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sevenswellsTitle: The Art of Love and Cooking
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sevenswells
Champion betas:drgaellon and guilshad
Rating: Hard R for this part. Last part will (finally!) be NC-17.
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Puck/Kurt
Warnings/Spoilers: Food porn, and then some actual porn after that. No spoilers because it's an AU in which glee club didn't happen.
Comments: So in this chapter we learn more about Puck's life in France, this whole part is kind of angsty, I think. We also reach one of the main "knots" of the story, so some heavy revelations are made, I hope you'll still find this part okay, though. NGL, I feel a little anxious about it right now. I've put a lot of work into it as usual, but now I just don't know anymore. WiPs bring out the worst in me, jeez. =___=;;
Word count: 4 434 w.
A few hours later, Puck was standing in the pantry of the Marlowes' kitchen, taking inventory. It was a petty, boring task, but unavoidable. He usually did it with Gill, but he gave her permission to bail out this time. After the picnic, she had looked like she was about to pass out from exhaustion. Puck wondered if she knew she was pregnant, but then again, she'd refused to drink the alcohol, so she had to know. He typed on his smart phone, noting a few missing items they would have to purchase the following day, then realized he was punching the keys down harder than necessary. He thought he knew why she hadn't told him, and found he was immensely irritated by that. He'd been aware Gill had been dating the same guy for quite some time now, though Puck had never actually met him, but he wasn't as inept as his sous-chef thought he was. He could conceive that something of this nature was bound to happen at some point; why Gill would coddle him through the announcement of her leaving the team was beyond him.
But it was possible that she wasn't telling him because she thought he had issues with babies and pregnancy in general. Good God. He'd been an idiot to tell her about Quinn. It wasn't like he was traumatized, for fuck's sake! Why did women always have to make such a big deal out of procreation and what was generally going on inside their lady parts? Last he checked, spawning heirs wasn't their only job anymore. Why couldn't they move the fuck on? He did, at any rate.
He now thought of it as a sorry mistake, one of many that belonged to another time, another Puck. He didn't have regrets, not exactly. Puck had respected Quinn's decision to keep the baby; he'd let her lie to Finn, Puck's best friend at the time, let her manipulate Finn and make him believe he was the real father.
Sometimes he did wonder how Finn and Quinn were doing nowadays, whether they were still together and taking good care of the baby. He also wondered if she'd ever told Finn the truth. Probably not. She'd sworn she'd take the secret to her grave, and Puck believed it, as steadily as he believed in the rising sun. Quinn had always had that kind of strength in her, a core made of steel, venom and determination, behind the teary doe eyes and soft quivering lips. She'd laughed in Puck's face when he said he wanted to be responsible and a good father to their child.
He hadn't been angry at her. The bulk of his anger had been directed at Finn ̵ mainly because Finn had been dumb enough to believe Quinn and swallow her bullshit whole. It had driven Puck mad. Sometimes he'd wanted to burst and shout out the truth in his friend's stupid face, to make him realize what was so blatant, right under his fucking nose, Can't you see what a fool we're making of you? Can't you see us lying to you?
Maybe the truth was that this dirty little secret was too heavy for Puck to bear. It was then that Puck and Finn's friendship had begun to slowly fester and deteriorate ̵ Puck because of his bitterness, and Finn because of his fatherly duties that transformed him into a grown-up, with worries that didn't belong in high school and that he couldn't really share with Puck.
On the plane to Paris, Puck had made the decision to leave it all behind, once and for all. And his life in Paris had been enough of a bitch to let him keep that promise to himself without too much effort.
The French capital wasn't a very forgiving city. And as if things weren't hard enough for him at that time, life there wasn't cheap, either. At the end of his first year, as Puck was seriously starting to run out of money despite Mr Trevino's and his mom's financial help, he heard about a quick way for students like him to make lots of cash: grape harvesting in the south of France. The job only lasted a few weeks and apparently required a lot of physical endurance, but was extremely well-paid. Because it started right after the summer holidays and ended just before the beginning of the university year, it appealed to a lot of international students. That's where Puck met Gill, in a small vineyard near Bordeaux. She used to be even scrawnier, with longer, bushy fire-colored hair that she wore in an unkempt bun hanging like a weird bird's nest over her nape. She was the first American he'd run into in over a year, and he was incredibly grateful and relieved to be finally able to speak in his own language. They bonded quickly, and while they were picking grapes, she told Puck about her French grandfather on her mother's side, whom she called Pépi, short for Pépé Pierre.
Pépi had been a real gourmet, and he'd tried to pass on his love of good food to his only grandchild, who had unfortunately been too young at the time to grasp the subtleties of haute cuisine. On the occasion of one his 70th birthday, Gill's parents had decided to offer Pépi a meal for two at Paul Bocuse's restaurant, undeniably one of the best in the world, and the old man had chosen seven-year-old Gill to accompany him. The little girl had seen her grandfather deeply moved by the food on his plate, savoring each bite like a renewed miracle, while she'd picked at hers, decidedly not getting what was so fabulous about it. He had smiled gently at her, and assured her that some day, she would. That day, little Gill had sensed that she had failed some test, even though her beloved grandfather had never let his disappointment show in any way.
As a consequence, many years after Pépi passed away and after Gill and her family moved back to America, where the young girl had spent her adolescence, Gill had made a plan: she would come back to France and taste Paul Bocuse's cuisine again. She'd decided the money she gathered from the grape harvesting would be invested in that one, single, very expensive meal, and then she would finally know whether she could understand haute cuisine or not, whether her grandfather's prophecy had been right. Puck liked her story, and since he was at a crossroads at that particular point of his life, he told her that, if she didn't mind, he wanted in. His studies in Paris were depressing him deeply and he'd started to have doubts about his vocation as a chef; he thought maybe he could find inspiration in that meal too. Gill gracefully accepted him as a companion in her little odyssey, and it was settled.
