Poetry in Motion (Ten Things I Hate About You)
Will had chosen the assignment for the kids in a heated moment of inspiration, truly believing that his idea of turning poetry into song was a winner.
Now, after a strangely chilling version of a love poem from Brittany ("Puck, enough with the Cumming euphemisms!") and a seriously awkward half-sung, half spoken rendition of Pablo Nerudo by Finn to a dewy-eyed but critical Rachel, Will was second-guessing his initial confidence in the exercise. Santana and Puck's duet would've been great, had the lyrics (a rap song transposed into a dirty ballad) not been so obscene.
He stopped them in the middle of "Maybe it's time to put this pussy on ya sideburns." What? He made it a point not to listen mainstream radio, but he always had the horrible luck to stumble upon that stupid song more than once while trying to find the classic rock stations.
He gave Tina's dummy raven prop a wary eye, internally slapping himself in the face. Repeatedly. "…Um. Kurt!" he said, clapping his hands with enthusiasm he didn't really feel anymore. "How 'bout you go next?"
The unusually quiet boy who was even more unusually dressed (straight-cut jeans that actually looked like they were from a collection designed for men; a shirt that wasn't form-fitting or sparkly; no embellishments, add-ons or accessories) murmured an agreement. He stepped down the bleachers like a man headed for the gallows, and Will began hoping against hope that they wouldn't be treated to something as distressingly similar as the Kurt-gone-country fiasco.
"For this assignment, I decided to make a song out of the poem featured in Ten Things I Hate About You. I hope you… well, I hope you don't hate it." There was scattered chuckling at Kurt's play-on-words, but no one laughed for long in the face of the unenthused, morose-looking diva.
When he nodded to one of the back-up guitarists, Will briefly wondered why Kurt didn't ask Puck for his talents. The two boys had gotten closer since Kurt got back from Dalton, hadn't they? He glanced over at the other boy in question, taking in Puck's confused and taken-aback blinking (a look Will frequently saw from the boy during Spanish class). Will thought he even saw a bit of hurt in Puck's now-stormy look.
Kurt shut his eyes as the shaggy-haired accompanist, one Will couldn't place a name to (he wasn't a Spanish student), opened with a few gently-strummed chords. Everyone in the room stopped murmuring and shifting as the rich acoustics filled the air.
When Kurt opened his eyes, it was like opening a battered storybook. And when he started singing it was like Will could hear the memories carried on Kurt's soft soprano voice.
I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair.
Let it be known that Kurt walked back into McKinley with flair, not fear. After all, with Karofsky gone (sent to live with a relative in Cleveland) and Azimio kept in line by Coach Bieste and her strict no-bullying/no-slushie-tossing/no-talking-or-looking-or-breathing-in-Kurt's-proximity contract, Kurt wasn't nearly as threatened as he'd been the last time in McKinley. He wore his Michael Kors with relief, feeling like himself again in designer wear.
Puck smirked when Kurt sat beside him on his first day back in glee. "Miss my guns, Hummel?"
"You wish," Kurt scoffed, turning a delicate shade of pink in the stifling air of Puck's raw and unhindered sexual appeal.
"You wish you were underneath me, I bet." Puck retorted, leaning back in his chair and making his leg brush against Kurt's. Kurt pulled his foot away as if Puck had set him on fire but tried to cover his nerves by folding his legs together in a move he hoped looked natural. Puck's unrelenting smirk said otherwise.
"The last time I was underneath you, Puckerman, was when you tried forcing me into a swirlie," Kurt snapped. Puck looked remorseful for all of point-five seconds before he turned his sexy-swag back on. Of course. "Now buzz off, please. You're irritating me with your very presence."
"You were the one who decided to sit next to me, Kurt." Puck scoffed.
"I took the only seat left, Noah," Kurt mocked. "Suck on that."
"How's about I let you suck on something else?" Puck waggled his eyebrows, laughing as Kurt choked on his saliva.
