Fic Glee: Burn This Town Down Tonight (3/4), Lauren/Puck, ensemble (Marching Band AU)
Title: Burn This Town Down Tonight
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: sotto_voice who loves marching band AUs.
Characters/Pairings: Lauren Zizes/Noah Puckerman, Tina Cohen-Chang/Mike Chang, Mercedes Jones, Quinn Fabray, Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Matt Rutherford, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Brittany S. Pierce, Sam Evans, Will Schuester (later stories will include Blaine/Kurt, Santana/Brittany, and Artie Abrams, plus other pairings)
Author's note: This is a transformative work of fiction for the television show Glee. It is also an alternate universe in which they are all in marching band instead of glee club. I've played pretty fast with their ages, but most of the glee club members we know are juniors, except for Matt, a senior. This is story one.
Rating: 16+ for underage sexual activity
Word count: 13,500+
Summary: You'd think by now they would be prepared for how wild band camp gets, but Lauren Zizes didn't see these two weeks coming.
Burn This Town Down Tonight
Part One LJ, DW | Part Two LJ, DW
Part Three LJ, DW | Part Four LJ, DW
3.
The week drags on. They run fundamentals in a big basic block through Wednesday, and it’s a hot, miserable mess. Lauren stops counting the number of times she wants to throw a drumstick at someone for messing up and making them start all over when she hits twenty.
(She only throws one once, and that’s at Trent, who keeps tripping into her space. When he comes close to slamming their quads together, she gets out of the way fast and then throws one of her sticks at the back of his head. She has to run a lap around the field for that, carrying the biggest cymbals while she does because sometimes Mr. Schue is a sadist, but it’s totally worth it. He doesn’t get in her way again.)
Blaine joins them for lunch the second day, too, which means there’s still no gossip from Tina. It’s funny as hell when he tries to order a milkshake. Kurt curls his hand over Blaine’s mouth to silence him and shakes his head. “You do not want to drink that much dairy and then march for another five hours,” he promises. Blaine’s eyes are wide, but his nod tight and controlled. He puts his hand on Kurt’s wrist, and for a second they sit like that, looking at each other.
“My hero,” Blaine says when Kurt finally pulls his hand away. He bats his eyelashes a little and drops his head onto Kurt’s shoulders. “What other nasty marching band surprises will you rescue me from?”
Definitely flirting, Mercedes mouths behind their backs, and Lauren thinks she’s right.
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday they run basic move after basic move all morning, but they’re inside after lunch, for the hottest part of the day, and it’s a welcome relief. The air conditioner in the band room works overtime trying to cool them down, and they’re unpleasantly crowded -- the band room isn’t really built for the whole marching band, it’s made for the two smaller ensembles they’ll break into for concert season, one basic and one advanced -- but it’s nice to be out of the sun.
They sound like shit the first day, but the section leaders go to work, tuning and going over the same four bars fifty times and sometimes literally tapping the rhythm into their skin. Friday, they’re starting to sound halfway decent, at least standing still with the music in front of them.
It all makes for a long, exhausting first week, but by the time rehearsal ends Friday night, their energy is starting to build again. Lauren can hear the whispers start as everyone packs up their equipment, and she gives it a couple hours -- just long enough for everyone to grab dinner, shower, and put on something fun instead of the sloppy clothes they’ve been sweating in all day -- before they’re partying it up.
Lauren pushes her way out of the room and chills in the hallway, leaning against the lockers across the hall and enjoying the momentary solitude. Tina and Quinn find her there soon enough, followed by Mercedes, Kurt, and Blaine, and together they head for the parking lot.
“Where’re we tonight?” Tina asks.
“David’s hosting.” Quinn tightens her ponytail, smoothing the little flyaways that have escaped near her ears.
“Sweet.” Mercedes and Kurt flick their fingers together and smooth back their hair. It is pretty sweet, David has a killer set-up. He’s got a sound system that would put some concerts to shame. They’ll be plenty of alcohol, because someone always knows someone who can hook them up, and Lauren can’t wait for that delicious, delicious burn.