Soon after the harvesting job was done, they rented a shared hotel room in Lyon and made reservations for a table at Le Bocuse. The night before the day of The Meal had felt almost religious to both of them, like a wake of sorts.
"What if," Gill had whispered to Puck, as if afraid some malicious god would hear them and thwart their plans, "it's not all that? What if it's just food, and nothing more? What if I still don't get it? What if you can't find your answer either?"
"Well then," Puck had whispered back, "I guess you'll just have to somehow let your grandfather know he'd been wrong, and then you'll have to live with that. As for me, I guess I'll have to go back to America and find some other goal in life. Maybe become a plumber. Like Mario."
"Thanks for nothing, jackass. That's really not helping," Gill had grumbled, turning to her side, and Puck had smiled in the dark, and they'd fallen asleep.
Puck had to admit, they got more than a little concerned when they approached the fugly building in Collonges that looked like some kind of cross between a manor and a circus tent, but the inside was okay, if still a little gaudy.
When the dishes arrived, and when they tasted their first few bites of food, Puck and Gill were so nervous that they couldn't speak. Their stomachs were knotted with fear and they couldn't appreciate the food, so it grew worse, tension and fear spinning out of control in a vicious circle. They kept throwing each other mortified, desperate looks across the table and still not a word could cross their lips. It was only when the maître d' approached them with concern written all over his face, asking if there was something wrong with the food, that they realized how ridiculous they were being, and both suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. When it died out, miraculously, the tension was also gone. Eventually, they reassured the maître d', and set about finishing their first course in a more peaceful state of mind, trying to enjoy the food for what it was, and not some kind of ultimate metaphor about their future.
And finally, finally, the magic happened. They were starting to get that it could never be "just food."
The dishes were incredibly simple, but executed to perfection; each product was brought to its pinnacle, its very essence.
Puck realized that was it. That was his “way of the samurai,” right there. Not the fancy tricks they were trying to teach him at his school in Paris that masked the flavor instead of bringing it forward. From this single meal, he got a clear vision, like a path laying itself out in his mind, that cooking wasn't about sleight of hand and a bit of razzle-dazzle: it was revealing, getting to the core of things, finding what they were about, what made them what they were, laying emotions bare, undiluted.
It was truth.
He didn't ask Gill what kind of answer she herself found in her food. In fact, they didn't speak much, but it was nothing like the stressed-out silence they'd shared before. They giggled from time to time over their glasses of wine, exchanging approving starry-eyed glances with each new element they tasted on their plate. Sometimes they wordlessly exchanged bites of food to let the other have a taste, and merely nodded in assent when they took the bites to their mouth and savored them.
That night, they had sex. It didn't mean anything; they were just high on what they'd eaten. It was playful and fun, and they both agreed in the morning that it was just a thing of the moment, nothing to it. It might have been the first time that Puck was sincere about remaining "just friends" with a girl he'd slept with.
Puck and his future sous-chef parted ways, then: she wanted to start culinary school back in America, while he made the decision to quit his Parisian school and transfer as soon as possible to the Paul Bocuse Institute in Lyon.
The Institute held a reputation that matched its prestigious founder's, and getting in wasn't easy. After many trials and interviews, Puck was put on a waiting list. That had left him feeling down for quite a while, and he didn't reply to any of the e-mails Gill sent him to tell him to stop moping and that "waiting list" didn't necessarily mean "end of the world." It turned out she was right: by some miracle, the list cleared rapidly, and he finally was in. The day he received his acceptance letter, he celebrated by preparing himself a hamburger topped with seared foie gras, as if to spite the Parisians who used to make fun of his American background. It tasted delicious, like heaven in a bun, if a bit greasy.
Lyon was a fantastic city, with all the advantages of Paris, but without the incredibly rude inhabitants and stressful urban life. It was also ridiculous how comfortable he felt at the Institute, compared to his previous school, mostly because he could speak English if he wanted, and he wasn't the only American anymore. And also because of Olivier.
It started out as a bromance, mingled with a bit of hero-worship on Puck's part. It began like this: one day they'd had to work in pairs, and Puck had been paired with Olivier. As simple as that.
Soon after, neither wanted to work with anybody else. They were always found together. Olivier looked out for Puck, showed him the ropes when he was lost or confused: all in all, he acted pretty much like the big brother Puck had never thought he wanted to have. Puck gradually discovered that Olivier was unexpected, unpredictable: he didn't follow any cliché, didn't fit into any known category. He didn't look and act like Puck's definition of cool, and yet Puck ended up wishing he could be more like him.
He was ridiculously tall, taller than Puck. He had hands with long nimble fingers (boy, would Puck learn to worship those; the things Olivier's fingers could do to him), and slim wrists that he adorned with silver bracelets when he wasn't working in the kitchen ̵ and he still pulled that off as manly; hands that could gut a fish as quickly as they could roll a joint, hands that flew around and fluttered expressively when he spoke. But Olivier's hands weren't what Puck had first noted when he met the young man, since Olivier's most striking feature really were his deep blue eyes, with lashes as dark as the mop of shaggy hair that topped his head, eyes so big that they seemed engaged in a territorial war with the black facial hair that covered Olivier's face, and the only thing that seemed to prevent both sides from winning definitely over the other were the high cheekbones that separated them like trenches. Those eyes could have made him look soft and feminine too; but if it was true that eyes were the mirror of the soul, then Olivier's soul must have been as sharp as a razor. Puck could feel that dangerous edge in Olivier, in the young man's intense behavior, the way he laughed louder than everybody else, the way he got into colossal rows with his teachers over stuff that barely mattered. But Puck couldn't get past his admiration for him, because Olivier was a badass, because he was true to himself, Puck thought, because he could tell the whole world to fuck off and still... Olivier had singled Puck out, offered him his friendship, and somehow cared for him.
