Fic: Low Rising (2/4)
Low Rising
Part Two
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Predictably - fucking predictable -- it all starts with a goddamn slushy.
School kind of sneaks up on him, really -- he turns in his apron at Sheets N’ Things, and suffers a slap on the ass from Alice, the creepy night manager, because it’s officially not harassment anymore, or something. He thinks he could probably bust her anyway, but it’s not all that high on his priority list. He stops by for a quick water reading at the Rutherfords, and sneaks in a quickie with the lovely missis and her ginormous rack, and before he knows it, it’s Wednesday, and they’re back to William fucking McKinley again.
It all feels kind of anti-climactic, really; they didn’t have football before classes started, because Coach Tanaka bailed and they were still looking for his replacement, and he’d been keeping busy all through August, what with the new line of bed linens that Kathy Something Whatserface released and the five billion coats of paint Kurt insisted they slap on as a finishing touch for the master bath. His bank account’s actually got money in it, for once, but he’s kind of bummed that he never got that body kit on his truck.
Whatever, that’s what weekends are for.
So nothing really seems out of the ordinary; he spins his locker open, checks to see if his chewing gum collection’s still there, stuck to the metal (totally is) -- slams it shut just as fast without leaving anything behind, thinks he might hit the weight room instead of doing first period chemistry, ‘cause it’s the first day and he can probably still pull off the “I got lost” routine if he tries hard enough, maybe, not that anyone even cares around here, but--
And then, he’s spitting cold, syrup-coated nuggets of crushed up ice onto the floor, where he’s dripping lime green all over the place like he just got slimed on Nickelodeon or some shit.
God-fucking-damnit.
“Hey there, Springsteen,” Rossner, the fucking useless tight end, crows, like he actually knows what the hell he’s saying, and hey -- being mocked as the Boss is actually kind of a compliment, or would be, if he weren’t blinking slush from his eyes and still sputtering like an idiot, trying not to suck the smaller bits of ice up his nose as he starts to seethe -- “still singing with your Nude Erections fag friends this year?” And thank god the assface is far enough from him that he doesn’t actually touch Noah when he jerks his hips in demonstration of what he obviously thinks a guy should do with his nude erection -- proof in itself that the douche hasn’t gotten laid yet -- because if Rossner’d touched him? Noah might have actually killed him.
“Fuck off,” Noah growls, hocks back slushy and saliva and spits as close as he can to the side of the dickhead’s face without getting flat out busted for it. Rossner’s eyes widen, bulge a little, and before he can do anything, Noah’s shoved him into the wall, fist pulled back in a clear threat, and when Rossner’s hand unclenches around the empty slushy cup, when the styrofoam falls flat and hollow against the floor, it’s almost satisfying.
He can feel the eyes of everyone around them, the crowd that always gathers, that watches and waits in this fucking place, waiting to pounce on the loser, the winner, whoever -- he can feel them watching, catches pale skin and straight hair out of the corner of his eye, and for reasons unknown he lets his grip slip a little, lets his hand fall and lets Rossner fall too -- he hadn’t realized he’d had the bastard up off of the floor like that, kicking his ankles out like a little girl.
“What’s wrong, Puckerman?” he hears Rossner say, a little out of breath; feels his fingers dig into his palms as he tries to walk away; tries, because he can’t get suspended again, he can’t get expelled, he can’t get sent to fucking juvie; “Those fairy choir kids cut your dick off? Your balls shrivel up from singing like a queer?” He hears snickering, and not just from behind; he hears it from the sides, from the space in front of him he can’t even see, because he’s already spinning back around, already taking the step; “Can’t even--”
His fist is in that fucker’s face, catching him in the front teeth before he can even close his mouth around the next word.
“Got something to say?” Noah yells in Rossner’s face, drags him up bloody, but not too broken and throws him hard against the wall again; the laughter’s gone, and the gasp of their little audience is echoing; he grins as Rossner flinches away. “You say it to my face, bitch.”
He lifts him a little higher off the floor by the collar of his jersey, lets him fall hard on his ass before he turn again and really walks away, leaves a goddamn impression, even as his shoes stick, green and tacky to the floor.
It’s considerably less badass than he was hoping for, but whatever. He just throws a couple of extra growls at the rubberneckers he passes, covers the squelch of his sneakers with the sound.
He doesn’t see Hummel, hidden in the little niche with the drinking fountain, until the kid’s hands are on his bicep and his mind goes fucking blank. He thinks he might blink, like, twenty times before he realizes that there’s slushy stuck to the corner of his eye and it actually kind of hurts to do the blinking thing in the first place.
“Come on, Noah,” he hears Hummel say, all soft-like, girly, except he seems really close, and yeah, he’s kinda feminine, but Noah’s never noticed the way his jaw’s kind of hard, the way his Adam’s apple juts out when he swallows, runs critical eyes up and down Noah’s moss-tinged frame. “Your scalp’s going to turn green if you don’t get it out.”
And yeah, that’s a problem -- chick’s don’t usually dig guys with green mohawks. Or else... not slushy-green mohawks.
There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, but Kurt doesn’t stop there, and it’s weird, because Noah doesn’t think about asking questions, or stopping on his own -- he just follows, keeps his head down, tastes sweet lime on his lips and bites down hard on his tongue to keep it all in, whatever it all is.
He doesn’t really pay all that much attention to where they’re going, or where they stop: it’s the science hallway, he knows that, and once Kurt holds the door open and waves him into the last room on the left, he thinks that maybe he remembers having Earth Science freshman year here -- he might have actually gone to it once or twice, even, but now it’s looks like no one’s touched the room in ages, the counters are so caked with dust and what looks like that nasty gooey crap the teachers make them prep petrie dishes with.
So yeah -- fucking slushy.
“Sit,” Hummel tells him, voice low and rough, almost hidden by the scrape of the chair he drags toward the deep stainless-steel sink, digging ruts against the tiling on the floor. And it’s like Noah doesn’t even have a set of balls, really, because he just does it. Blinks against the lemon-lime stick that’s drying on his skin and goddamn sits like he’s told to.
Hummel’s got soft hands, he finds out; real soft hands, as he tips Noah’s head back by the line of his jaw and tests the water running from the spout as it sputters from disuse and shitty plumbing, and Noah doesn’t even move, doesn’t even breathe, and he thinks maybe he forgot running here, forgot sprinting for his fucking life, because his heart’s jumping like a goddamn jackrabbit, and the not-breathing thing’s starting to become an issue.
“Turn your head,” Kurt says, and it’s weird -- maybe just Glee infiltrating his brain -- but the tone it’s said in almost sounds like it matches, goes along with the water as it hits the metal basin, detoured where Kurt’s hand it guiding the spray closer to Noah’s head as he eases, tilts farther into it.
The water, of course. Not, like, Hummel’s hand.