“It’s my turn to drive,” Quinn adds. “Who needs a ride?” Lauren and Mercedes both jump on that offer, but Kurt and Blaine are riding with Finn -- Mercedes and Quinn exchange tiny smiles at that -- and Tina swings the hem of her skirt back and forth and says she’s already got a ride.
She doesn’t name names, but Lauren knows it’s Mike, of course. From the looks on Mercedes’ and Quinn’s faces, they’ve figured out something’s going on too. Oh, yeah, this party will be fun.
“We’ll be there by eight,” Quinn tells Lauren.
They start to split up, but Kurt stops them. “Ladies,” he says, and then nods at Blaine, “poor, uneducated new boy, it is our first party as upperclassmen. Make me proud.” His eyes narrow. “You’d better all look fierce.”
Lauren rolls her eyes, but later, after her shower, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she stands in front of her closet for awhile, contemplating what will receive the Kurt stamp -- or, okay, tiny nod and hair flick -- of approval.
#
She ends up wearing a purple cotton skirt, black sparkly tank top, and black sandals. Kurt approves, though she knows it’s simpler than he’d like. Whatever, she looks hot and feels comfortable, two very important things.
Lauren wanders the party, stopping to talk to a couple people here and there. She’s having fun, but she feels restless, and even when she forces herself to sit down to a conversation, she makes an excuse to get up again quickly.
It means she’s not paying much attention to who is around her when, because it keeps changing. That has to be how Puckerman sneaks up on her. Or not really sneaks, he’s just suddenly there.
“Zizes.” Puckerman’s holding a big glass of something filled with alcohol -- she can smell the bite of it rising from his drink and on his breath when he leans in close -- but though his face is a little flushed and his eyes are bright, he’s not slurring his words. “Why don’t we ever hang out?”
She grips the neck of her beer bottle tight. “You know why,” she snaps and looks around for Quinn; she can just make out her blonde hair shining under the dim lights in the area designated the dance floor. She sways her hips and does a quick little step, her movements smooth. Next to her, Sam Evans is awkward as he dances just a little too enthusiastically, but Quinn just laughs and grabs him and pulls him in close.
Puckerman’s looking, too, and shaking his head. Of course he is, he doesn’t want Quinn with anyone else. That makes Lauren’s throat tight and her chest ache. She takes a long pull off her beer to cover it. Puckerman watches her do it, his eyes focused hard on where her lips wrap around the bottle.
What the fuck is wrong with him, mooning after Quinn one minute and checking her out the next? What a dick.
“Fuck you,” she snaps and turns away. He grabs her, fingers warm and rough around her wrist, and that right there tells her he’s drunker than she thought, because there’s an unspoken rule between them: no touching.
“What’d I do?” He genuinely sounds confused and a little hurt, and he lets her go as soon as she snaps back around to face him.
She knows she shouldn’t say what springs to mind first, because the last thing anyone needs is for Puckerman to go pick a fight with Sam or, worse, for Quinn to turn on him, icing him out with all her rage, but she says it before she’s done with that realization, her brain slowed and her tongue loosened by the booze.
“If you want to dance with Quinn, go dance with her!” There’s a heat building inside, and she clenches her hand around her beer bottle. For a second, she thinks she’s about to throw it at him, or maybe just the last of her beer, but that would be a hell of a party foul.
“The fuck are you talking about?”
She’s has no idea. All she knows is how much she hates that bitter rise of jealousy, because goddamn it, Quinn is her friend. It’s not an emotion she deals with well. Nor is the odd fondness she feels for Puckerman.
What she understands is anger, and she knows exactly how to turn any other emotion into it.
“You really want to talk about why we don’t hang out?” She narrows her eyes at him and plants her hands on her hips, one of them pressing her beer bottle against her. “Because it seems like no one ever mentions the fact that you knocked up your best-friend’s girlfriend and--”
“Don’t.” His voice is harsh, his eyes a little too wide. He’s doing that posturing thing he does -- mostly unconsciously, or so she’s always thought -- with his shoulders forward and chest pushed out. He clenches one hand around his glass over and over, the other fisted at his side, and if he swings, oh god, if he swings she will put him into the wall.