It was only a matter of time before Puck's admiration turned into something more.
It happened during summer holidays, when Olivier had invited Puck on a surfing trip in Bastia, Olivier's home town. One night, in the cheap apartment they'd rented together, right after a dinner of fish that they'd grilled on the balcony, Olivier had turned his intense stare on Puck, looking him right in the eye when he said, "So you wanna do this, or what?" with an expression that said Puck had better not start acting dumb.
It didn't take more than a few seconds before Puck made his decision.
Puck used to be homophobic. Bisexuality used to mean "pussying out on full-time gay" for him, and "full-time gay" just wasn't acceptable. He liked pussy. He loved boobs.
And yet he dove directly into sucking Olivier's cock ̵ no petting, no kissing, no questions asked. Looking back, maybe that had been a mistake. But he hadn't wanted hesitant and shy at the time, he'd never been one for compromises.
"That was pretty lousy," Olivier said, huffing a breathy laugh after he'd come on Puck's lips, "so let me show you how it's done, young padawan."
And with that Puck was sent spiraling into the craziest, most destructive relationship he'd ever had. Sexually, Olivier was into pretty weird shit, but he always made Puck come eventually, so the latter didn't find any reason to complain in that regard.
Emotionally, it took Puck a long time to discover that Olivier was wrecking him. Sometimes, what they had together, whatever it could be called, felt great ̵ although never in a lovey-dovey way ̵ sometimes it was pure exhilaration, and as much as that comparison was hackneyed, it did feel like a drug. And then everything frequently descended into pure hell, too ̵ Olivier was a natural-born mindfucker, and when he wanted, with the way he had with words and concepts, he could be the most vicious motherfucker on earth. Puck was put through such a roller-coaster-ride of highs and lows that sometimes he thought he was the one going insane. Then Olivier started missing classes, and on the days he decided to attend, his quarrels with his teachers were gradually getting out of hand. Finally, out of the blue, he told Puck they were through, and he never wanted to see his face again. By the next day, he'd disappeared. He left no trace, no note; it was like he'd vanished into thin air. The police eventually found out that his credit card had been last used in Vietnam, of all places, and then the trail had gone cold. There was no way Puck could know whether Olivier was still alive or dead. At some point Olivier's mother came around to reclaim her son's belongings. She insisted that she and Puck should talk, so they had coffee at a bar in Vieux Lyon. Puck didn't know if she was aware that he and her son had been fucking, so he let her do the talking, which was fine, since she only had one thing to tell him: Olivier was bipolar, and he'd been off his medication when he'd started acting crazy ̵ well, crazier than usual. So whatever he said or did during that time, Olivier's mother said, it wasn't really his fault. It wasn't him. That had barely consoled Puck, but at least then he understood why it had all gone so wrong, so suddenly. The guilt he'd felt was somehow alleviated a little, but not much.
The subject of Olivier still felt like an open wound to this day, and what Puck saw in Aurélien Marlowe made it worse. He was pretty sure Aurélien was bipolar, too, or at least had tendencies, and he couldn't help worrying for Kurt, especially after the show Aurélien had put on earlier. Even though he'd sworn he would keep himself out the couple's way, the situation had definitely changed, or at least Puck's consideration had, since now he was aware of what kind of crazy and dangerous shit Aurélien could pull ̵ but then again, since he'd had no news since then, maybe the bouldering had gone wrong and the mad fucker was dead. That thought led to another, very familiar one, and he pictured Olivier like he had pictured him many times, with a clarity that shocked him after so much time, lying dead, alone, somewhere in Vietnam, in imaginary landscapes borrowed from stock images that Puck had Googled because he'd had no idea what Vietnam was like.
He slowly released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Maybe he should find Kurt, and talk to him.
As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard a noise coming from the kitchen, and when he walked out of the pantry, he found a red-eyed Kurt staring back at him like a deer caught in headlights. He was standing near the fridge, clutching a chilled bottle of Evian as if Puck wanted to take it away from him.
"Um," Puck began. "Everything all right?"
Kurt's wide-eyed expression turned into a deep frown, then he exploded.
"You know what? No! It's not! Why on earth would you be here? Everywhere I turn, you're there, you're always there! Is there any moment I can have for myself where I can weep on the mess my life has become without you lurking around and seeing me at my weakest? You're doing this to mock me, aren't you? It's all on purpose, right? You act like you care about my well-being, and it's fucking annoying, because deep down I'm sure you're jubilating, 'oh look, the gay guy is crying like a girl, again.' Oh, how it must fit the opinion you've always had of me, stupid fucking pansy-ass wimp of a faggot loser, indeed. For Christ's sake, don't you have anything better to do?" he finished, as he slammed the Evian bottle down on the kitchen counter.
"I, huh, was in the pantry, I just... I needed to take inventory," Puck said, stupidly pointing behind him with his thumb, then holding up the smart phone in his hand as if it helped the justification.
"Oh, God," Kurt rolled his eyes and let himself drop down to the kitchen floor, his back resting against the cupboards. He hid his face in his hands.
"That was crazy talk," he said in a tired voice, partly muffled by his hands. Then he dropped both of them at once at his sides and he rolled his head against the cupboards so it was hanging sideways, making him look like a broken puppet. "Again. I'm sorry."
It suddenly occurred to him, that in all probability Kurt had to be upset about something to do with Aurélien, and a strange feeling knotted his stomach.
"Did... Kurt, did something happen to Aurélien?"
"Oh, I wish!" Kurt ranted. "That would have taught him a lesson, for once! But no such luck: he's back, safe and sound, since the rangers got enough back-up in time, and prevented those idiots from falling to their deaths. The worst part is that they let them go with no harsher punishment than a fine."
How weird was it that Puck felt relieved? He didn't even like the guy.
"So, he's okay?"