But that’s before his eyes slide closed when Kurt’s palm slides across his scalp, teases the lines of corn-syrup from the skin and slowly rubs it from his hair, fingers slipping across his face where he got the worst of it off already, caked on his sleeve. Kurt pools water between his hands and lets it fall around his forehead, wash against his eyes to get the gunk off his lashes, and that’s why his eyes are closed, of course. That’s why.
Jesus, he used to be a good liar.
And then the breathing thing, it comes back quick and painful, short and dry in his lungs, just when Kurt stretches, gets real fucking close with his chest brushing Noah’s nose as he reaches for the paper towel dispenser and grabs, wipes the wetness from Noah’s face like Noah’s a fucking two-year-old, and fuck, but Noah doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t even stop it.
“There,” Hummel says, like it’s nothing, like Noah’s not real sure he’s going to pass out or kill something in the next ten seconds. And yeah, maybe -- probably -- it started before the slushy. Maybe it never had to really start. Maybe Noah needs to stop sitting on the couch when his mom’s watching those sappy made-for-TV romances on Oxygen -- maybe then he’ll stop sitting around thinking about things like endings and beginnings like a little bitch.
Hummel walks out first, Noah can’t see his face; and he’ll never know if Kurt saw the wood Noah’d sprouted by the time he was finished washing the corn syrup out of Noah’s hair.
Fuck.
__________________________
“Making up” is a pansy ass way of saying it, so no -- Noah did not “make up” with Finn after the whole Quinn deal. They’re cool now, though. Or else, cool enough.
And, he guesses, he kind of has to thank Kurt for the whole “cool” thing in general.
Not like Kurt did anything about it outright, but with Noah spending a good chunk of his summer in and out of the Hummel-Hudson household, it was a lot harder to avoid Finn on a regular basis. Mostly,
But it’s whatever, really; all he knows is that the new season’s started, and he’s got a place to hang after practice when Santana’s not putting out.
And yeah, Finn’s still his best friend. But that’s just details. Whatever -- like he said.
So basically, after school or glee or football, they crash at Finn’s, play Madden, chill out. Sometimes they watch OSU kick some ass, because Tressel’s got a hell of a lineup again this year; sometimes they flinch through the Browns being absolutely fucking terrible; sometimes Burt joins them, or Kurt stands behind the couch for a while and huffs at their abysmal taste in pastimes, and it’s generally better than going home and watching some dumbfuck show on Nickelodeon with his stupid sister, so he’s not complaining.
When Kurt stands right behind him, the soft material of his sweater close at the back of Noah’s head; when he leans his elbows on the back of the sofa so that Noah kind of feels the heat of breath when he sighs; yeah, he’s not fucking complaining.
__________________________
One time, Noah even gives in and plays some Halo, after Finn pops it in and tells him it’s pretty sweet; Noah’s pretty sure it’s dweeby, though, and he says as much as the game loads.
“That’s what I thought too, man,” Finn says as he flips through the menu screen and sets up the game mode. “I hadn’t played it before, but then Kurt had it, so I gave it a try, and it’s pretty badass. I mean, it’s a little nerdy, but yeah, s’good time.”
And it’s not half bad, Noah will admit, even after he’s had his ass handed to him. Sweet graphics, great explosions, and that Master Chief dude looks pretty awesome. And Jesus, but that Cortana chick’s tits.
“You should see Kurt, though,” Finn tells him, “he’s like a fucking Halo master, man. Whips me every freaking time.”
Noah finds himself wanting to see that, actually, so he goes out on a limb: “He around?”
“Probably,” Finn says, glances at the clock and rolls his eyes; “It’s seven, time for his moisturizing routine.”
Noah smirks, glances after Finn as he stands from the cushion he’d been sprawled over in front of the television and goes to call downstairs, a quick scream of Kurt’s name and a slam of the door.
“He won’t come up if he knows we just want him for this,” Finn explains before flopping back on the carpet and reaching with his crazy-long arms to grab for another controller. “Got to make him wonder if it’s something important.”
As if on cue, the basement door’s swinging open, and Noah’s glad he finished his pop and hadn’t grabbed for more Ruffles like he’d wanted to just a second ago, because he’s kind of choking on straight air as it is, and food really wouldn’t have made the whole breathing thing any easier.
Kurt’s face is flushed red from where he apparently had been rubbing in his whatever-girly-cream, and his eyes are wide as he glances around to figure out what was urgent enough to warrant him pausing from his regimen so suddenly that he, you know, couldn’t even bother to put a shirt on.
So yeah, about that breathing thing.
Noah swallows, and fuck, it’s not like he hasn’t seen a shirtless dude before, because he plays fucking sports, right, they all get dressed together, he accidently gets an eyeful of someone’s junk at least once a day, and it’s just what happens, no big deal.
But... motherfucker, Hummel’s lily-white, scrawny chest with the ribs showing and just that little bit of muscle at the abs is doing things to him that he doesn’t even know where to start in labeling in them as fucked, fucked, and ‘Holy shit, that’s FUCKED.’
“What did you need?” Kurt asks, and he folds his arms across himself, just below his pecs, and Jesus H. Christ, it’s so goddamned wrong that’s Noah’s mouth is dry like a desert, but there is it.
“Halo,” Finn grins, dopey and hopeful, like it’s an olive branch, because they’re still a little weird with each other, even Noah can tell that much; and Kurt’s rolling his eyes and walking back down the stairs when Finn calls out after him.
“Noah doesn’t think you can beat him!”
The footsteps down the stairs pause, and Kurt’s head pops back up around the doorjamb.
“Is that true?” he asks, eyes narrowed at Noah, who shrugs, because it’s not like he’s got a better plan, and while the part of him that wants Hummel to go get a fucking shirt on is loud and obnoxious and desperate in his brain, there’s a louder and bitchier part that wants to see that shit again. Like, right now.
Loud and bitchy wins the day, because Hummel’s back up the stairs in record time, settling on the couch and crossing his legs, hugging a throw pillow to him and covering most of his skin, but Noah knows what’s behind it, now, and that’s... distracting.
“I’ve got ten minutes to spare before I have to exfoliate,” he informs them pointedly as he activates his controller and eyes them both up shrewdly. “We should be done by then.”
Finn chuckles, and switches them from campaign to versus.
Kurt hangs them both out to dry with a good three minutes to spare.
__________________________
Noah comes by a lot of things honestly.
He gets his height from his mom’s side, though not from his mom; it skipped her. He gets his sarcasm from his dad’s dad, who he’s never met, but his mom assures him that it’s true. He has his grandma’s smile, and he can see that. He’s got his granddad’s hair, which is why he shaves it.
And his ability to make excuses for the things he does in order to avoid his own feelings on just about everything, and his capacity for basically denying reality in general, comes from his mom. For her, it was a defense mechanism, after his dad split. For Noah, though, it’s kind of just second nature.
You seriously cannot blame him for this shit.
