very well."
Sue has quite helpfully written out this step for him so he wouldn't forget anything:
Remember, you're not trying to alienate your target. You're just presenting an enticing opportunity. Tease hard: come very, very close to giving him what he wants, and then take it away at the last second. Our objective at this stage is to make him want you so bad he could cry. Don't fail me now, grasshopper.
Kurt shoves it back into the pocket of his trench coat. He enters the auditorium, where Puck and his guitar wait by the stage. Kurt sits next to him on the edge, positioning himself at the proper angle for him to look Puck in the eyes when he sings. That's when he sees it, and it makes his cheeks burn but he can't look away.
"Luck and intuition play the cards with spades to start, and after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart."
He almost loses breath during the chorus; he's never had a guy look at him with that much want before. It's kind of exhilarating.
The song has barely ended when Puck sets his guitar aside, rests one hand on the stage, and leans in, head slightly angled to the side. Kurt mirrors the movement, parts his lips, feels his heartbeat triple its pace even though that's not part of the script.
Then he backs away, nearly falling off of the stage as he does. "I'm sorry, I can't."
He doesn't stop running until he reaches the parking lot. His breath comes out in faint white mist.
Everything's going according to plan, except for one problem: he maybe meant what he said, more than he should have.
While Kurt wants a boyfriend, he doesn't want to be a player, and all of these rules and set-ups are just that: playing. It's arguable that Puck deserves a lot of what's coming to him, but Kurt's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be played.
Sue's made a habit of dropping by on Mythbusters nights, even though she has a perfectly massive plasma TV at home, and the discussions she has with Kurt could just as easily be held in her home office. His dad doesn't have a problem with her frequent visits, even though Kurt's declared multiple times that he has zero interest in "ribbon twirling." Eventually, Kurt gives up on it, figuring that it at least saves him gas money.
Once his dad is out of earshot, Kurt scoots over to the edge of the couch nearest Sue's armchair.
"Coach Sylvester, I can't do this. Last-minute ethical dilemma." He screws his eyes shut and braces himself for the impending ass-whooping.
It never comes. Sue just sighs. "You are not to tell a living soul about this, grasshopper, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I can't draw blood from a stone."
Kurt hesitantly opens his eyes. "Huh?"
"Meaning, I wouldn't have tried to hook you up with Noah Puckerman if I didn't see anything there to begin with. I'm brilliant, and godly, and one hell of a strategist, but I'm no miracle worker. It's matchmaking, not voodoo. Stop freaking out. Only losers have ethical dilemmas," she says. "We're not tricking him into falling for you. All I'm doing is giving you a step-by-step guide to help him realize what's been there all along."
"Right..."
For the first time, she grins at him. "You know what this means, though?"
"What?"
"Now you care about him, too. You're scared as hell of hurting him."
"I guess." He rests his chin in his hands.
Sue reclines in the armchair, folding her arms behind her head. "God, I'm awesome at this Cupid crap."
Kurt and Puck knock it out of the park when it's their turn to perform. Kurt had initially feared that the tension between them would make it awkward, but perhaps it goes well because he can now sing the lyrics like he means them: "No, he can't read my poker face."
He almost wishes Puck could read his poker face, see that Kurt shares what's in Puck's eyes. He certainly didn't expect to feel the way he does right now; the realization hits him like a brick to the face. Sue Sylvester is a genius of the most frightening level.
And Puck's stare is burning hot.
After everyone's left the rehearsal room, Kurt fumbles for his cellphone and keys in Sue's number. "Coach? How do I know when to stop the teasing?"
"Trust me. You'll know. Or rather, he'll know."
Kurt's perfected it by now. He and Puck pass each other in the hallway after the last period, and Kurt shoots him a potent, forlorn, Grey's Anatomy-esque I-want-you-but-we-really-shouldn't gaze.
Puck glances left and right. He grabs Kurt by the wrist and drags him into the nearest empty classroom.
