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It’s not easy, not at first
She’s always angry, and then quiet. Too loud. Spends too much time glaring at him and pulling her sister away. Shouts at him at the top of her lungs.
She’s never good enough. He’s never enough.
It’s not easy, at first.
He’s angry–he’s not sure why. He can’t touch her cheek without a coil of distaste in his stomach. He stomps too loud and yells to much and often times they scream, nose to nose, and then kiss each other like they’re ravenous wolves.
It’s never been easy.
She whispers about him in Calc, throwing him glances full of venom. He runs a hand through his hair in English and sighs wistfully. They ignore each other, and then they don’t.
They’re on-and-off in the most spectacular way. Once, when they’ve technically broken up, for good, this time, she catches him kissing another girl. They have a screaming match and it ends with them plastered to one another, her lips on his throat, rain streaking his car windows.
He falls back on her when he’s feeling empty. She falls back on him when she’s feeling alone. They never come for the right reasons. It’s never–never right.
They stop, after a time. “I’m sorry,” she says, hoarsely, pushing him away. His lips are soft and sweet, but they taste like spoiled goods. “I’m sorry.”
He’s glad it’s her to end it, kind of. It hurts, still. It hurts at first like he’s cut himself on glass and he cries a lot. It hurts, months later, a throbbing kind of hurt. She’s still his everything, but it was–well, wrong.
They didn’t fit together in the way they needed to. He was barely anything–she pulled him through high school and he let her age him. It’s not right, the way they work, like they need each other to be complete, like they’re broken and afraid.
He’s almost glad when it ends, like it’s a breath of fresh air. She breaks him, sort of, chops off a limb when she walks away. Leaves him bleeding and lets him become his own. Some days he wonders if it hurt her as much as it hurt him.
He leaves the household after a time, too sick of her lingering, even though she’s long gone before he’s even thought of stepping out.
Sabrina grows up. He does, too. She pulls her hair up and wears bright lipstick and calls bi-monthly to ask her sister about her classes. She goes to–god, she goes law school and does well.
Puck grows up in the only way he knows how. He figures himself out. He goes to Rome, first, and then travels around the Italian countryside. He wanders to Greece and stops by in Turkey. He absorbs languages and cultures and makes the most of the world.
He writes the occasional postcard and smiles at emails from Daphne. Sabrina calls on his birthday, sometimes.
He knows there’s a word for it, and it lingers in his mind when he travels through France. It pokes at his heart when he takes pictures of Iceland.
Sabrina likes his posts on instagram. Russia, Japan, Australia.
She never leaves a comment.
“Wanderlust, marshmallow,” he says, on the phone to Daphne when she asks him when he’s coming home. “Incurable."
He’s grateful she doesn’t mention Sabrina.
It’s only when Sabrina does call, two months later–it’s almost December, and he’s planning a trip to Antarctica for a winter of night, that he comes home. It’s not really home, anymore, he thinks. He doesn’t know why he comes back, anyways.
“I think it’d be nice,” she’d said, in her lawyer voice, trimmed and practical, “if everyone was together for the holidays.”
“Everyone? You know everyone includes more than the two of us, right?” He’d laughed then, and ignored the twinge in his chest–he still wants her, needs her. Even after all this time. Even after how spectacularly wrong everything went.
“I hope to see you then,” she’d said, unamused. The phone shuts off and he sits in silence.
He’s forgotten how much he missed her voice.
So, he goes home.
He doesn’t bring presents. He’s been sending gifts all the way throughout his travels, and claims that his gift this time is himself. Daphne wrinkles his nose and then laughs. Sabrina rolls her eyes and walks away.
It takes everything he has not to let his smile fall away.
It’s awkward, at first. It always is. They tiptoe around each other. Watch the snow. He still remembers how she likes her coffee–she comments on it, surprised.
“I’m a genius, pigface,” he informs her. “Of course I remember. I remember everything.”
She frowns, like he’s said the wrong thing. They don’t know how to fit together–he’s not sure they ever will. Puck knows he should give up. Sabrina isn’t his, she never will be.
She turns to watch him and he catches her gaze soften as she looks over his face. It’s still childlike, in some parts. “You haven’t changed,” she says.
He takes in a deep breath–he wants to kiss her, to pull her apart and relearn her. And–and he can’t. She watches him as he gets up and walks away.
It’s different, after that. He still goes off and travels, but it doesn’t have the shine and glitter it did before. He’s aware it’s a distraction; all he wants to do is go home to her.
She texts him and complains about law school. They talk a lot. He stays up to talk to her, despite the timezones. She’s always awake, too, presumably because of homework.
dont fret ill take full advantage of u as a lawyer, he texts her one day.
I’m NOT bailing you out of jail, she responds.
He laughs and wishes he could kiss her.
On her birthday, he surprises her by taking her out to Chinese. He doesn’t buy her flowers–they’re not dating, but it’s something close. She blushes when he flirts. He feels the pit in his stomach loosen.
“We didn’t work the first time,” says Sabrina over a mug of tea, a month later, voice slow and deliberate, “because we expected the other to fill the holes.”
Puck looks her up and down. She’s watching his mouth. “Sabrina–” he starts, voice hoarse, and she kisses him, gently, like he’s glass.
He pulls away, suddenly. “I–Sabrina–"
“What?”
“I can’t.”
And then he walks away.
They’re like cars, speeding, he thinks. One moment, they find themselves going full throttle at something in the distance, the next, they’ve crashed into each other, totaled and screaming.
He spirals. It’s not like it’s not his fault–Sabrina is too good for him, too put-together and detailed and harsh, and he said no. He’d walked away.
He still needs to figure himself out.
He takes it slow, then. Breathes deeply. Gets a job at a coffee shop. It’s spectacularly boring, but it feels solid and real and he doesn’t feel like he’s spinning without anything to grab onto. He doesn’t miss traveling, only the feeling it brought–exhilaration.
She stills visits him. They can’t stop being friends–they’ve known each other since forever, and if–if they can’t fix themselves before one of them falls in love with someone else, they can settle for friends.
He remembers, always, how she takes her coffee.
It’s slow. They’ve never been good at slow. They want burning kisses and wild eyes and passion, but Sabrina doesn’t remember what’s so good about that, anyways, and Puck knows it won’t last any other way than slow.
He relearns her. He relearns himself.
He kisses her, once, in March, soft and smooth and slow and she tangles her fingers in his hair. It’s gentle, and sweet. It feels–it feels like home.
They thread their lives together, piece by piece.
He’s never been right without Sabrina Grimm. He’s not sure he knows how.
“I love you,” he murmurs into her hair.
She snorts. “I don’t believe you.” And then, quieter, later: “I love you, too.”
It’s not easy, at first. It never is.
But everything–everything leads to her in the end.