See, okay, it’s like this: he’s at Finn’s, because that’s where he usually is. He gets the mail, not because he’s a nosy fuck, but because, contrary to popular belief, he can be polite when he wants to, and he’s walking up the drive anyway, and Finn’s too much of a failure at life in general to even think about doing his mom the favor, so Noah’s gonna do it for him, because bros get each other’s backs like that.
And it’s not that he’s snooping, or looking for anything in particular; it’s mostly just that he’s looking, you know, with his eyes -- not something he can really turn off, you know -- and so he really just sees it by accident, the big shiny envelope with the printed-on pictures of prep boys in jackets, with the big red lettering and the metallic gold seal on the back with an eagle or a coat of arms or some shit and a return address for that Dalton Academy place where the rich kids go.
And it’s addressed to a Mr. Kurt Hummel.
Noah leans against the kitchen counter as Finn makes Kool-Aid, because the crazy kid’s like five years old underneath his massive teenage disguise, drops everything but the Dalton envelope onto the table and stays where he is, staring at it, as Finn dumps his first attempt down the sink because he forgot to add sugar, and makes another packet of the stuff instead of being a normal person and just adding the goddamn sugar to the first batch.
Noah never really understood how Finn managed to survive in the world on a daily basis; just another wonder of the universe, really.
Finn’s pouring himself a glass of his second-round with the drink powder when Kurt strolls through the door, dressed in something that looks like a dress and a sweater and has a belt and is purple -- bright fucking purple -- but that’s not really the important point, because Noah’s still got the envelope in his hand, and he’s really not sure how he’s going to manage to say what he wants to say about it, when he has absolutely no idea what it is he wants to say in the first place.
“Here,” he ends up just kind of shooting his arm out as Kurt walks by him to grab for the pitcher of iced tea in the fridge and blocking his path with the envelope in his hand. Kurt looks at him strangely, one eyebrow raise in that little arch thing he does as he takes the thing and looks at it, a kind-of-smile curving around his lips and lighting his eyes as he tells Noah thanks and slides a fingers under the seal, walking out of the kitchen without his iced tea.
Noah really does not like that kind-of-smile thing that Kurt just did.
So when they’re all kicking back on the couch watching Deadliest Catch, Burt on the far side, next to Kurt, who’s next to Noah, and then Finn in the chair, Noah may or may not kind of shift his weight in a way that makes his leg brush up against Kurt’s -- because the couch isn’t that big -- so he can look Kurt straight in the eye when he asks:
“So what’s the deal with that Dalton stuff, man?”
Kurt blinks at him, like he’s trying to figure him out, before he just kind of shrugs and hugs his arms around himself a little tighter. “Just trying to feel out my options,” he says. “They have a,” he swallows, and Noah thinks that’s fishy, the way he does it; “a lot of opportunities.”
And Noah doesn’t quite know what Kurt means by that, exactly, except that he really doesn’t like the idea of Kurt going anywhere that isn’t William McKinley.
He doesn’t like that idea at all.
So Noah does what he always does when he doesn't like something: he beats it into submission with his own fuckin’ hands. Which, in this case, means asking his mom about songs that a dude with Kurt’s voice would rock for a solo. Except yeah, okay, he tells her it’s for a girl, because he needs songs for Kurt’s voice, and it’s really just practical.
Within a week, Schuester’s on board with his idea for doing a medley of alternative female vocalists, and the guys and the girls are rocking out a wicked blend of Regina Spektor, Alicia Keys, and Brandi Carlile, with Kurt Hummel fucking owning the solo on a reworked rendition of Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now.’ And if that’s not a fucking opportunity, Noah doesn’t know what is.
And afterward, Kurt does a different kind-of-smile thing that Noah kind of likes.
Except by the end of the week, Noah’s getting his stuff together and heading home, because Finn’s conked out on the couch like a douche, and Noah’s got homework he should probably think about doing, and just as he’s passing the dining room, he catches Burt’s voice on a sigh: “It’s a lot of money, Kurt.”
And it’s probably rude, but when he glances in, catches a glimpse of Burt and Carole and Kurt all sitting around the table they only ever use for family dinner, he sees it laid open on the tabletop: the goddamn Dalton book that came in the mail.
“I know,” Kurt says, voice small, resigned before he sucks in a breath and tries one last time. “But it’s a no-tolerance policy, and it’s enforced, and I-” he stops, and his eyes go to the ground, and Noah, well, Noah slips out before they see him.
And maybe the next morning, he starts ramming a couple more fuckfaces into lockers when they start talking shit; maybe he serves a few extra detentions and an ISS as a result over the weeks that follow. And maybe he’s the one they start calling fag-ass and gay boy, but he can deal. He’s a tough nut to crack.
And maybe he’s doing this for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. Maybe he’s more than just invested in Glee Club’s future, maybe he wants more than just Kurt’s voice to stick around. Maybe he doesn’t have asthma or allergies and those weird breathing issues he’s been having aren’t really like, pneumonia or something. Maybe he doesn’t really have ADHD, and he just stares off in Hummel’s direction so often because, well, just because.
Maybe he’s in denial, sure. But maybe, it’s just as possible that he’s being totally self-aware, and it’s really just an itch-needing-scratching kind of situation.
He’s just not usually that lucky.
__________________________
Kurt and Finn still share the basement bedroom -- and Noah’s not above ragging on Gigan-teen about it all the fucking time.
Finn’s fishing around for a Sports Illustrated he’d wanted to show Noah something in, and Noah’s really just nosing around, killing time as Finn cusses his bed frame out when he bangs his head against it for the third time -- kid’s just not meant for crawling under the thing, really; he peers over the divider that separates Finn’s part from Kurt’s and smirks at the little table of girly face shit propped up by the wall. His mom, and hell, his sister Sara, too -- they’d both probably kill for that setup.
When he glances down, though, and sees the Dalton paperwork folded in half and shoved in the trash can next to the table -- between an empty bottle of eye gunk and a bunch of cotton squares -- he doesn’t even bother examining his motives for the whole Project Keep-Kurt-Around thing; he just counts that shit as a win.
__________________________
It’s kind of not at all planned when Noah asks Finn is he wants to hit a movie on Friday night. He’s just bored, and he’s doesn’t feel like getting buzzed, or playing Xbox, or staying at home, really, because there’s an iCarly marathon on, and he’ll be damned if he sits through that shit. He wants to get out for the evening, is all.
He doesn’t expect Finn to tell him he’s already hitting a late showing of Wall Street 2 with Kurt, ‘cause they both grew up watching the original VHS until the tape stretched and it was all screen-static and warped dialogue.
Which is so fucking lame it’s not even funny, and Noah basically wants to know why in the hell he’s friends with these people in first place, and he wants to know it right the fuck now.
And that’s exactly what he tells them, too, as he’s tagging along and paying for his overpriced ticket and a tub of popcorn that is, in fact, the equivalent of highway robbery, which in turn is equivalent to a full day’s work of cleaning pools in mid August.
Which is also the extent of his math skills, but whatever. That’s not even the point.