He pins Kurt up against the blackboard by his wrists and kisses the hell out of him. Like, full-on tonsil hockey, dragging his lips across Kurt's, and in a second there's biting involved. Kurt tries hard to hold back, grasp onto every last thread of control, but it doesn't take him long to cave in and part his lips a little more. It's not quite as romantic as Kurt imagined his first kiss would be, but it's a billion times more electrifying, and Kurt is so not complaining. It's so good that he finds himself wrapping his legs around Puck's waist, so he's now suspended only by his wrists and Puck's chest pushed up against him.
Puck breaks the kiss for a moment and rests his forehead against Kurt's. "Why did you say you couldn't?" he pants.
"What?"
"The first time I tried to kiss you. You said, 'I can't.'"
"Oh." Kurt's so dizzy from the kiss that he can barely come up with a decent answer. "I just...I thought you might have been...confused?"
"The fuck I am," Puck growls. He grinds his hips up against Kurt's, making Kurt whimper. And to further prove his point, Puck kisses him even harder this time, with lips and tongue and teeth colliding.
But an alarm goes off in Kurt's head the second Puck reaches down for his zipper. "Wait, wait, wait."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm not that easy, Puck," he says, jutting his chin out. "I won't put out if someone doesn't buy me dinner first."
"You free tomorrow night?"
"Possibly."
"I'll pick you up."
He wriggles against Puck's grip. "Um, let me down?"
Puck keeps a firm hold on Kurt's waist as he steps back and helps Kurt back on his feet. It's almost polite.
Normally, Kurt would think that McDonald's take-out on the first date is totally beneath him, but tonight, with Puck, it's pretty damn perfect. They've driven to a low, grassy cliff overlooking the town, which with all its city lights looks like an exact mirror-image of the starlit sky. "I never take anyone with me when I go here," Puck says, "but I figured I needed something to distract you from the fact that I can't exactly afford dinner at the Four Seasons."
Kurt's seated on one corner of the blanket, with the greasy, high-calorie contraband spread out on the rest of it. At this point in the evening, Puck's comfortable enough to rest his head in Kurt's lap while Kurt feeds him french fries.
When Kurt asks why, why now, why is this happening, Puck shrugs. "It's not that complicated? I just looked at you once and kinda wanted to know what it would be like to kiss you."
Kurt looks away.
Then Puck continues, "But I'm still around because you have this freaky habit of, like, getting hotter every time I see you. And because I'm maybe sorta happy when I'm with you, and I haven't been happy in a long fucking time." It's a damn good reason.
Sex with Puck is a lot less rough and tumble than Kurt imagined, but it's romantic in its own little way, and Kurt is so not complaining. It's all limbs and kissing and hands all over each other, and Kurt feels fluttery the whole time, chilly on the surface but burning up underneath his skin. Their clothes lie in a pile on the grass beside them. They're naked under the stars, warming each other up and trying not to be too loud. Kurt comes with a little cry and his nails digging crescents into Puck's shoulder blades.
Puck wraps the blanket around them. It's not a big blanket, so they have to squeeze together underneath to fit.
"This is so weird, isn't it," Kurt giggles, pressing his face against Puck's chest. "This. Us."
Puck's fingers stroke his hair. "It totally is," he says. "But maybe it's like remixes, you know?"
"Remixes?"
"Yeah. A remix looks weird on paper, but when you hear it, it surprises you with how cool it is. So you're like a remix of everything I ever thought I wanted in someone. I obviously didn't expect to feel this way, but I like it. It's pretty awesome."
Kurt holds him tighter.
Tonight, Sue takes off her sneakers, rolls up her pants, and sits next to Kurt to dip her feet in the pool like he does.
"Status report, Hummel?"
"We've gone on a few dates now," he says.
"And?"
"And it's...going well."
Sue probably notices the flush in his cheeks, because thankfully, she doesn't demand the full play-by-play. "Good. So my work here is done?"
Kurt nods. "Thank you, Coach," he says, and when he smiles this time, it isn't the least bit forced. "I don't know that he'd be the kind of guy to stick around long-term, or stick to one person, anyway, but I did get some hot stuff out of the deal."
"Hey, hey. You paid me to get you a boyfriend, not a two-week fling," she says. "Sue Sylvester doesn't do half-assed."