"Yes, he's with his friends now, they're having a party, hurray."
"Why aren't you with him?"
"Don't make me say it, it's painfully obvious." And when Puck kept silent, he raved on, "We've had another fight, okay? And I just came here to get some water, because I'm thirsty. End of story."
Puck came to crouch beside him. Kurt didn't look at him, didn't even move. Time to man up, Puckerman, he admonished himself.
"Kurt, look. I know we're not BFFs or anything, but... Okay, this might sound weird, but I think I know what you're going through right now, and maybe I can help. Or, at the very least, I can listen."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Prying bastard," Kurt said, eyes closed, in a flat, weary voice, but he didn't sound pissed. "And how would you know what I'm going through, anyway?"
It was difficult to get the words out, but Puck took a deep breath and soldiered on.
"I... used to date a guy with a manic-depressive disorder too." Funny how the verb "to date" sounded in his mouth to describe that particular relationship, since they'd never used it when he was with Olivier.
"What?" Kurt had finally turned his head to look at Puck, and he was staring at him like he'd grown three heads. "Aurélien doesn't have manic depression, what are you talking about?"
"Maybe you just don't recognize it, but trust me, I think I know the symptoms..."
"Shut up, that's not what's wrong with him. Not that there's anything fundamentally wrong, it's just... It's a small problem, and it will be solved soon. Aurélien is perfect in every aspect, thank you very much. It's just that he... He changes when..." Kurt hesitated, then shut his mouth closed.
"When?" Puck repeated. Kurt glared at him.
"What, now you want to know every dirty secret of mine? It's not enough that you always happen to see me acting like an idiot? I'd rather not talk about it at all, okay, much less with you."
"Listen, Kurt, and I can't believe how girly I'm gonna sound saying this, but will you stop shutting me down? I really want to help. He's not... uh, violent with you, is he?"
"Oh, for God's sake! He doesn't beat me. Why would I marry him if he did? I'm not that weak."
Puck wanted to say it had nothing to do with weakness, and why was Kurt so obsessed about it anyway?
"Then what does he do that puts you in this state?" he asked instead.
"It's not... His friends are a bad influence. It's not him. He promised me he would stop after marriage, anyway, so according to him I'm just fretting over basically..."
"Wait, is he..."
"Yes, my fiancé is doing drugs, Doctor Puckerman. He's not bipolar, at least I hope he's not because that would be the fucking cherry on the top, but as far as I know, he just snorts cocaine. From time to time. Very probably right now, as we speak, too, because that was one of the main points we discussed during our most recent fight, in front of his crackhead friends. Happy now?"
Oh. So that would explain a lot of things, too. Irrepressibly, Puck started chuckling.
"And your reaction is so appropriate as always," Kurt said in the same flat tone as before. "What's so funny, you dickhead?"
Puck only laughed louder at that.
"Nothing, I was just thinking that I'm definitely a better chef than a shrink. Also, you swearing. Don't know why. Cracks me up."
Kurt let out a short giggle, too, more because he was tired than really amused.
"The drug thing's not funny, though," Puck said, sobering a little. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, not as much as I am, trust me."
Puck got up on his feet.
"Hey, you know what? I'm actually supposed to taste some wines tonight. I have Senator Marlowe's permission to dig into his cave and everything. Care to join me?"
"I don't think that drinking alcohol with you while my husband-to-be is inhaling recreational drugs with his morally dubious friends sounds like such a good idea for finding solace. In fact, it sounds rather pathetic."
"Getting shit-faced is not the point. Okay, maybe it is," Puck added when Kurt raised a perfect eyebrow, "but I don't think it'll do us any harm. Just look at us, buddy. We're a fucking mess. We need this."
Kurt looked up at Puck, considering the proposition, then shrugged and accepted Puck's extended hand.
"Bah, what the hell," he sighed as he let Puck pull him up to a standing position.
**********************************************************************************************************
Author:
sevenswellsChampion betas:
drgaellon and guilshad Rating: Hard R for this part. Last part will (finally!) be NC-17.
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Puck/Kurt
Warnings/Spoilers: Food porn, and then some actual porn after that. No spoilers because it's an AU in which glee club didn't happen.
Comments: So in this chapter we learn more about Puck's life in France, this whole part is kind of angsty, I think. We also reach one of the main "knots" of the story, so some heavy revelations are made, I hope you'll still find this part okay, though. NGL, I feel a little anxious about it right now. I've put a lot of work into it as usual, but now I just don't know anymore. WiPs bring out the worst in me, jeez. =___=;;
Word count: 4 434 w.
A few hours later, Puck was standing in the pantry of the Marlowes' kitchen, taking inventory. It was a petty, boring task, but unavoidable. He usually did it with Gill, but he gave her permission to bail out this time. After the picnic, she had looked like she was about to pass out from exhaustion. Puck wondered if she knew she was pregnant, but then again, she'd refused to drink the alcohol, so she had to know. He typed on his smart phone, noting a few missing items they would have to purchase the following day, then realized he was punching the keys down harder than necessary. He thought he knew why she hadn't told him, and found he was immensely irritated by that. He'd been aware Gill had been dating the same guy for quite some time now, though Puck had never actually met him, but he wasn't as inept as his sous-chef thought he was. He could conceive that something of this nature was bound to happen at some point; why Gill would coddle him through the announcement of her leaving the team was beyond him.
But it was possible that she wasn't telling him because she thought he had issues with babies and pregnancy in general. Good God. He'd been an idiot to tell her about Quinn. It wasn't like he was traumatized, for fuck's sake! Why did women always have to make such a big deal out of procreation and what was generally going on inside their lady parts? Last he checked, spawning heirs wasn't their only job anymore. Why couldn't they move the fuck on? He did, at any rate.