"Shut up Puck," Kurt hissed. "Before I shave that horrible excuse of a haircut off right here, right now."
"Shut up Puck," said boy mocked Kurt's voice in a high-pitched squeak that earned him an elbow to the side. "Ow, you catty bitch!"
They erupted into a restrained war of pokes and prods and subtle slaps, only reluctantly relenting when Schue told them to give it a rest.
"I hate you," Kurt muttered through his clenched teeth as Puck tried to ruin his hair without grabbing Mr. Schuester's attention.
I hate the way you drive my car...
Kurt didn't know how Puck ended up in the driver's seat of his Navigator-hell, Mercedes wasn't even allowed to drive Kurt's baby! He distantly assumed it had something to do with the hand shoved inside the hem of Kurt's chinos, stroking and grabbing and squeezing just so that Kurt could barely breathe, let alone think of all the consequences of letting Puck drive his baby like he was trying to win a Mario Kart race.
"Fffu-Puck! Red… stop!" Kurt stammered, gripping the armrest tight. Puck muttered something along the lines of "Just a suggestion" but pulled the car to a stop anyway.
Kurt figured he should feel relief over their lives being spared or anger fueled by Puck's manhandling of his beloved car, but all he could manage was something halfway between irritated amusement and surprise that Puck actually listened to him, for once.
Kurt fell back against the headrest, groaning as Puck invested more attention in jacking him off to the rhythmic beat of the song playing on the radio. He glanced over and saw a middle-aged woman openly staring at them, disgust and shock clear as day on her face. She pointed at Kurt, mouthing something he could only guess as she reached over to pet a rosary dangling from her rearview mirror.
Before she had a chance to bombard them with her glove-box holy water, Puck zipped down the road.
"I. Hate. You," Kurt hissed, his face a mortified shade of red when Puck just laughed.
I hate it when you stare.
Kurt reread question number three for the umpteenth time, struggling to comprehend the diagram on the paper but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the feeling of someone watching him.
"Puck," Kurt said evenly, gripping his number-two pencil tight. "I didn't invite you over to stare at me like a creeper."
"When you asked me to chill, I expected to get some, not sit around being bored while you do your homework like a good little boy," Puck mocked. His ticked-off expression melted into a smirk that made Kurt scowl and pop a boner. "You wanna be my good little boy tonight, Hummel?"
"Keep dreaming, Fabio." Kurt snapped, mentally cursing himself for wearing skinny jeans that day. "Now let me do my work. If you behave, maybe we can do something."
Kurt sighed and turned back to his work, but he felt like taking the pencil's point to his eyes instead. He felt so bone-tired despite the fact he wasn't suffering under Dalton's overtaxing academia anymore. He sighed and worried at his lips, abusing the peeling skin there. He chalked it up to winter depression, resolving to spend some time with the lightbox he kept stowed away in his closet.
He heard bedsprings groan and rolled his eyes as Puck hopped off Kurt's bed and padded over to where he was working. Puck plopped himself into the space beside Kurt on the sofa.
Kurt tensed, waiting for the boy to say or do something-anything at all. After a few moments, Kurt huffed and chucked his math homework in the direction of the coffee table. It wasn't like he was bound to make much progress with Puck staring at him like that. "What, Puck? I'm busy!"
Puck just sort of gave him a once-over. It was strangely un-sexy, like Puck wasn't checking him out, but assessing him. Kurt minutely shifted away, his skin prickling at such intense scrutiny. Puck reached out with one hand and let the pad of his thumb rest over the seam of Kurt's lips. The saltiness of Puck's finger stung wherever Kurt had bitten the skin off his lips.
"What?" Kurt asked, softer than before.
Puck just shook his head, silent as he moved his hand off Kurt's mouth. At least he wasn't looking at Kurt like he was a puzzle anymore.
Kurt couldn't really find it in himself to care when ten, twenty minutes passed without question number three getting solved. He struggled to catch his breath after he came, using the armrest as support as Puck licked and teased the head of his sensitive dick. Kurt hissed and tried to get Puck to lay off but he sort of expected it when Puck just smirked and opened his mouth wider, stubbornly suctioning those stupidly attractive "whore lips" around Kurt.