"It's okay, really --"
"No, it's not. Especially not when it's so easy. You know what most high school girls in celibacy clubs usually can't give? Good blowjobs. Now, either I can get a banana and demonstrate this shit, or if you have even a modicum of knowledge of how to use the internet, this would be a hell of a lot easier for both of us."
Kurt gulps. "I can Google-fu."
"Holy shit, marry me."
"I'm pretty sure that's just the orgasm talking, Puck."
"At least let me take you to the prom?"
"...Okay. Okay, yeah."
Kurt thinks they may have gotten somewhere when, a few days later, he finds a mix CD in his locker. There's no signature, but he recognizes the handwriting on the cover that reads, My Favorite Remixes.
Puck, covered head to chest in grape slushie, sits next to Kurt in the guidance counselor's office, and Kurt honestly couldn't be happier. He's got a shit-eating grin, and he doesn't even try to hold it down. Karofsky sits to Puck's left, whining like a little bitch as he nurses his black eye.
Miss Pillsbury folds her hands together and addresses them all with a sunny smile that matches the wallpaper of her office. "So, any of you boys want to tell me what happened?"
What happened was that half an hour earlier, Kurt stood by his locker, getting his geometry books. He didn't notice Karofsky approach with a slushie until about two seconds before Karofsky hurled the cup forward. Kurt turned his face away and covered his hair, but not a single drop of corn syrup hit him -- Puck had jumped in at the last moment to shield Kurt from the impending slushie attack. And then he took Karofsky down with one fist to the eye. It would have been more, but Mr. Schue stopped the fistfight just in time.
"Yes, these slushie incidents are becoming a problem," Miss Pillsbury says. "And such a waste of food. And messy," she adds with a crinkle of her nose. "You're spending two weeks in detention, Mr. Karofsky. Puck, see me tomorrow for a brief anger management session, okay? And Kurt, if you see anyone else being wasteful with slushies, you let me know."
"Got it, Miss P."
"Are we done here?" Karofsky doesn't even wait for a response before he storms out of the room.
Puck and Kurt grin at each other.
Later, in the men's room, Kurt carefully dabs away each drop of slushie with some tissue paper. "You're insane, Puck. Jumping in front of a slushie stream? Seriously?"
"Well, first: I know how much you like that jacket, two: I was dying for an excuse to beat the shit out of Karofsky, and c: I taste good now." He smirks down at Kurt. "Lick me and find out?"
Kurt rolls his eyes. He leans up for a long, slow, grape-flavored kiss. It's pretty sweet. Literally.
"So worth it," Puck grins against his lips.
And even though Sue charged an arm and a leg for her services, Kurt is officially sure that Puck is worth every penny, and then some.
"Her?"
"Nah."
"Or her?"
"Nope."
Kurt's eyes fall on a redhead who may actually be marginally hotter than Quinn. She leans against a pillar, lithe and droll, like a perfect Abercrombie girl. "How about her?"
"Not really."
"Why not? I don't understand." He leans back against the tree bark, staring up at the leaves.
"Don't understand why I could maybe not be a manwhore?" Puck places a hand on Kurt's cheek to make Kurt face him. "Look, if I were single, sure. I'd hit that." He points at the girl, then at her friends. "And that and that and that, and maybe even that one if I'm drunk enough. But I'm not single."
"I, um, didn't think that would stop you?"
Puck laughs and shakes his head. "Dude, yeah, I'm a guy and I have needs. But I also have you. And you're like the goddamn Energizer Bunny, so I'm all set."
Kurt shoves him.
Kurt's hands clench the sheets as Puck, already fully undressed, lies on top of him and unbuttons his sweater. Kurt sucks in a breath.
"You're nervous," Puck says. It's not a question.
Kurt reaches for the bottle of lube on the night stand and pushes it at Puck's chest. "I'll be fine."
"No." Puck sets it aside on the bed. He sits back on his heels, studying every detail of Kurt's face. "It's not just first-time nerves. You're scared of something."
Kurt swallows. The air stings his torso. "Scared of where we're going, maybe," he admits. "Scared of falling. I'm basically giving you free reign to break me." A brittle laugh escapes his throat. "That freaks me out."
"I won't break you."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I can't. If I tried, I'd probably break first. You're one tough motherfucker." He grins. "I'd be scared of falling, too, if I weren't already in too deep."