He now thought of it as a sorry mistake, one of many that belonged to another time, another Puck. He didn't have regrets, not exactly. Puck had respected Quinn's decision to keep the baby; he'd let her lie to Finn, Puck's best friend at the time, let her manipulate Finn and make him believe he was the real father.
Sometimes he did wonder how Finn and Quinn were doing nowadays, whether they were still together and taking good care of the baby. He also wondered if she'd ever told Finn the truth. Probably not. She'd sworn she'd take the secret to her grave, and Puck believed it, as steadily as he believed in the rising sun. Quinn had always had that kind of strength in her, a core made of steel, venom and determination, behind the teary doe eyes and soft quivering lips. She'd laughed in Puck's face when he said he wanted to be responsible and a good father to their child.
He hadn't been angry at her. The bulk of his anger had been directed at Finn ̵ mainly because Finn had been dumb enough to believe Quinn and swallow her bullshit whole. It had driven Puck mad. Sometimes he'd wanted to burst and shout out the truth in his friend's stupid face, to make him realize what was so blatant, right under his fucking nose, Can't you see what a fool we're making of you? Can't you see us lying to you?
Maybe the truth was that this dirty little secret was too heavy for Puck to bear. It was then that Puck and Finn's friendship had begun to slowly fester and deteriorate ̵ Puck because of his bitterness, and Finn because of his fatherly duties that transformed him into a grown-up, with worries that didn't belong in high school and that he couldn't really share with Puck.
On the plane to Paris, Puck had made the decision to leave it all behind, once and for all. And his life in Paris had been enough of a bitch to let him keep that promise to himself without too much effort.
The French capital wasn't a very forgiving city. And as if things weren't hard enough for him at that time, life there wasn't cheap, either. At the end of his first year, as Puck was seriously starting to run out of money despite Mr Trevino's and his mom's financial help, he heard about a quick way for students like him to make lots of cash: grape harvesting in the south of France. The job only lasted a few weeks and apparently required a lot of physical endurance, but was extremely well-paid. Because it started right after the summer holidays and ended just before the beginning of the university year, it appealed to a lot of international students. That's where Puck met Gill, in a small vineyard near Bordeaux. She used to be even scrawnier, with longer, bushy fire-colored hair that she wore in an unkempt bun hanging like a weird bird's nest over her nape. She was the first American he'd run into in over a year, and he was incredibly grateful and relieved to be finally able to speak in his own language. They bonded quickly, and while they were picking grapes, she told Puck about her French grandfather on her mother's side, whom she called Pépi, short for Pépé Pierre.
Pépi had been a real gourmet, and he'd tried to pass on his love of good food to his only grandchild, who had unfortunately been too young at the time to grasp the subtleties of haute cuisine. On the occasion of one his 70th birthday, Gill's parents had decided to offer Pépi a meal for two at Paul Bocuse's restaurant, undeniably one of the best in the world, and the old man had chosen seven-year-old Gill to accompany him. The little girl had seen her grandfather deeply moved by the food on his plate, savoring each bite like a renewed miracle, while she'd picked at hers, decidedly not getting what was so fabulous about it. He had smiled gently at her, and assured her that some day, she would. That day, little Gill had sensed that she had failed some test, even though her beloved grandfather had never let his disappointment show in any way.
As a consequence, many years after Pépi passed away and after Gill and her family moved back to America, where the young girl had spent her adolescence, Gill had made a plan: she would come back to France and taste Paul Bocuse's cuisine again. She'd decided the money she gathered from the grape harvesting would be invested in that one, single, very expensive meal, and then she would finally know whether she could understand haute cuisine or not, whether her grandfather's prophecy had been right. Puck liked her story, and since he was at a crossroads at that particular point of his life, he told her that, if she didn't mind, he wanted in. His studies in Paris were depressing him deeply and he'd started to have doubts about his vocation as a chef; he thought maybe he could find inspiration in that meal too. Gill gracefully accepted him as a companion in her little odyssey, and it was settled.
Soon after the harvesting job was done, they rented a shared hotel room in Lyon and made reservations for a table at Le Bocuse. The night before the day of The Meal had felt almost religious to both of them, like a wake of sorts.
"What if," Gill had whispered to Puck, as if afraid some malicious god would hear them and thwart their plans, "it's not all that? What if it's just food, and nothing more? What if I still don't get it? What if you can't find your answer either?"
"Well then," Puck had whispered back, "I guess you'll just have to somehow let your grandfather know he'd been wrong, and then you'll have to live with that. As for me, I guess I'll have to go back to America and find some other goal in life. Maybe become a plumber. Like Mario."
"Thanks for nothing, jackass. That's really not helping," Gill had grumbled, turning to her side, and Puck had smiled in the dark, and they'd fallen asleep.
Puck had to admit, they got more than a little concerned when they approached the fugly building in Collonges that looked like some kind of cross between a manor and a circus tent, but the inside was okay, if still a little gaudy.
When the dishes arrived, and when they tasted their first few bites of food, Puck and Gill were so nervous that they couldn't speak. Their stomachs were knotted with fear and they couldn't appreciate the food, so it grew worse, tension and fear spinning out of control in a vicious circle. They kept throwing each other mortified, desperate looks across the table and still not a word could cross their lips. It was only when the maître d' approached them with concern written all over his face, asking if there was something wrong with the food, that they realized how ridiculous they were being, and both suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. When it died out, miraculously, the tension was also gone. Eventually, they reassured the maître d', and set about finishing their first course in a more peaceful state of mind, trying to enjoy the food for what it was, and not some kind of ultimate metaphor about their future.
And finally, finally, the magic happened. They were starting to get that it could never be "just food."
The dishes were incredibly simple, but executed to perfection; each product was brought to its pinnacle, its very essence.