The popcorn’s kind of burnt, which pisses him off, and he doesn’t know how in the hell he ends up sitting between Finn and Kurt, when it was their little date he was crashing, but whatever. Finn shoves his big fucking hand into the tub and takes big fistfuls of popcorn every so often, to which Noah says: “You’re paying for T-Bell after this, man.”
But then there’s Kurt; Kurt who leans in like he doesn’t even know that he’s even doing it at all -- Kurt with slim hands and soft knuckles that brush against Noah’s wrists when he grabs for the popcorn without asking, takes one kernel at a time, so he’s always in the way, always grabbing, and Noah, well: Noah’s sitting up straight as a goddamn rail, tense and hot, even if the theater's cold with the A/C.
Every five fucking seconds, when Hummel decides he needs more goddamn popcorn.
By the end of the movie, Noah couldn’t actually tell you what happened in it, except that Shia LaBeouf was there without any Megan Fox to gawk at.
__________________________
Noah doesn’t know from experience, but he’s pretty sure this is exactly what people mean when they say they’re having an identity crisis. Or when they say they’re having a panic attack; he suspects that it’s the same difference.
Because it’s not like he’s a fucking virgin, and he’s not a fucking girl. He’s not supposed to be thinking about anyone like they’re special, like they’re the only person in a room or some rom-com bullshit. Noah Puckerman does not swing that way.
He doesn’t.
Except that he totally and completely goddamn does, and it’s fucking insane, and he feels like he’s going to die of a heart attack when Hummel comes out of the bathroom in just a fucking towel when Noah’s chilling at their place while Finn talks Rachel down from some drama freak out; he’s at home three hours later, and he can still count the jump of his pulse at his throat without touching, just by sitting still and waiting for his skin to shudder.
He takes a cold shower and shoots his load fast enough to be humiliating, and it’s when his body’s still tense, and his heart’s still running a marathon all up in his ribs, that he realizes this isn’t like everything else, isn’t like everything he’s done before.
He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, just that it’s new, and he sure as hell doesn’t like it, doesn’t recognize himself like this: strung out and mind-fucked like a little swooning bitch, or something.
So yeah: panic attack, identity crisis. Same shit, different name.
__________________________
Of course they rocked Sectionals, but Regionals is kind of a surprise.
To celebrate, Schue takes them down to Cleveland for some godawful cultural experience at Playhouse Square which really isn’t as bad as Noah figured it would be, but still. He’s obligated to bitch about it, if he plans on keeping his man card. Or something.
They catch an early performance of Billy Elliot at the State Theatre -- which is basically just as gay as Noah expected it would be, considering, but it’s pretty decent, nonetheless -- and they splurge on dinner at a bona-fide Michael Symon restaurant, which Noah can appreciate because his mom digs on Iron Chef, mostly because she’d never been much of a cook herself, and Noah likes to watch and laugh at the Chairman dude, ‘cause he’s funny.
Really, he is.
They plan on hitting the Rock Hall, but Mr. Schue got the hours wrong, and it’s closed by the time they make it down to the North Shore; Noah’s never been there, but Sam tells them all that it’s cool, but no big deal that they’ll have to skip it, so they’ve got a good twenty minutes to kill before the bus swings by and picks them up early.
Which sucks, because even if it’s, like, the end of March, it’s still really freaking cold. And well, Lake Effect’s a bitch, so there’s still a dusting of snow on the pavement leading up to the beach.
Noah cups his hands and blows hot into them, rubs them together and huddles closer into his coat, glances around and sees where Finn’s wrapped up around Rachel on the steps, and Sam’s all crazy ‘round Quinn where they’re leaning up against the glass panes of the building. Everyone else is milling about, mostly paired off, and he catches just about everyone between the crosswalk and the Hall itself, except one.
He spots Kurt by the bright yellow-ish color of the peacoat he’s wearing by some crazy designer person who’s name Noah can’t sound-out to get right, leaning against the railing down by the coast, kicking idly at the chains blocking off the frosty sand and the surf. He strides down toward the water, figuring he’ll just take a look at the horizon on the Lake, it’s probably kinda cool.
Which it is: the ice is all coming apart, mostly melted, but there are still some jagged edges, all crashed and broken in upon itself; but that’s not what he notices when he gets close enough to see. What he notices, first, is that Kurt’s shivering like a goddamned leaf.
Which, he automatically decides, is a pretty bad thing.
“Your Armani chick coat’s not real warm, I take it?” he asks, a little snide, because he can’t really help it -- it’s just how he is.
Kurt huffs at him, grins, but his teeth chatter. “Please. This is Burberry.”
“Whatever,” Noah shrugs, lets the motion loosen his own jacket from around his shoulders, and just, you know, does what his mama raised him to do.
He gives the girl -- or, you know, kinda girly guy -- his coat.
Kurt doesn’t do anything, at first. Just kind of stands there, just a little in font of Noah, a little to the side, swimming in the letterman jacket and tense, not really breathing -- Noah can tell because his shoulders aren’t moving, and there’s no cloud of breath puffing from his mouth every couple of seconds, and fuck, it really is that cold out here, because Noah’s already starting to feel the goosebumps on his arms, and the tingle in his spine as he fights the jitters, and he almost regrets giving Hummel his jacket at all until --
Until Hummel turns, and he’s all bright eyes and pouty frown, and his scarf’s wrapped up around his neck so that just the stark-white of his face is visible, all flushed at the cheeks and the tip of his nose at the cold, and Noah -- he’s gotten used to it being hard to breathe sometimes, when he looks at Hummel; he’s adapted to the dry-mouth thing by carrying a water bottle in his backpack, and he’s become a fucking pro at the ‘what goes through your crazy hormone-addled mind in the shower when you rub one out stays in the shower when you rub one out’ -- but this, whatever it is, this is different.
This, right here, is that panic attack feeling all tight in his gut and his chest and it’s a fucking problem, is what it is, because he can’t think when it’s like this, when nothing makes sense and he can’t talk himself down and he can’t make decisions and he does stupid shit like leaning in to Kurt, who’s warm, and leaning down to his mouth, which is all full and pink and wet and chapped and fuck -- and then pressing his goddamned lips to Hummel’s like it’s not an accident, like he actually fucking means it.
He cannot be trusted with his own well-being when it’s like this. He cannot be held accountable for what it is he does.
And Hummel doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, not when Noah comes close or touches or even when he backs away; Hummel doesn’t move. And there is a God, Noah’s real fucking sure of it now, because the bus gets there and saves his ass at just that moment, and he’s turning tail and slipping in next to Finn, because suffering Rachel’s death glare and stealing her seat next to her boyfriend is actually totally preferable to dealing with the wide-eyed, completely unreadable, vaguely unnerving stare that Hummel’s got trained on him just about now.
And Noah, well, he’ll take the creepy girl glower over thinking about the big gay kiss he just laid on Kurt fucking Hummel by a goddamn fucking lake, like in a freaking Hallmark channel movie.
Goddamnit.