"I effing hate you," Kurt moaned halfheartedly, covering his face with a throw pillow.
Will couldn't help feeling like he was intruding on something, some private moment of soul-bearing that didn't belong to him. He frowned and clasped his hands together on his lap, silently gauging Kurt's peers' reactions to his song. Tina and Mercedes kept shooting each other indiscernible looks of concern in-between trying to catch Kurt's attention with their sympathetic eyes. Quinn was frowning and leaning into a quiet Sam's half-embrace while Brittany, sitting on Quinn's left, kept stroking her hands while nodding her head, but not to the beat of the song. Will wondered if she was off in la-la land again.
Santana looked spaced-out, but for a different reason: her expression was vacantly sad, the look close to the forlorn heartache clear as day on both Rachel and Finn's faces, the former of whom kept trying to catch the latter's eyes with her own. Tina held Mike's hand, but Will could see her other hand discreetly intertwined with Artie's. And Puck-
Will frowned. Puck would've looked uncaring and laid-back, if it wasn't for the clenched fists and the twitch of his jaw. And his eyes… Will could see anger and guilt at first, but he wasn't sure if that was all. He couldn't help but think Puck sort of looked like Will had felt when Rachel asked him to duet with her: uncomfortably shoved under the spotlight of someone else's feelings.
Suspicion stirred in Will's gut as he turned back to watch Kurt, analyzing the sort of… defeatedposture and drawn features with new eyes. "I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme." Kurt grinned without humor. He stuttered on the next lines, his voice noticeably cracking.
I hate it when you lie.
Fighting was a frequent in their "relationship." Kurt didn't expect anything less, but some tiny part of him hoped it could change-that Puck could change. It was hilariously unreasonable of him to think he could tame Puck's infamous sexual prowess, especially when Quinn, a girl Puck had supposedly been in love with, had failed at the very same thing.
Kurt tried to tell himself he was fine with being in an open relationship, but even he couldn't believethat load of bull. He'd been jealous of Quinn back when he held a torch for Finn. With Puck certifiably not-straight, after touching and being touched by the guy, Kurt knew he was more than a little attached to the idea that their… thing was more than what it actually was.
"You screwed her!" Kurt hollered, visibly shaking with anger. "You fucked her in broad daylight-in front of Jacob Ben fucking Israel! And he took pictures that he posted on his blog-" he gripped his cell phone tight, glad that the screen had darkened so he couldn't clearly see said picture on the screen. "Yet you expect me to believe that you weren't fucking her up against your Puckinator when you were supposed to be meeting up with me at the movies?"
He was panting, he was so viciously riled-up. Yet even in the momentary pause of Kurt's tirade, Puck didn't even speak up to try to argue his case. He had his arms folded in front of his chest. He couldn't even meet Kurt's gaze like a real man, and wow, that made Kurt see red.
"Not owning up to the fact that you're a slut? Never pegged you to be a fucking coward, Noah Puckerman!" He should've known that'd hit a nerve, but he couldn't even find it in himself to care when Puck flew out of his seat and slammed Kurt up against the wall of the choir room. He met Puck, glare for glare, hissing out a litany of "I hate you, I wish you were dead, I hate you" until he couldn't anymore, because Puck's mouth was pressing against his in bruising, passion-driven force.
Sometimes, Kurt hated himself.
I hate it when you make me laugh...
Kurt lay spread-eagle on his bed, face-down and resolutely ignoring Puck's constant poking. "Ku-urt, entertain me," he whined.
"I entertained you already, give me a break."
"But I'm here for your entertainment!" Puck screeched in a tragic falsetto, doing his best to bump and grind against Kurt in their awkward position.
Kurt reluctantly snorted. "Oh my god, never try to sing Adam again."
"'s not my fault it's been in my head all day," Puck argued. "You're the one who put it on my stupid playlist."