(She’s not even sure how much of this is her raring for a fight and how much is wanting to kiss him, to touch him, to fuck him. She likes it rough, likes to be rough, and she’s crossing lines here she didn’t even realize she was close enough to see.)
“No? But I thought you wanted to talk.” Lauren sneers at him and opens her mouth to really drive it home, to land the verbal punch that’s going to knock the wind out of him -- and is probably a little below the belt, but she ignores that -- but then Puckerman’s jaw twitches.
“Don’t,” he says again, and then, quieter still, “fucking please don’t.”
All the anger rushes out of her, and she just feels guilty for kicking him while he’s down. Not that he was actually down, not literally and not figuratively, but she knows that’s his weak spot and she aimed right for it. She can call him an asshole all she wants, but she’s just as fucking bad.
They stand there a moment, staring and silent, and then Lauren grimaces. “Sorry,” she mutters, and she is, but god, she hates saying it, hates admitting she might have been wrong about something. “That was shitty.”
She doesn’t know what else to say, and she hates feeling like that, unbalanced and unsure, so for once, instead of pushing through it no matter what, she turns and walks away.
#
The party is so loud, so unbelievably loud. The music sounds like it’s jacked up another ten decibels every time she breathes in, and she’s sure everyone is screaming their conversations at the top of their lungs.
Lauren grabs a bottle of water and escapes into the backyard. The party’s there too, but there’s a lot more space, and it’s nice and dark and cool. She grabs herself a seat on the low stone wall that lines one of the big flower beds in the corner and lets her shoulders slump.
No way she’s still feeling guilty over Puckerman. There’s just no fucking way.
Even as she tries not to think about that, she looks up and he’s walking toward her. Or maybe just walking to the corner. It doesn’t really matter, because the end result is the same. She braces herself for more awkwardness, sitting up and straightening her shoulders, but he just sits down next to her, a crumbled pack of cigarettes in one hand.
Neither of them says anything as he thumbs one out and pulls his lighter from his pocket, but it’s an easy silence. Lauren sips her water. Puckerman lights his cigarette. Elsewhere, people are loud and handsy and drunk and dancing, but their corner is almost peaceful. Not exactly what she expects from Puckerman.
He takes a long drag and blows out a slow, steady stream of smoke. It’s a clove, she can smell that much, but there’s something weird about it. She sniffs again, harder, trying to figure it out, but she can’t.
“What the hell are you smoking?” When she realizes what she’s said, she laughs so hard for a second she can’t breathe. Oh yeah, still drunk. Puckerman grins and takes another drag, waiting for her to finish.
“Menthol cloves.”
Lauren squints at him. “I can’t decide if that’s amazing or horrifying,” she says at last.
He shrugs and slips another one out of the pack, holding it out to her. “Try one.”
She takes it and reaches for his lighter next, but he hangs on to it and thumbs it to life. It’s bright after the shadows around them, and for a second, she’s distracted by the way his face looks highlighted by the flame. Then she tilts forward a little and lights the cigarette, her eyes on him the whole time.
It’s not her first time smoking, and she really is leery about the mix of menthol and clove, so she only inhales a little bit at first. But it’s good, different; it’s mostly like a clove, but then her mouth starts to burn a little. She presses one finger to her lips, poking at them. Yeah, they’re definitely tingling.
“Dude,” she says, and then, because talking feels weird, she says it again, dragging it out. “Dude, that’s awesome.”
“Hard to find but worth it,” he agrees. He shifts around a little, and when he’s done, he’s sitting closer to her. She doesn’t scoot away. “How’s your brother?”
“He’s good.” She tilts her head to the side, staring up at the sky, blowing smoke above their heads. “He’ll be back stateside in a couple months. He doesn’t know where he’ll be stationed here, but it’ll be closer to home, so we don’t really care.”
“Cool. We should hang when he’s in town.”
Lauren nods, a little jerkily, and focuses on her cigarette. She can hear the crackle of the paper as it burns on down. Puckerman shifts again, flicking ash onto the ground, and his leg bumps against hers.
This is how it started freshman year, too, cigarettes and beer and line camaraderie. Lauren considers walking away, but she likes it here, in the silence and the shadows, smoke and secrets curling around them.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/330688.html with
comments. Reply here or there.