Puck realized that was it. That was his “way of the samurai,” right there. Not the fancy tricks they were trying to teach him at his school in Paris that masked the flavor instead of bringing it forward. From this single meal, he got a clear vision, like a path laying itself out in his mind, that cooking wasn't about sleight of hand and a bit of razzle-dazzle: it was revealing, getting to the core of things, finding what they were about, what made them what they were, laying emotions bare, undiluted.
It was truth.
He didn't ask Gill what kind of answer she herself found in her food. In fact, they didn't speak much, but it was nothing like the stressed-out silence they'd shared before. They giggled from time to time over their glasses of wine, exchanging approving starry-eyed glances with each new element they tasted on their plate. Sometimes they wordlessly exchanged bites of food to let the other have a taste, and merely nodded in assent when they took the bites to their mouth and savored them.
That night, they had sex. It didn't mean anything; they were just high on what they'd eaten. It was playful and fun, and they both agreed in the morning that it was just a thing of the moment, nothing to it. It might have been the first time that Puck was sincere about remaining "just friends" with a girl he'd slept with.
Puck and his future sous-chef parted ways, then: she wanted to start culinary school back in America, while he made the decision to quit his Parisian school and transfer as soon as possible to the Paul Bocuse Institute in Lyon.
The Institute held a reputation that matched its prestigious founder's, and getting in wasn't easy. After many trials and interviews, Puck was put on a waiting list. That had left him feeling down for quite a while, and he didn't reply to any of the e-mails Gill sent him to tell him to stop moping and that "waiting list" didn't necessarily mean "end of the world." It turned out she was right: by some miracle, the list cleared rapidly, and he finally was in. The day he received his acceptance letter, he celebrated by preparing himself a hamburger topped with seared foie gras, as if to spite the Parisians who used to make fun of his American background. It tasted delicious, like heaven in a bun, if a bit greasy.
Lyon was a fantastic city, with all the advantages of Paris, but without the incredibly rude inhabitants and stressful urban life. It was also ridiculous how comfortable he felt at the Institute, compared to his previous school, mostly because he could speak English if he wanted, and he wasn't the only American anymore. And also because of Olivier.
It started out as a bromance, mingled with a bit of hero-worship on Puck's part. It began like this: one day they'd had to work in pairs, and Puck had been paired with Olivier. As simple as that.
Soon after, neither wanted to work with anybody else. They were always found together. Olivier looked out for Puck, showed him the ropes when he was lost or confused: all in all, he acted pretty much like the big brother Puck had never thought he wanted to have. Puck gradually discovered that Olivier was unexpected, unpredictable: he didn't follow any cliché, didn't fit into any known category. He didn't look and act like Puck's definition of cool, and yet Puck ended up wishing he could be more like him.
He was ridiculously tall, taller than Puck. He had hands with long nimble fingers (boy, would Puck learn to worship those; the things Olivier's fingers could do to him), and slim wrists that he adorned with silver bracelets when he wasn't working in the kitchen ̵ and he still pulled that off as manly; hands that could gut a fish as quickly as they could roll a joint, hands that flew around and fluttered expressively when he spoke. But Olivier's hands weren't what Puck had first noted when he met the young man, since Olivier's most striking feature really were his deep blue eyes, with lashes as dark as the mop of shaggy hair that topped his head, eyes so big that they seemed engaged in a territorial war with the black facial hair that covered Olivier's face, and the only thing that seemed to prevent both sides from winning definitely over the other were the high cheekbones that separated them like trenches. Those eyes could have made him look soft and feminine too; but if it was true that eyes were the mirror of the soul, then Olivier's soul must have been as sharp as a razor. Puck could feel that dangerous edge in Olivier, in the young man's intense behavior, the way he laughed louder than everybody else, the way he got into colossal rows with his teachers over stuff that barely mattered. But Puck couldn't get past his admiration for him, because Olivier was a badass, because he was true to himself, Puck thought, because he could tell the whole world to fuck off and still... Olivier had singled Puck out, offered him his friendship, and somehow cared for him.
It was only a matter of time before Puck's admiration turned into something more.
It happened during summer holidays, when Olivier had invited Puck on a surfing trip in Bastia, Olivier's home town. One night, in the cheap apartment they'd rented together, right after a dinner of fish that they'd grilled on the balcony, Olivier had turned his intense stare on Puck, looking him right in the eye when he said, "So you wanna do this, or what?" with an expression that said Puck had better not start acting dumb.
It didn't take more than a few seconds before Puck made his decision.
Puck used to be homophobic. Bisexuality used to mean "pussying out on full-time gay" for him, and "full-time gay" just wasn't acceptable. He liked pussy. He loved boobs.
And yet he dove directly into sucking Olivier's cock ̵ no petting, no kissing, no questions asked. Looking back, maybe that had been a mistake. But he hadn't wanted hesitant and shy at the time, he'd never been one for compromises.
"That was pretty lousy," Olivier said, huffing a breathy laugh after he'd come on Puck's lips, "so let me show you how it's done, young padawan."
And with that Puck was sent spiraling into the craziest, most destructive relationship he'd ever had. Sexually, Olivier was into pretty weird shit, but he always made Puck come eventually, so the latter didn't find any reason to complain in that regard.