Part One // Master Post // Part Three
Part Two
-----------------------------------
Predictably - fucking predictable -- it all starts with a goddamn slushy.
School kind of sneaks up on him, really -- he turns in his apron at Sheets N’ Things, and suffers a slap on the ass from Alice, the creepy night manager, because it’s officially not harassment anymore, or something. He thinks he could probably bust her anyway, but it’s not all that high on his priority list. He stops by for a quick water reading at the Rutherfords, and sneaks in a quickie with the lovely missis and her ginormous rack, and before he knows it, it’s Wednesday, and they’re back to William fucking McKinley again.
It all feels kind of anti-climactic, really; they didn’t have football before classes started, because Coach Tanaka bailed and they were still looking for his replacement, and he’d been keeping busy all through August, what with the new line of bed linens that Kathy Something Whatserface released and the five billion coats of paint Kurt insisted they slap on as a finishing touch for the master bath. His bank account’s actually got money in it, for once, but he’s kind of bummed that he never got that body kit on his truck.
Whatever, that’s what weekends are for.
So nothing really seems out of the ordinary; he spins his locker open, checks to see if his chewing gum collection’s still there, stuck to the metal (totally is) -- slams it shut just as fast without leaving anything behind, thinks he might hit the weight room instead of doing first period chemistry, ‘cause it’s the first day and he can probably still pull off the “I got lost” routine if he tries hard enough, maybe, not that anyone even cares around here, but--
And then, he’s spitting cold, syrup-coated nuggets of crushed up ice onto the floor, where he’s dripping lime green all over the place like he just got slimed on Nickelodeon or some shit.
God-fucking-damnit.
“Hey there, Springsteen,” Rossner, the fucking useless tight end, crows, like he actually knows what the hell he’s saying, and hey -- being mocked as the Boss is actually kind of a compliment, or would be, if he weren’t blinking slush from his eyes and still sputtering like an idiot, trying not to suck the smaller bits of ice up his nose as he starts to seethe -- “still singing with your Nude Erections fag friends this year?” And thank god the assface is far enough from him that he doesn’t actually touch Noah when he jerks his hips in demonstration of what he obviously thinks a guy should do with his nude erection -- proof in itself that the douche hasn’t gotten laid yet -- because if Rossner’d touched him? Noah might have actually killed him.
“Fuck off,” Noah growls, hocks back slushy and saliva and spits as close as he can to the side of the dickhead’s face without getting flat out busted for it. Rossner’s eyes widen, bulge a little, and before he can do anything, Noah’s shoved him into the wall, fist pulled back in a clear threat, and when Rossner’s hand unclenches around the empty slushy cup, when the styrofoam falls flat and hollow against the floor, it’s almost satisfying.
He can feel the eyes of everyone around them, the crowd that always gathers, that watches and waits in this fucking place, waiting to pounce on the loser, the winner, whoever -- he can feel them watching, catches pale skin and straight hair out of the corner of his eye, and for reasons unknown he lets his grip slip a little, lets his hand fall and lets Rossner fall too -- he hadn’t realized he’d had the bastard up off of the floor like that, kicking his ankles out like a little girl.
“What’s wrong, Puckerman?” he hears Rossner say, a little out of breath; feels his fingers dig into his palms as he tries to walk away; tries, because he can’t get suspended again, he can’t get expelled, he can’t get sent to fucking juvie; “Those fairy choir kids cut your dick off? Your balls shrivel up from singing like a queer?” He hears snickering, and not just from behind; he hears it from the sides, from the space in front of him he can’t even see, because he’s already spinning back around, already taking the step; “Can’t even--”
His fist is in that fucker’s face, catching him in the front teeth before he can even close his mouth around the next word.
“Got something to say?” Noah yells in Rossner’s face, drags him up bloody, but not too broken and throws him hard against the wall again; the laughter’s gone, and the gasp of their little audience is echoing; he grins as Rossner flinches away. “You say it to my face, bitch.”
He lifts him a little higher off the floor by the collar of his jersey, lets him fall hard on his ass before he turn again and really walks away, leaves a goddamn impression, even as his shoes stick, green and tacky to the floor.
It’s considerably less badass than he was hoping for, but whatever. He just throws a couple of extra growls at the rubberneckers he passes, covers the squelch of his sneakers with the sound.
He doesn’t see Hummel, hidden in the little niche with the drinking fountain, until the kid’s hands are on his bicep and his mind goes fucking blank. He thinks he might blink, like, twenty times before he realizes that there’s slushy stuck to the corner of his eye and it actually kind of hurts to do the blinking thing in the first place.
“Come on, Noah,” he hears Hummel say, all soft-like, girly, except he seems really close, and yeah, he’s kinda feminine, but Noah’s never noticed the way his jaw’s kind of hard, the way his Adam’s apple juts out when he swallows, runs critical eyes up and down Noah’s moss-tinged frame. “Your scalp’s going to turn green if you don’t get it out.”
And yeah, that’s a problem -- chick’s don’t usually dig guys with green mohawks. Or else... not slushy-green mohawks.
There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, but Kurt doesn’t stop there, and it’s weird, because Noah doesn’t think about asking questions, or stopping on his own -- he just follows, keeps his head down, tastes sweet lime on his lips and bites down hard on his tongue to keep it all in, whatever it all is.
He doesn’t really pay all that much attention to where they’re going, or where they stop: it’s the science hallway, he knows that, and once Kurt holds the door open and waves him into the last room on the left, he thinks that maybe he remembers having Earth Science freshman year here -- he might have actually gone to it once or twice, even, but now it’s looks like no one’s touched the room in ages, the counters are so caked with dust and what looks like that nasty gooey crap the teachers make them prep petrie dishes with.
So yeah -- fucking slushy.
“Sit,” Hummel tells him, voice low and rough, almost hidden by the scrape of the chair he drags toward the deep stainless-steel sink, digging ruts against the tiling on the floor. And it’s like Noah doesn’t even have a set of balls, really, because he just does it. Blinks against the lemon-lime stick that’s drying on his skin and goddamn sits like he’s told to.
Hummel’s got soft hands, he finds out; real soft hands, as he tips Noah’s head back by the line of his jaw and tests the water running from the spout as it sputters from disuse and shitty plumbing, and Noah doesn’t even move, doesn’t even breathe, and he thinks maybe he forgot running here, forgot sprinting for his fucking life, because his heart’s jumping like a goddamn jackrabbit, and the not-breathing thing’s starting to become an issue.
“Turn your head,” Kurt says, and it’s weird -- maybe just Glee infiltrating his brain -- but the tone it’s said in almost sounds like it matches, goes along with the water as it hits the metal basin, detoured where Kurt’s hand it guiding the spray closer to Noah’s head as he eases, tilts farther into it.
The water, of course. Not, like, Hummel’s hand.