Author: escritoireazul
Written for: sotto_voice who loves marching band AUs.
Characters/Pairings: Lauren Zizes/Noah Puckerman, Tina Cohen-Chang/Mike Chang, Mercedes Jones, Quinn Fabray, Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Matt Rutherford, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Brittany S. Pierce, Sam Evans, Will Schuester (later stories will include Blaine/Kurt, Santana/Brittany, and Artie Abrams, plus other pairings)
Author's note: This is a transformative work of fiction for the television show Glee. It is also an alternate universe in which they are all in marching band instead of glee club. I've played pretty fast with their ages, but most of the glee club members we know are juniors, except for Matt, a senior. This is story one.
Rating: 16+ for underage sexual activity
Word count: 13,500+
Summary: You'd think by now they would be prepared for how wild band camp gets, but Lauren Zizes didn't see these two weeks coming.
Burn This Town Down Tonight
Part One LJ, DW | Part Two LJ, DW
Part Three LJ, DW | Part Four LJ, DW
3.
The week drags on. They run fundamentals in a big basic block through Wednesday, and it’s a hot, miserable mess. Lauren stops counting the number of times she wants to throw a drumstick at someone for messing up and making them start all over when she hits twenty.
(She only throws one once, and that’s at Trent, who keeps tripping into her space. When he comes close to slamming their quads together, she gets out of the way fast and then throws one of her sticks at the back of his head. She has to run a lap around the field for that, carrying the biggest cymbals while she does because sometimes Mr. Schue is a sadist, but it’s totally worth it. He doesn’t get in her way again.)
Blaine joins them for lunch the second day, too, which means there’s still no gossip from Tina. It’s funny as hell when he tries to order a milkshake. Kurt curls his hand over Blaine’s mouth to silence him and shakes his head. “You do not want to drink that much dairy and then march for another five hours,” he promises. Blaine’s eyes are wide, but his nod tight and controlled. He puts his hand on Kurt’s wrist, and for a second they sit like that, looking at each other.
“My hero,” Blaine says when Kurt finally pulls his hand away. He bats his eyelashes a little and drops his head onto Kurt’s shoulders. “What other nasty marching band surprises will you rescue me from?”
Definitely flirting, Mercedes mouths behind their backs, and Lauren thinks she’s right.
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday they run basic move after basic move all morning, but they’re inside after lunch, for the hottest part of the day, and it’s a welcome relief. The air conditioner in the band room works overtime trying to cool them down, and they’re unpleasantly crowded -- the band room isn’t really built for the whole marching band, it’s made for the two smaller ensembles they’ll break into for concert season, one basic and one advanced -- but it’s nice to be out of the sun.
They sound like shit the first day, but the section leaders go to work, tuning and going over the same four bars fifty times and sometimes literally tapping the rhythm into their skin. Friday, they’re starting to sound halfway decent, at least standing still with the music in front of them.
It all makes for a long, exhausting first week, but by the time rehearsal ends Friday night, their energy is starting to build again. Lauren can hear the whispers start as everyone packs up their equipment, and she gives it a couple hours -- just long enough for everyone to grab dinner, shower, and put on something fun instead of the sloppy clothes they’ve been sweating in all day -- before they’re partying it up.
Lauren pushes her way out of the room and chills in the hallway, leaning against the lockers across the hall and enjoying the momentary solitude. Tina and Quinn find her there soon enough, followed by Mercedes, Kurt, and Blaine, and together they head for the parking lot.
“Where’re we tonight?” Tina asks.
“David’s hosting.” Quinn tightens her ponytail, smoothing the little flyaways that have escaped near her ears.
“Sweet.” Mercedes and Kurt flick their fingers together and smooth back their hair. It is pretty sweet, David has a killer set-up. He’s got a sound system that would put some concerts to shame. They’ll be plenty of alcohol, because someone always knows someone who can hook them up, and Lauren can’t wait for that delicious, delicious burn.
“It’s my turn to drive,” Quinn adds. “Who needs a ride?” Lauren and Mercedes both jump on that offer, but Kurt and Blaine are riding with Finn -- Mercedes and Quinn exchange tiny smiles at that -- and Tina swings the hem of her skirt back and forth and says she’s already got a ride.
