Pairing: Quinn & Rachel both mentioned, mostly gen though
Timing: around "Wheels"
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Glee is copyright by whoever holds the copyright. I'm just writing a fic here, using the character, and I gain nothing by this save getting the muse out of my HEAD. No infringement is intended
Author's Note: It's my first Glee fic and therefore my first Puck fic. Also, has not been beta'd, all typos are my own.
The guitar once belonged to his father. So did the piano that sat in the front corner of the living room, now painted vivid purple to contrast the lime green walls, and buried under pictures of himself and his mom. It had been out of tune for at least five years now, and so many things held down the cover that he couldn't open it to get at the keys if he'd wanted to.
Not that he wanted to. He lied to himself and told himself that the piano didn't matter. Music didn't matter. The guitar sure as hell didn't matter.
Football mattered, because that was how he was getting out of this piece of shit town and making something of himself. He'd get out, be a star, have everything he ever wanted. More women than he could shake a stick at, any time of day or night, worshiping at his feet.
Yeah. That was what mattered.
Not the feel of piano keys under his fingertips, the way they danced when he touched them, smoky melodies singing out as hammer struck string. Not the memories of sitting on this bench watching his father's fingers move, not the way his father had first shown him where to place his five-year-old hands that could barely reach from key to key.
Not the way Rachel had accepted him as just this Jewish guy to her Jewish girl, or the way she whimpered softly in his arms with those earnestly virginal kisses that set his blood boiling. Not the way he weirdly hadn't wanted to steal her virginity away and take that hunger and innocence from her, no matter how much he said he wanted into her pants.
Not Quinn, who blew hot and cold and sometimes looked at him like she knew what he was thinking, even when he didn't know himself. Not Quinn who was his best friend's girlfriend and the best fuck he'd ever had. And God knew, Quinn's baby didn't matter. His baby. They were his family, so how could they matter?
Family never mattered. He'd learned that early on.
He reached out, fingers ghosting over the top of the piano. Purple. What the hell was his mom thinking when she did that? Probably something the interior design guy had suggested, before she fucked him on the bed she used to share with his dad. Never paint a piano; they're not good for anything after that. Ruins the wood so they can't stay in tune. The only thing that his dad had left behind that was worth anything any more was that damned guitar.
He had time before his sister got home, time before he had to feed her dinner, make sure she got her homework done and everything was okay, because Mom wouldn't be home for hours yet. He sank down onto the sofa, pulling the guitar onto his lap. Shoving earbuds into his ears, he flicked the iPod on and tuned to the playlist he'd ripped from old bootleg tapes of club performances and the single piece of vinyl that had been recorded in a studio. Soft husky sounds invaded his ears, piano first, the familiar sound of jazz seeping into him.
He'd teethed on this, dozing in clubs because he was too young to stay awake and Dad had taken him along to the gig. His fingers found the melody, teasing it from the guitar strings. He wasn't his dad. He wouldn't run off. Heart poured into the sweet jazz sounds, playing along with a father he hadn't seen in a decade.
This was all he had left.