Emotionally, it took Puck a long time to discover that Olivier was wrecking him. Sometimes, what they had together, whatever it could be called, felt great ̵ although never in a lovey-dovey way ̵ sometimes it was pure exhilaration, and as much as that comparison was hackneyed, it did feel like a drug. And then everything frequently descended into pure hell, too ̵ Olivier was a natural-born mindfucker, and when he wanted, with the way he had with words and concepts, he could be the most vicious motherfucker on earth. Puck was put through such a roller-coaster-ride of highs and lows that sometimes he thought he was the one going insane. Then Olivier started missing classes, and on the days he decided to attend, his quarrels with his teachers were gradually getting out of hand. Finally, out of the blue, he told Puck they were through, and he never wanted to see his face again. By the next day, he'd disappeared. He left no trace, no note; it was like he'd vanished into thin air. The police eventually found out that his credit card had been last used in Vietnam, of all places, and then the trail had gone cold. There was no way Puck could know whether Olivier was still alive or dead. At some point Olivier's mother came around to reclaim her son's belongings. She insisted that she and Puck should talk, so they had coffee at a bar in Vieux Lyon. Puck didn't know if she was aware that he and her son had been fucking, so he let her do the talking, which was fine, since she only had one thing to tell him: Olivier was bipolar, and he'd been off his medication when he'd started acting crazy ̵ well, crazier than usual. So whatever he said or did during that time, Olivier's mother said, it wasn't really his fault. It wasn't him. That had barely consoled Puck, but at least then he understood why it had all gone so wrong, so suddenly. The guilt he'd felt was somehow alleviated a little, but not much.
The subject of Olivier still felt like an open wound to this day, and what Puck saw in Aurélien Marlowe made it worse. He was pretty sure Aurélien was bipolar, too, or at least had tendencies, and he couldn't help worrying for Kurt, especially after the show Aurélien had put on earlier. Even though he'd sworn he would keep himself out the couple's way, the situation had definitely changed, or at least Puck's consideration had, since now he was aware of what kind of crazy and dangerous shit Aurélien could pull ̵ but then again, since he'd had no news since then, maybe the bouldering had gone wrong and the mad fucker was dead. That thought led to another, very familiar one, and he pictured Olivier like he had pictured him many times, with a clarity that shocked him after so much time, lying dead, alone, somewhere in Vietnam, in imaginary landscapes borrowed from stock images that Puck had Googled because he'd had no idea what Vietnam was like.
He slowly released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Maybe he should find Kurt, and talk to him.
As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard a noise coming from the kitchen, and when he walked out of the pantry, he found a red-eyed Kurt staring back at him like a deer caught in headlights. He was standing near the fridge, clutching a chilled bottle of Evian as if Puck wanted to take it away from him.
"Um," Puck began. "Everything all right?"
Kurt's wide-eyed expression turned into a deep frown, then he exploded.
"You know what? No! It's not! Why on earth would you be here? Everywhere I turn, you're there, you're always there! Is there any moment I can have for myself where I can weep on the mess my life has become without you lurking around and seeing me at my weakest? You're doing this to mock me, aren't you? It's all on purpose, right? You act like you care about my well-being, and it's fucking annoying, because deep down I'm sure you're jubilating, 'oh look, the gay guy is crying like a girl, again.' Oh, how it must fit the opinion you've always had of me, stupid fucking pansy-ass wimp of a faggot loser, indeed. For Christ's sake, don't you have anything better to do?" he finished, as he slammed the Evian bottle down on the kitchen counter.
"I, huh, was in the pantry, I just... I needed to take inventory," Puck said, stupidly pointing behind him with his thumb, then holding up the smart phone in his hand as if it helped the justification.
"Oh, God," Kurt rolled his eyes and let himself drop down to the kitchen floor, his back resting against the cupboards. He hid his face in his hands.
"That was crazy talk," he said in a tired voice, partly muffled by his hands. Then he dropped both of them at once at his sides and he rolled his head against the cupboards so it was hanging sideways, making him look like a broken puppet. "Again. I'm sorry."
It suddenly occurred to him, that in all probability Kurt had to be upset about something to do with Aurélien, and a strange feeling knotted his stomach.
"Did... Kurt, did something happen to Aurélien?"
"Oh, I wish!" Kurt ranted. "That would have taught him a lesson, for once! But no such luck: he's back, safe and sound, since the rangers got enough back-up in time, and prevented those idiots from falling to their deaths. The worst part is that they let them go with no harsher punishment than a fine."
How weird was it that Puck felt relieved? He didn't even like the guy.
"So, he's okay?"
"Yes, he's with his friends now, they're having a party, hurray."
"Why aren't you with him?"
"Don't make me say it, it's painfully obvious." And when Puck kept silent, he raved on, "We've had another fight, okay? And I just came here to get some water, because I'm thirsty. End of story."
Puck came to crouch beside him. Kurt didn't look at him, didn't even move. Time to man up, Puckerman, he admonished himself.
"Kurt, look. I know we're not BFFs or anything, but... Okay, this might sound weird, but I think I know what you're going through right now, and maybe I can help. Or, at the very least, I can listen."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Prying bastard," Kurt said, eyes closed, in a flat, weary voice, but he didn't sound pissed. "And how would you know what I'm going through, anyway?"
It was difficult to get the words out, but Puck took a deep breath and soldiered on.
"I... used to date a guy with a manic-depressive disorder too." Funny how the verb "to date" sounded in his mouth to describe that particular relationship, since they'd never used it when he was with Olivier.
"What?" Kurt had finally turned his head to look at Puck, and he was staring at him like he'd grown three heads. "Aurélien doesn't have manic depression, what are you talking about?"
"Maybe you just don't recognize it, but trust me, I think I know the symptoms..."
"Shut up, that's not what's wrong with him. Not that there's anything fundamentally wrong, it's just... It's a small problem, and it will be solved soon. Aurélien is perfect in every aspect, thank you very much. It's just that he... He changes when..." Kurt hesitated, then shut his mouth closed.
"When?" Puck repeated. Kurt glared at him.
"What, now you want to know every dirty secret of mine? It's not enough that you always happen to see me acting like an idiot? I'd rather not talk about it at all, okay, much less with you."
"Listen, Kurt, and I can't believe how girly I'm gonna sound saying this, but will you stop shutting me down? I really want to help. He's not... uh, violent with you, is he?"
"Oh, for God's sake! He doesn't beat me. Why would I marry him if he did? I'm not that weak."
Puck wanted to say it had nothing to do with weakness, and why was Kurt so obsessed about it anyway?