She doesn’t name names, but Lauren knows it’s Mike, of course. From the looks on Mercedes’ and Quinn’s faces, they’ve figured out something’s going on too. Oh, yeah, this party will be fun.
“We’ll be there by eight,” Quinn tells Lauren.
They start to split up, but Kurt stops them. “Ladies,” he says, and then nods at Blaine, “poor, uneducated new boy, it is our first party as upperclassmen. Make me proud.” His eyes narrow. “You’d better all look fierce.”
Lauren rolls her eyes, but later, after her shower, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she stands in front of her closet for awhile, contemplating what will receive the Kurt stamp -- or, okay, tiny nod and hair flick -- of approval.
#
She ends up wearing a purple cotton skirt, black sparkly tank top, and black sandals. Kurt approves, though she knows it’s simpler than he’d like. Whatever, she looks hot and feels comfortable, two very important things.
Lauren wanders the party, stopping to talk to a couple people here and there. She’s having fun, but she feels restless, and even when she forces herself to sit down to a conversation, she makes an excuse to get up again quickly.
It means she’s not paying much attention to who is around her when, because it keeps changing. That has to be how Puckerman sneaks up on her. Or not really sneaks, he’s just suddenly there.
“Zizes.” Puckerman’s holding a big glass of something filled with alcohol -- she can smell the bite of it rising from his drink and on his breath when he leans in close -- but though his face is a little flushed and his eyes are bright, he’s not slurring his words. “Why don’t we ever hang out?”
She grips the neck of her beer bottle tight. “You know why,” she snaps and looks around for Quinn; she can just make out her blonde hair shining under the dim lights in the area designated the dance floor. She sways her hips and does a quick little step, her movements smooth. Next to her, Sam Evans is awkward as he dances just a little too enthusiastically, but Quinn just laughs and grabs him and pulls him in close.
Puckerman’s looking, too, and shaking his head. Of course he is, he doesn’t want Quinn with anyone else. That makes Lauren’s throat tight and her chest ache. She takes a long pull off her beer to cover it. Puckerman watches her do it, his eyes focused hard on where her lips wrap around the bottle.
What the fuck is wrong with him, mooning after Quinn one minute and checking her out the next? What a dick.
“Fuck you,” she snaps and turns away. He grabs her, fingers warm and rough around her wrist, and that right there tells her he’s drunker than she thought, because there’s an unspoken rule between them: no touching.
“What’d I do?” He genuinely sounds confused and a little hurt, and he lets her go as soon as she snaps back around to face him.
She knows she shouldn’t say what springs to mind first, because the last thing anyone needs is for Puckerman to go pick a fight with Sam or, worse, for Quinn to turn on him, icing him out with all her rage, but she says it before she’s done with that realization, her brain slowed and her tongue loosened by the booze.
“If you want to dance with Quinn, go dance with her!” There’s a heat building inside, and she clenches her hand around her beer bottle. For a second, she thinks she’s about to throw it at him, or maybe just the last of her beer, but that would be a hell of a party foul.
“The fuck are you talking about?”
She’s has no idea. All she knows is how much she hates that bitter rise of jealousy, because goddamn it, Quinn is her friend. It’s not an emotion she deals with well. Nor is the odd fondness she feels for Puckerman.
What she understands is anger, and she knows exactly how to turn any other emotion into it.
“You really want to talk about why we don’t hang out?” She narrows her eyes at him and plants her hands on her hips, one of them pressing her beer bottle against her. “Because it seems like no one ever mentions the fact that you knocked up your best-friend’s girlfriend and--”
“Don’t.” His voice is harsh, his eyes a little too wide. He’s doing that posturing thing he does -- mostly unconsciously, or so she’s always thought -- with his shoulders forward and chest pushed out. He clenches one hand around his glass over and over, the other fisted at his side, and if he swings, oh god, if he swings she will put him into the wall.
(She’s not even sure how much of this is her raring for a fight and how much is wanting to kiss him, to touch him, to fuck him. She likes it rough, likes to be rough, and she’s crossing lines here she didn’t even realize she was close enough to see.)