Kurt lies still for a moment, before reaching down and undoing his own zipper. He lifts his hips. Puck shifts to the edge of the bed and slides Kurt's pants off. Kurt arches his back so Puck can remove his sweater, leaving him completely bare and vulnerable on Puck's bed.
Later, as a slick finger pushes into him, Kurt stares at the ceiling. He concentrates his efforts on breathing in and out at a steady pace.
"Jesus, you're tight."
"Puck."
A second finger and an inch deeper is enough to make Kurt's thighs tremble.
"I think we should do this with me on my back," Puck says. He kisses the inside of Kurt's knee. "It'll be easier. You get to control how fast we're going."
"Yeah."
Puck twists his wrist, making Kurt groan before he can think better of it. "If it's too much, we can do it some other time, okay?"
Kurt writhes under him. "Puck, I think I'm ready. Like, now."
"Not yet."
He looks down barely in time to see Puck lower his head. "You --"
The rest of that sentence breaks off as Puck's tongue laves a thick line up Kurt's dick. Kurt shivers. Puck does it again.
Kurt slams a fist into the mattress. "Come on!"
The emptiness left by Puck's fingers pulling out makes Kurt hiss through his teeth.
"You sure?"
Kurt rolls his eyes. "God."
And he pretty much wrestles Puck until he's straddling him.
"Easy, tiger," Puck laughs.
Kurt grabs the condom packet and rips it open with his teeth. He carefully rolls the condom on Puck, following down with his mouth. Then he positions himself back on top of Puck, with his hands on Puck's chest.
Puck holds Kurt's hips firmly. "I got you," he whispers.
He helps guide Kurt all the way down onto his dick. Kurt exhales sharply through gritted teeth; it's a slow slide, a stretch, with a burn that's barely there, but then Puck angles his hips a bit to reach a spot that makes Kurt shudder. Kurt wishes they'd turned off all the lights, because Puck can't stop taking in the whole sight of him, and Kurt has absolutely no poker face when he's exposed like this -- pale, naked, achingly hard, stretched around Puck.
"Good?" Puck asks.
"Yeah. ...Yeah." Kurt pulls up, then sinks down again, taking Puck's hand and holding it up to his own chest so they can both feel Kurt's rapid, pounding heartbeat.
It's irresistible the third time downward. Kurt's body demands a faster pace. It wants more, it wants to go deeper. His spine curls into itself; he makes little broken "ah, ah" sounds with every downward grind, while Puck's hand moves up from Kurt's chest to his face. Kurt leans into the touch, the warmth of Puck's hand contrasted with the beads of sweat rapidly cooling on his forehead. He closes his eyes.
"Just let go," Puck says. "It's okay."
Kurt's head is reeling. His body moves all on its own, jerking up and down with more force; Kurt's embarrassed by how fast he's going but he can't stop, not now. His elbows give and he falls forward, gripping onto Puck's chest and pushing himself up until he finds the wet heat of Puck's mouth to lose himself in. One upward thrust of Puck's hips is all it takes to send jolts up Kurt's spine, through to every last nerve ending. Kurt gasps against Puck's lips and comes almost painfully hard, striping both their stomachs. He stills himself, every inch of skin tingling, face buried in the hollow of Puck's neck, eyes still willfully closed.
Puck, glistening and absolutely gorgeous under the dim orange light of the room, continues to thrust in more erratic motions underneath him. Kurt lies on top of him, boneless, entirely sensitive to each slide of Puck's cock in and out of him.
"Shit, Kurt," Puck hisses, every muscle tensing up, and then his entire body slackens against the sheets. His fingers don't leave Kurt's back, even for a moment.
Kurt finally opens his eyes and looks up at Puck, realizing when their eyes meet that he's actually been in too deep for quite a while now -- he just hadn't admitted it yet.
He cups Puck's face in his hands and kisses him with every fiber in his body, because he's not scared anymore. He's in way too deep.
"Still in one piece?" Puck asks.
Kurt nods slowly. "No breaking here."
"I didn't know she had her own TV segment," Kurt's dad says as he stuffs his face with popcorn.
Kurt nods. "I have to admit, she's a pretty remarkable woman."