But that’s before his eyes slide closed when Kurt’s palm slides across his scalp, teases the lines of corn-syrup from the skin and slowly rubs it from his hair, fingers slipping across his face where he got the worst of it off already, caked on his sleeve. Kurt pools water between his hands and lets it fall around his forehead, wash against his eyes to get the gunk off his lashes, and that’s why his eyes are closed, of course. That’s why.
Jesus, he used to be a good liar.
And then the breathing thing, it comes back quick and painful, short and dry in his lungs, just when Kurt stretches, gets real fucking close with his chest brushing Noah’s nose as he reaches for the paper towel dispenser and grabs, wipes the wetness from Noah’s face like Noah’s a fucking two-year-old, and fuck, but Noah doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t even stop it.
“There,” Hummel says, like it’s nothing, like Noah’s not real sure he’s going to pass out or kill something in the next ten seconds. And yeah, maybe -- probably -- it started before the slushy. Maybe it never had to really start. Maybe Noah needs to stop sitting on the couch when his mom’s watching those sappy made-for-TV romances on Oxygen -- maybe then he’ll stop sitting around thinking about things like endings and beginnings like a little bitch.
Hummel walks out first, Noah can’t see his face; and he’ll never know if Kurt saw the wood Noah’d sprouted by the time he was finished washing the corn syrup out of Noah’s hair.
Fuck.
__________________________
“Making up” is a pansy ass way of saying it, so no -- Noah did not “make up” with Finn after the whole Quinn deal. They’re cool now, though. Or else, cool enough.
And, he guesses, he kind of has to thank Kurt for the whole “cool” thing in general.
Not like Kurt did anything about it outright, but with Noah spending a good chunk of his summer in and out of the Hummel-Hudson household, it was a lot harder to avoid Finn on a regular basis. Mostly,
But it’s whatever, really; all he knows is that the new season’s started, and he’s got a place to hang after practice when Santana’s not putting out.
And yeah, Finn’s still his best friend. But that’s just details. Whatever -- like he said.
So basically, after school or glee or football, they crash at Finn’s, play Madden, chill out. Sometimes they watch OSU kick some ass, because Tressel’s got a hell of a lineup again this year; sometimes they flinch through the Browns being absolutely fucking terrible; sometimes Burt joins them, or Kurt stands behind the couch for a while and huffs at their abysmal taste in pastimes, and it’s generally better than going home and watching some dumbfuck show on Nickelodeon with his stupid sister, so he’s not complaining.
When Kurt stands right behind him, the soft material of his sweater close at the back of Noah’s head; when he leans his elbows on the back of the sofa so that Noah kind of feels the heat of breath when he sighs; yeah, he’s not fucking complaining.
__________________________
One time, Noah even gives in and plays some Halo, after Finn pops it in and tells him it’s pretty sweet; Noah’s pretty sure it’s dweeby, though, and he says as much as the game loads.
“That’s what I thought too, man,” Finn says as he flips through the menu screen and sets up the game mode. “I hadn’t played it before, but then Kurt had it, so I gave it a try, and it’s pretty badass. I mean, it’s a little nerdy, but yeah, s’good time.”
And it’s not half bad, Noah will admit, even after he’s had his ass handed to him. Sweet graphics, great explosions, and that Master Chief dude looks pretty awesome. And Jesus, but that Cortana chick’s tits.
“You should see Kurt, though,” Finn tells him, “he’s like a fucking Halo master, man. Whips me every freaking time.”
Noah finds himself wanting to see that, actually, so he goes out on a limb: “He around?”
“Probably,” Finn says, glances at the clock and rolls his eyes; “It’s seven, time for his moisturizing routine.”
Noah smirks, glances after Finn as he stands from the cushion he’d been sprawled over in front of the television and goes to call downstairs, a quick scream of Kurt’s name and a slam of the door.
“He won’t come up if he knows we just want him for this,” Finn explains before flopping back on the carpet and reaching with his crazy-long arms to grab for another controller. “Got to make him wonder if it’s something important.”
As if on cue, the basement door’s swinging open, and Noah’s glad he finished his pop and hadn’t grabbed for more Ruffles like he’d wanted to just a second ago, because he’s kind of choking on straight air as it is, and food really wouldn’t have made the whole breathing thing any easier.
Kurt’s face is flushed red from where he apparently had been rubbing in his whatever-girly-cream, and his eyes are wide as he glances around to figure out what was urgent enough to warrant him pausing from his regimen so suddenly that he, you know, couldn’t even bother to put a shirt on.
So yeah, about that breathing thing.
Noah swallows, and fuck, it’s not like he hasn’t seen a shirtless dude before, because he plays fucking sports, right, they all get dressed together, he accidently gets an eyeful of someone’s junk at least once a day, and it’s just what happens, no big deal.
But... motherfucker, Hummel’s lily-white, scrawny chest with the ribs showing and just that little bit of muscle at the abs is doing things to him that he doesn’t even know where to start in labeling in them as fucked, fucked, and ‘Holy shit, that’s FUCKED.’
“What did you need?” Kurt asks, and he folds his arms across himself, just below his pecs, and Jesus H. Christ, it’s so goddamned wrong that’s Noah’s mouth is dry like a desert, but there is it.
“Halo,” Finn grins, dopey and hopeful, like it’s an olive branch, because they’re still a little weird with each other, even Noah can tell that much; and Kurt’s rolling his eyes and walking back down the stairs when Finn calls out after him.
“Noah doesn’t think you can beat him!”
The footsteps down the stairs pause, and Kurt’s head pops back up around the doorjamb.
“Is that true?” he asks, eyes narrowed at Noah, who shrugs, because it’s not like he’s got a better plan, and while the part of him that wants Hummel to go get a fucking shirt on is loud and obnoxious and desperate in his brain, there’s a louder and bitchier part that wants to see that shit again. Like, right now.
Loud and bitchy wins the day, because Hummel’s back up the stairs in record time, settling on the couch and crossing his legs, hugging a throw pillow to him and covering most of his skin, but Noah knows what’s behind it, now, and that’s... distracting.
“I’ve got ten minutes to spare before I have to exfoliate,” he informs them pointedly as he activates his controller and eyes them both up shrewdly. “We should be done by then.”
Finn chuckles, and switches them from campaign to versus.
Kurt hangs them both out to dry with a good three minutes to spare.
__________________________
Noah comes by a lot of things honestly.
He gets his height from his mom’s side, though not from his mom; it skipped her. He gets his sarcasm from his dad’s dad, who he’s never met, but his mom assures him that it’s true. He has his grandma’s smile, and he can see that. He’s got his granddad’s hair, which is why he shaves it.
And his ability to make excuses for the things he does in order to avoid his own feelings on just about everything, and his capacity for basically denying reality in general, comes from his mom. For her, it was a defense mechanism, after his dad split. For Noah, though, it’s kind of just second nature.
You seriously cannot blame him for this shit.
See, okay, it’s like this: he’s at Finn’s, because that’s where he usually is. He gets the mail, not because he’s a nosy fuck, but because, contrary to popular belief, he can be polite when he wants to, and he’s walking up the drive anyway, and Finn’s too much of a failure at life in general to even think about doing his mom the favor, so Noah’s gonna do it for him, because bros get each other’s backs like that.