“No? But I thought you wanted to talk.” Lauren sneers at him and opens her mouth to really drive it home, to land the verbal punch that’s going to knock the wind out of him -- and is probably a little below the belt, but she ignores that -- but then Puckerman’s jaw twitches.
“Don’t,” he says again, and then, quieter still, “fucking please don’t.”
All the anger rushes out of her, and she just feels guilty for kicking him while he’s down. Not that he was actually down, not literally and not figuratively, but she knows that’s his weak spot and she aimed right for it. She can call him an asshole all she wants, but she’s just as fucking bad.
They stand there a moment, staring and silent, and then Lauren grimaces. “Sorry,” she mutters, and she is, but god, she hates saying it, hates admitting she might have been wrong about something. “That was shitty.”
She doesn’t know what else to say, and she hates feeling like that, unbalanced and unsure, so for once, instead of pushing through it no matter what, she turns and walks away.
#
The party is so loud, so unbelievably loud. The music sounds like it’s jacked up another ten decibels every time she breathes in, and she’s sure everyone is screaming their conversations at the top of their lungs.
Lauren grabs a bottle of water and escapes into the backyard. The party’s there too, but there’s a lot more space, and it’s nice and dark and cool. She grabs herself a seat on the low stone wall that lines one of the big flower beds in the corner and lets her shoulders slump.
No way she’s still feeling guilty over Puckerman. There’s just no fucking way.
Even as she tries not to think about that, she looks up and he’s walking toward her. Or maybe just walking to the corner. It doesn’t really matter, because the end result is the same. She braces herself for more awkwardness, sitting up and straightening her shoulders, but he just sits down next to her, a crumbled pack of cigarettes in one hand.
Neither of them says anything as he thumbs one out and pulls his lighter from his pocket, but it’s an easy silence. Lauren sips her water. Puckerman lights his cigarette. Elsewhere, people are loud and handsy and drunk and dancing, but their corner is almost peaceful. Not exactly what she expects from Puckerman.
He takes a long drag and blows out a slow, steady stream of smoke. It’s a clove, she can smell that much, but there’s something weird about it. She sniffs again, harder, trying to figure it out, but she can’t.
“What the hell are you smoking?” When she realizes what she’s said, she laughs so hard for a second she can’t breathe. Oh yeah, still drunk. Puckerman grins and takes another drag, waiting for her to finish.
“Menthol cloves.”
Lauren squints at him. “I can’t decide if that’s amazing or horrifying,” she says at last.
He shrugs and slips another one out of the pack, holding it out to her. “Try one.”
She takes it and reaches for his lighter next, but he hangs on to it and thumbs it to life. It’s bright after the shadows around them, and for a second, she’s distracted by the way his face looks highlighted by the flame. Then she tilts forward a little and lights the cigarette, her eyes on him the whole time.
It’s not her first time smoking, and she really is leery about the mix of menthol and clove, so she only inhales a little bit at first. But it’s good, different; it’s mostly like a clove, but then her mouth starts to burn a little. She presses one finger to her lips, poking at them. Yeah, they’re definitely tingling.
“Dude,” she says, and then, because talking feels weird, she says it again, dragging it out. “Dude, that’s awesome.”
“Hard to find but worth it,” he agrees. He shifts around a little, and when he’s done, he’s sitting closer to her. She doesn’t scoot away. “How’s your brother?”
“He’s good.” She tilts her head to the side, staring up at the sky, blowing smoke above their heads. “He’ll be back stateside in a couple months. He doesn’t know where he’ll be stationed here, but it’ll be closer to home, so we don’t really care.”
“Cool. We should hang when he’s in town.”
Lauren nods, a little jerkily, and focuses on her cigarette. She can hear the crackle of the paper as it burns on down. Puckerman shifts again, flicking ash onto the ground, and his leg bumps against hers.
This is how it started freshman year, too, cigarettes and beer and line camaraderie. Lauren considers walking away, but she likes it here, in the silence and the shadows, smoke and secrets curling around them.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/330688.html with
comments. Reply here or there.