"Hey, did I complain when I saw the playlist you made for me?" Kurt lifted a foot and tickled the crack of Puck's ass with his toes. "I ought to have kicked you to the curb for the musical travesty that wasBad Touch."
"That song's classic!" He could hear the grin in Puck's voice without turning his head to look. The other boy ground against Kurt, singing, "You and me baby ain't nothin' but mammals so let's do it like they do- fuck!"
Kurt giggled as Puck fell off the bed and onto the floor, laughing even harder when the other boy started whining about getting rug-burn on his dick. It degenerated until Puck kept saying whatever euphemism came to mind just to keep Kurt guffawing and snorting embarrassingly loudly, gripping his aching sides as tears rolled down his face.
"I hate you," he wheezed in-between laughs.
Even worse when you make me cry.
Tears rolled down his face, despite the fact anyone could stumble into the boys' bathroom and see him sobbing like some heartbroken little girl.
Why was he doing this to himself? It wasn't like Puck was his only option-Blaine still kept in touch, Blaine constantly dropped hints that maybe Kurt could accompany him to the opening of an art gallery in Dayton. But no, Kurt found himself relentlessly clinging to the idea of a relationship with a changed Puck that, short of a miracle, would never exist.
He had tried laying off Puck, just once. Maybe it would make Puck see that he needed Kurt, maybe Puck would finally realize how much Kurt meant to him and drop the girls-on-the-side and stop talking about starting up his pool-cleaning business that summer so he could be in a serious relationship with Kurt.
Maybe Puck would care.
Kurt couldn't see anything but Puck making out with Santana against the lockers, grinding up on her in the hallway right next to Kurt's locker. Puck caught sight of Kurt, watching him for a moment before shutting his eyes and blatantly swiveling his groin against the moaning Cheerio beneath him.
He hiccupped on a particularly violent sob, yanking several moist towelettes out of his messenger bag. Kurt glared at his reflection, dabbing at his eyes. "I hate you," he seethed, partially to Puck, mostly to himself.
Kurt stopped right in the middle of "cry," his breathing labored as he looked to the ceiling in an attempt to keep the tears in his eyes from falling. The guitarist came to an awkward stop after a few moments, looking around the room for someone to give a cue. After another beat, Will sighed and went to stand, but Kurt struggled to finish his performance. The boy hastily started back up again, trying to match Kurt's out-of-time, forced singing until he gave up and let his chord die off.
"But mostly I hate the way I don't-I don't hate you," Kurt forced himself to sing, his eyes furiously blinking as he resolutely stared at the fluorescent overhead lights. Unnoticed, Will stood and slowly moved closer.
"N-not even close…" Mercedes had a hand pressed to her mouth. Tina had her dummy-raven in a death grip.
"Not even-" Brittany was muttering something to herself, a bothered expression on her face. "Not even a little bit…"
"Not even…" Rachel gasped in time with Kurt. "N-not…" Santana was wincing now, turned away from Kurt as if looking at him physically pained her to do so. Will carefully laid a hand on Kurt's shoulder, jumping back when Kurt stubbornly shook him off with a frustrated cry.
Everyone watched, uncomfortably tense, as Kurt stomped away from the center of the room. He walked right past his belongings on his empty chair, going for the door only to come to a stop beside Puck's chair. He didn't turn to look at Puck; Puck didn't glance up from the staring match he'd been having with his shoes for most of the performance.
Kurt punched the space of wall just above Puck's head, snarling out "I fucking hate you!" before executing a storm-out Rachel could only hope to emulate.
The room was painfully stifled, and Will could barely breathe in all the tension. But it was his job, he told himself. He cleared his throat to dislodge the frog that had settled there. "Alright, guys. Um. Anyone else want to go next?" The room was silent. Will slumped, even if he expected nothing less. "Right. Let's, uh… Rachel! Do you have any suggestions for our set list?"
No one stopped Puck when he stood up and quietly left.