And it’s not that he’s snooping, or looking for anything in particular; it’s mostly just that he’s looking, you know, with his eyes -- not something he can really turn off, you know -- and so he really just sees it by accident, the big shiny envelope with the printed-on pictures of prep boys in jackets, with the big red lettering and the metallic gold seal on the back with an eagle or a coat of arms or some shit and a return address for that Dalton Academy place where the rich kids go.
And it’s addressed to a Mr. Kurt Hummel.
Noah leans against the kitchen counter as Finn makes Kool-Aid, because the crazy kid’s like five years old underneath his massive teenage disguise, drops everything but the Dalton envelope onto the table and stays where he is, staring at it, as Finn dumps his first attempt down the sink because he forgot to add sugar, and makes another packet of the stuff instead of being a normal person and just adding the goddamn sugar to the first batch.
Noah never really understood how Finn managed to survive in the world on a daily basis; just another wonder of the universe, really.
Finn’s pouring himself a glass of his second-round with the drink powder when Kurt strolls through the door, dressed in something that looks like a dress and a sweater and has a belt and is purple -- bright fucking purple -- but that’s not really the important point, because Noah’s still got the envelope in his hand, and he’s really not sure how he’s going to manage to say what he wants to say about it, when he has absolutely no idea what it is he wants to say in the first place.
“Here,” he ends up just kind of shooting his arm out as Kurt walks by him to grab for the pitcher of iced tea in the fridge and blocking his path with the envelope in his hand. Kurt looks at him strangely, one eyebrow raise in that little arch thing he does as he takes the thing and looks at it, a kind-of-smile curving around his lips and lighting his eyes as he tells Noah thanks and slides a fingers under the seal, walking out of the kitchen without his iced tea.
Noah really does not like that kind-of-smile thing that Kurt just did.
So when they’re all kicking back on the couch watching Deadliest Catch, Burt on the far side, next to Kurt, who’s next to Noah, and then Finn in the chair, Noah may or may not kind of shift his weight in a way that makes his leg brush up against Kurt’s -- because the couch isn’t that big -- so he can look Kurt straight in the eye when he asks:
“So what’s the deal with that Dalton stuff, man?”
Kurt blinks at him, like he’s trying to figure him out, before he just kind of shrugs and hugs his arms around himself a little tighter. “Just trying to feel out my options,” he says. “They have a,” he swallows, and Noah thinks that’s fishy, the way he does it; “a lot of opportunities.”
And Noah doesn’t quite know what Kurt means by that, exactly, except that he really doesn’t like the idea of Kurt going anywhere that isn’t William McKinley.
He doesn’t like that idea at all.
So Noah does what he always does when he doesn't like something: he beats it into submission with his own fuckin’ hands. Which, in this case, means asking his mom about songs that a dude with Kurt’s voice would rock for a solo. Except yeah, okay, he tells her it’s for a girl, because he needs songs for Kurt’s voice, and it’s really just practical.
Within a week, Schuester’s on board with his idea for doing a medley of alternative female vocalists, and the guys and the girls are rocking out a wicked blend of Regina Spektor, Alicia Keys, and Brandi Carlile, with Kurt Hummel fucking owning the solo on a reworked rendition of Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now.’ And if that’s not a fucking opportunity, Noah doesn’t know what is.
And afterward, Kurt does a different kind-of-smile thing that Noah kind of likes.
Except by the end of the week, Noah’s getting his stuff together and heading home, because Finn’s conked out on the couch like a douche, and Noah’s got homework he should probably think about doing, and just as he’s passing the dining room, he catches Burt’s voice on a sigh: “It’s a lot of money, Kurt.”
And it’s probably rude, but when he glances in, catches a glimpse of Burt and Carole and Kurt all sitting around the table they only ever use for family dinner, he sees it laid open on the tabletop: the goddamn Dalton book that came in the mail.
“I know,” Kurt says, voice small, resigned before he sucks in a breath and tries one last time. “But it’s a no-tolerance policy, and it’s enforced, and I-” he stops, and his eyes go to the ground, and Noah, well, Noah slips out before they see him.
And maybe the next morning, he starts ramming a couple more fuckfaces into lockers when they start talking shit; maybe he serves a few extra detentions and an ISS as a result over the weeks that follow. And maybe he’s the one they start calling fag-ass and gay boy, but he can deal. He’s a tough nut to crack.
And maybe he’s doing this for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. Maybe he’s more than just invested in Glee Club’s future, maybe he wants more than just Kurt’s voice to stick around. Maybe he doesn’t have asthma or allergies and those weird breathing issues he’s been having aren’t really like, pneumonia or something. Maybe he doesn’t really have ADHD, and he just stares off in Hummel’s direction so often because, well, just because.
Maybe he’s in denial, sure. But maybe, it’s just as possible that he’s being totally self-aware, and it’s really just an itch-needing-scratching kind of situation.
He’s just not usually that lucky.
__________________________
Kurt and Finn still share the basement bedroom -- and Noah’s not above ragging on Gigan-teen about it all the fucking time.
Finn’s fishing around for a Sports Illustrated he’d wanted to show Noah something in, and Noah’s really just nosing around, killing time as Finn cusses his bed frame out when he bangs his head against it for the third time -- kid’s just not meant for crawling under the thing, really; he peers over the divider that separates Finn’s part from Kurt’s and smirks at the little table of girly face shit propped up by the wall. His mom, and hell, his sister Sara, too -- they’d both probably kill for that setup.
When he glances down, though, and sees the Dalton paperwork folded in half and shoved in the trash can next to the table -- between an empty bottle of eye gunk and a bunch of cotton squares -- he doesn’t even bother examining his motives for the whole Project Keep-Kurt-Around thing; he just counts that shit as a win.
__________________________
It’s kind of not at all planned when Noah asks Finn is he wants to hit a movie on Friday night. He’s just bored, and he’s doesn’t feel like getting buzzed, or playing Xbox, or staying at home, really, because there’s an iCarly marathon on, and he’ll be damned if he sits through that shit. He wants to get out for the evening, is all.
He doesn’t expect Finn to tell him he’s already hitting a late showing of Wall Street 2 with Kurt, ‘cause they both grew up watching the original VHS until the tape stretched and it was all screen-static and warped dialogue.
Which is so fucking lame it’s not even funny, and Noah basically wants to know why in the hell he’s friends with these people in first place, and he wants to know it right the fuck now.
And that’s exactly what he tells them, too, as he’s tagging along and paying for his overpriced ticket and a tub of popcorn that is, in fact, the equivalent of highway robbery, which in turn is equivalent to a full day’s work of cleaning pools in mid August.
Which is also the extent of his math skills, but whatever. That’s not even the point.