Sue's just as regal as she always is, but Kurt finds her slightly less intimidating now. He settles down on the couch and hands his dad a can of soda.
She's got a lavender tracksuit on this time. Daring. "Tonight, I'd like to talk about a topic I've lived and breathed all my life: being a champion," Sue says. "Now, I personally favor the genetically superior, but once in a blue moon, some peon will rise through the ranks and snatch the brass ring in his fat little fingers, and hey, I respect that, too. A winner's a winner. See, the first step in world domination is believing you deserve the world. There's one thing all the great champions have in common, from Che Guevara to Bill Gates to Jay Leno, and it is this: conviction. Hell, Patrick Dempsey is dyslexic, but that didn't stop him, did it? You can have all the natural talent in the world, but if you don't own that talent, you're a loser just like any other. So tell destiny, tell the laws of nature, tell the social hierarchy to shove it where the sun don't shine, because you are the master of your own fate. Hey, Dungeons and Dragons geeks? The babes are never gonna know you deserve a shot if you don't convince them first. Brush your teeth and man up. You'd be surprised how far it takes you. And that's how Sue C's it."
Principal Figgins stares at Kurt like he just grew a second head.
"I'm just as surprised as you are," Kurt says, holding up his hands. "I mean, I still wouldn't trust her enough to let her anywhere near the glee club, and I certainly wouldn't call her 'nice,' by any means. But Coach Sylvester is extremely good at what she does. She works harder than anyone I know, and she gave me a lot of good advice when I was in the middle of a personal crisis. I just thought I'd let you know."
"Well, I appreciate your feedback, Kurt," Principal Figgins says, writing it down on his notepad.
"We don't have to do this, you know," Kurt says. "Not right now, anyway? We'll do it when you're ready, I can wait."
Puck doesn't let go of Kurt's hand. "But I am ready," he insists.
"It's a big step."
"Yeah, but look: I'm way less of a miserable bastard than Karofsky and the guys are, and I don't have to spend lunch by myself anymore, so why wouldn't I want people to know that I'm a smug motherfucker who gets laid way more often than anyone in this school? Why wouldn't I want them to know that there's actually someone on Team Puck?"
"Hell, I am Team Puck," Kurt laughs. "This won't be easy, you know. Especially not with the football guys."
"Well, fuck 'em. If anyone's got a problem with us, I have nunchucks."
"Cool. Let's do this."
They walk into the cafeteria hand-in-hand, and Kurt can feel people staring but it's okay, because Puck saved him from a slushie facial once and Kurt feels safe with him.
The glee club table falls silent when they approach.
"People," Kurt says, keeping his chin up, "this is my new boyfriend."
He and Puck sit down, and some of his friends nod and smile but nobody says anything until Artie wheels himself between them, pats Puck on the back and says, very solemnly, "Good luck, dumbass."
Everyone laughs while Kurt elbows Artie in the ribs. Kurt looks over at Mercedes, who grins ear-to-ear. She doesn't look the least bit worried about him. Kurt breathes a sigh of relief, and smiles back at her.
In preparation for the next football season, Kurt runs laps around the oval in his new Louis Vuitton velour tracksuit. By the third lap, he hears a familiar booming voice from behind him.
"A little birdie told me that a student put in a good word for me with Principal Figgins a couple of weeks ago," Sue says. She jogs alongside him, barely breaking a sweat.
"Never thought I'd say this, but it's good to have you back, Coach Sylvester."
"I take it things are just peachy with you and Puckerman?"
"It sounds crazy, but he's a fantastic boyfriend," Kurt says. "Me and Puck. Just, wow. You really can do anything, Coach."
"You wanna know something, kid? Looking for a guy who would date you, that wasn't the hard part. My only challenge was in convincing you that you were worthy of a football stud. Once I took care of that, the rest of it was a cakewalk." She puts an arm around him, leans down, and says, "By the way, I'm nailing your dad."
She sprints ahead before Kurt can say anything.
Kurt stops in his tracks. He stands there with his jaw hanging open as he watches her run further away, leaving a trail of dust in her wake. His lower lip quivers, but he doesn't burst into tears.
Because he is a champion.