"Then what does he do that puts you in this state?" he asked instead.
"It's not... His friends are a bad influence. It's not him. He promised me he would stop after marriage, anyway, so according to him I'm just fretting over basically..."
"Wait, is he..."
"Yes, my fiancé is doing drugs, Doctor Puckerman. He's not bipolar, at least I hope he's not because that would be the fucking cherry on the top, but as far as I know, he just snorts cocaine. From time to time. Very probably right now, as we speak, too, because that was one of the main points we discussed during our most recent fight, in front of his crackhead friends. Happy now?"
Oh. So that would explain a lot of things, too. Irrepressibly, Puck started chuckling.
"And your reaction is so appropriate as always," Kurt said in the same flat tone as before. "What's so funny, you dickhead?"
Puck only laughed louder at that.
"Nothing, I was just thinking that I'm definitely a better chef than a shrink. Also, you swearing. Don't know why. Cracks me up."
Kurt let out a short giggle, too, more because he was tired than really amused.
"The drug thing's not funny, though," Puck said, sobering a little. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, not as much as I am, trust me."
Puck got up on his feet.
"Hey, you know what? I'm actually supposed to taste some wines tonight. I have Senator Marlowe's permission to dig into his cave and everything. Care to join me?"
"I don't think that drinking alcohol with you while my husband-to-be is inhaling recreational drugs with his morally dubious friends sounds like such a good idea for finding solace. In fact, it sounds rather pathetic."
"Getting shit-faced is not the point. Okay, maybe it is," Puck added when Kurt raised a perfect eyebrow, "but I don't think it'll do us any harm. Just look at us, buddy. We're a fucking mess. We need this."
Kurt looked up at Puck, considering the proposition, then shrugged and accepted Puck's extended hand.
"Bah, what the hell," he sighed as he let Puck pull him up to a standing position.
**********************************************************************************************************
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2011-03-21 05:02 pm (UTC)Your writing is just unfairly brilliant and amazing. Seriously, this is fabulous!
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Date: 2011-03-25 07:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-25 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-25 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-21 11:25 pm (UTC)Seriously though, THANK YOU, you're a freaking GENIUS!
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Date: 2011-03-25 07:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 11:41 am (UTC)But yeah I just read everything in one go and I don't have any other words to describe the whole thing except AMAZING.
Chef Puckerman has got to be one of the best AU!Pucks EVER!
I really we get to read the last part soon because it sounds incredibly promising.
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Date: 2011-03-25 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-25 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-25 07:54 pm (UTC)I'm glad the amount of work I've put in this actually shows, because it's truly ginormous! I know I should probably suffer in modest silence, but I just can't! This fic puts me through PAIN, believe me! But I must be a masochist. XD
I'll try to put up next part asap, promise!
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Date: 2011-03-23 10:32 am (UTC)Poor Puck his relationship sounded messed up.
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Date: 2011-03-25 08:08 pm (UTC)I know, maybe I've made him suffer a little too much, I was very concerned about the angstiness of this part -- I don't want Puck and Kurt to be angsty, it just doesn't suit them, but then again I thought Puck needed at least a shock of that amplitude to become who he is in this fic. Bah. Anyway, it's done.
Next part will be up as soon as I can, which is not much, but I will persevere!
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Date: 2011-03-26 10:55 am (UTC)/super fuckin' late, HELLO~
Date: 2011-03-29 07:15 pm (UTC)I've always just loved this fic.
forevereverever!!
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Date: 2011-04-17 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-15 06:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-17 07:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 08:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-25 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-07 09:17 pm (UTC)I love your characterisations and the way that you've built the story and can't wait for the rest.
I will continue to check back every once in a while because I know that if the rest is anything like what you've written so far it'll be awesome.
: )
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Date: 2014-08-17 07:49 pm (UTC)Do you think you might finish this work ?
I did not watch Glee for years, but still have this "phases" (getting nostalgic and all, and needing great puckurt stories to read). In moment like these, I remember ''The Art of love and cooking".
I've been checking this fic every six month since you last uppdated it. (===>"phases")
And now in 2014, I wonder...Shall I continue to wait ? Feel free to say no, but please Do Tell Me !
This has been the best work I've ever read on glee. I would be insanely happy to see an ending to this incredible unfinished work.
Have a BEAUTIFULL day !
(Excuse me for my -lame- english. )
Lou.
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Date: 2014-08-17 10:05 pm (UTC)Ugh. I'm actually sincerely sorry, because I really love this fic and I loved writing it... it amazes me that you would still check on it from time to time, and thank you for the adorable compliments. I apologize, I do.
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Date: 2014-08-18 07:58 am (UTC)Thank you for taking the time to answer me.
I just remembered that in the past ...je m'étais excusée de mon anglais épouvantable, et 'pouf' j'avais découvert que tu étais française aussi.
Hum tout ça date de 2010, mais même si Thierry 54 ans n'est jamais venu poster de commentaires sur tes fics, louise une-poignée-d'années-de-moins est revenue de temps en temps consulter tes pages.
Je ne lis que très peu de fanfictions aujourd'hui : Les études à paris, le petit boulot, le permis de conduire, la vie... et un matin on se réveille avec une barbe de trois jours en se disant "je suis fatiguée aujourd'hui' je lirais bien une fanfiction de *insert name here*"
Je suis du coup contente de voir que tu continue d'entretenir tes concordances des temps en-anglais-s'il vous-plait même si ce n'est plus sur cet fiction-ci.
Je crois que je vais tout de même la relire depuis le début (j'inventerai des jolies fins dans ma tête). Cette page est dans mes favoris depuis quatre ans après tout, ça se fête ! Dès que tu as pondu ta prochaine création originale (soon-to-be-blockbuster à n'en pas douter) je serais heureuse de la lire.
Belle journée
Beaucoup de bonnes ondes :-)