The popcorn’s kind of burnt, which pisses him off, and he doesn’t know how in the hell he ends up sitting between Finn and Kurt, when it was their little date he was crashing, but whatever. Finn shoves his big fucking hand into the tub and takes big fistfuls of popcorn every so often, to which Noah says: “You’re paying for T-Bell after this, man.”
But then there’s Kurt; Kurt who leans in like he doesn’t even know that he’s even doing it at all -- Kurt with slim hands and soft knuckles that brush against Noah’s wrists when he grabs for the popcorn without asking, takes one kernel at a time, so he’s always in the way, always grabbing, and Noah, well: Noah’s sitting up straight as a goddamn rail, tense and hot, even if the theater's cold with the A/C.
Every five fucking seconds, when Hummel decides he needs more goddamn popcorn.
By the end of the movie, Noah couldn’t actually tell you what happened in it, except that Shia LaBeouf was there without any Megan Fox to gawk at.
__________________________
Noah doesn’t know from experience, but he’s pretty sure this is exactly what people mean when they say they’re having an identity crisis. Or when they say they’re having a panic attack; he suspects that it’s the same difference.
Because it’s not like he’s a fucking virgin, and he’s not a fucking girl. He’s not supposed to be thinking about anyone like they’re special, like they’re the only person in a room or some rom-com bullshit. Noah Puckerman does not swing that way.
He doesn’t.
Except that he totally and completely goddamn does, and it’s fucking insane, and he feels like he’s going to die of a heart attack when Hummel comes out of the bathroom in just a fucking towel when Noah’s chilling at their place while Finn talks Rachel down from some drama freak out; he’s at home three hours later, and he can still count the jump of his pulse at his throat without touching, just by sitting still and waiting for his skin to shudder.
He takes a cold shower and shoots his load fast enough to be humiliating, and it’s when his body’s still tense, and his heart’s still running a marathon all up in his ribs, that he realizes this isn’t like everything else, isn’t like everything he’s done before.
He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, just that it’s new, and he sure as hell doesn’t like it, doesn’t recognize himself like this: strung out and mind-fucked like a little swooning bitch, or something.
So yeah: panic attack, identity crisis. Same shit, different name.
__________________________
Of course they rocked Sectionals, but Regionals is kind of a surprise.
To celebrate, Schue takes them down to Cleveland for some godawful cultural experience at Playhouse Square which really isn’t as bad as Noah figured it would be, but still. He’s obligated to bitch about it, if he plans on keeping his man card. Or something.
They catch an early performance of Billy Elliot at the State Theatre -- which is basically just as gay as Noah expected it would be, considering, but it’s pretty decent, nonetheless -- and they splurge on dinner at a bona-fide Michael Symon restaurant, which Noah can appreciate because his mom digs on Iron Chef, mostly because she’d never been much of a cook herself, and Noah likes to watch and laugh at the Chairman dude, ‘cause he’s funny.
Really, he is.
They plan on hitting the Rock Hall, but Mr. Schue got the hours wrong, and it’s closed by the time they make it down to the North Shore; Noah’s never been there, but Sam tells them all that it’s cool, but no big deal that they’ll have to skip it, so they’ve got a good twenty minutes to kill before the bus swings by and picks them up early.
Which sucks, because even if it’s, like, the end of March, it’s still really freaking cold. And well, Lake Effect’s a bitch, so there’s still a dusting of snow on the pavement leading up to the beach.
Noah cups his hands and blows hot into them, rubs them together and huddles closer into his coat, glances around and sees where Finn’s wrapped up around Rachel on the steps, and Sam’s all crazy ‘round Quinn where they’re leaning up against the glass panes of the building. Everyone else is milling about, mostly paired off, and he catches just about everyone between the crosswalk and the Hall itself, except one.
He spots Kurt by the bright yellow-ish color of the peacoat he’s wearing by some crazy designer person who’s name Noah can’t sound-out to get right, leaning against the railing down by the coast, kicking idly at the chains blocking off the frosty sand and the surf. He strides down toward the water, figuring he’ll just take a look at the horizon on the Lake, it’s probably kinda cool.
Which it is: the ice is all coming apart, mostly melted, but there are still some jagged edges, all crashed and broken in upon itself; but that’s not what he notices when he gets close enough to see. What he notices, first, is that Kurt’s shivering like a goddamned leaf.
Which, he automatically decides, is a pretty bad thing.
“Your Armani chick coat’s not real warm, I take it?” he asks, a little snide, because he can’t really help it -- it’s just how he is.
Kurt huffs at him, grins, but his teeth chatter. “Please. This is Burberry.”
“Whatever,” Noah shrugs, lets the motion loosen his own jacket from around his shoulders, and just, you know, does what his mama raised him to do.
He gives the girl -- or, you know, kinda girly guy -- his coat.
Kurt doesn’t do anything, at first. Just kind of stands there, just a little in font of Noah, a little to the side, swimming in the letterman jacket and tense, not really breathing -- Noah can tell because his shoulders aren’t moving, and there’s no cloud of breath puffing from his mouth every couple of seconds, and fuck, it really is that cold out here, because Noah’s already starting to feel the goosebumps on his arms, and the tingle in his spine as he fights the jitters, and he almost regrets giving Hummel his jacket at all until --
Until Hummel turns, and he’s all bright eyes and pouty frown, and his scarf’s wrapped up around his neck so that just the stark-white of his face is visible, all flushed at the cheeks and the tip of his nose at the cold, and Noah -- he’s gotten used to it being hard to breathe sometimes, when he looks at Hummel; he’s adapted to the dry-mouth thing by carrying a water bottle in his backpack, and he’s become a fucking pro at the ‘what goes through your crazy hormone-addled mind in the shower when you rub one out stays in the shower when you rub one out’ -- but this, whatever it is, this is different.
This, right here, is that panic attack feeling all tight in his gut and his chest and it’s a fucking problem, is what it is, because he can’t think when it’s like this, when nothing makes sense and he can’t talk himself down and he can’t make decisions and he does stupid shit like leaning in to Kurt, who’s warm, and leaning down to his mouth, which is all full and pink and wet and chapped and fuck -- and then pressing his goddamned lips to Hummel’s like it’s not an accident, like he actually fucking means it.
He cannot be trusted with his own well-being when it’s like this. He cannot be held accountable for what it is he does.
And Hummel doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, not when Noah comes close or touches or even when he backs away; Hummel doesn’t move. And there is a God, Noah’s real fucking sure of it now, because the bus gets there and saves his ass at just that moment, and he’s turning tail and slipping in next to Finn, because suffering Rachel’s death glare and stealing her seat next to her boyfriend is actually totally preferable to dealing with the wide-eyed, completely unreadable, vaguely unnerving stare that Hummel’s got trained on him just about now.
And Noah, well, he’ll take the creepy girl glower over thinking about the big gay kiss he just laid on Kurt fucking Hummel by a goddamn fucking lake, like in a freaking Hallmark channel movie.
Goddamnit.
Part One // Master Post // Part Three