A/N: Hi guys! Alright, so first of all, I have Justin Timberlake's 'The 20/20 Experience' album on repeat for weeks, 'Mirrors' is my absolute favorite song—followed closely by 'Don't Hold the Wall' (if anyone is asking)—and this story just popped in my head. It's a 4-parter, like all my other 4-parters, and I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors or inaccurate facts/representations.
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
Mirrors
Part 1
Aren't you somethin' to admire?
Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror
And I can't help but notice
You reflect in this heart of mine
"Well, what do you think?"
He glances expectantly at me, the corner of his oversized lips tilting upwards in a slight grimace, and as his best friend, I'm not entirely sure how to break it to him. I love the dude to death and I'd jump hoops for him, but I suppose it's also my responsibility to let him know when his works are starting to scale into a pile of mushy crap. Fifteen seconds into the first verse and I thought he was playing a Justin Beiber track. Was he fucking high when he wrote that?
"You want my honest opinion, right?" I ask, sinking deeper into the beanbag chair.
Sam Evans' shaggy blonde hair falls over his forehead as he nods enthusiastically in reply.
"And you're not going to run to mommy crying when I break your heart?"
It takes a few seconds for my words to register in his head before a sigh escapes his mouth. Dejected, he chucks his pencil across the room where it hits the wall and disappears into the darker corners known as his junkyard. With a strangled groan, he jumps to his feet and paces the length of his twin-sized bed, dragging his sneaker-clad feet self-pitifully against the carpet.
"Come on, don't be so hard on yourself, Sam. There's nothing jarringly wrong with the song. It's just not exactly you."
He pauses in mid-stride. "And what exactly is 'me'?"
"You know what I'm talking about," I counter, throwing my head back to stare up at the blank ceiling. "What's with all that synthesizing shit? I thought you hated that?"
"I do," he agrees solemnly. "But what if the judges don't?"
I lift my gaze up to meet his. "Okay, first of all, this thing that you're doing—the one known as self-doubt—has to stop. It's unbecoming," I scowl, reaching out to give his wrist a hard yank so that he'll quit moving around so much. Unceremoniously, he flops down beside me and almost automatically buries his nose in the crook between my neck and shoulder. "Secondly, those big shot producers are probably going to be receiving a thousand other songs just like that one and toss them all to the side because there's nothing original about it."
"You think?" he mumbles into my skin.
Rolling my eyes at his child-like behavior, I'm confronted with a conflicted decision on whether or not I ought to let him wallow a little. "You know I'm right."
Sam lets out a snort, and his warm breath tickles somewhat, but at least it means that his dull moment has passed. I give his ear a light flick, which he reciprocates with a quick kiss to the side of my jaw before eventually pulling away.
"Thanks, Q."
"Yeah, yeah," I brush off dismissively. Being sentimental is not wired in my person because it teeters too much into the realm of feelings, and I don't deal well with emotions. "I don't know what you were smoking with that song, but we're going to do this right."
"Ouch," he winces overdramatically. "Your words hurt me so."
"Remind me again who is the one in this room with a pussy?"
He smirks lazily, one that's too cocky for my liking. "Why don't I try shoving my dick in it and then we'll talk?"
Cute, but nice try.
"Sure, if I can find it then maybe I'll give you a preview."
Russell Fabray is the city's district judge, and unfortunately for me, he also doubles up as my parental unit, which I suppose explains so much about my non-existent social life. It's also probably why I don't get invited a lot to one of those out-of-control senior parties I hear about all the time—not that I care, really.
"How was school today, Quinn?"
He does his mandatory checklist of questions where I'm formally obligated—or forced—to participate in as a nightly order of business. Retrieving some minced meat from the freezer, I start on fixing dinner for the both of us.
"The usual," I shrug non-committedly.
"Your college applications arrived today."
Fuck.
My spine goes rigid, already dreading where this conversation is about to lead.
"Have you decided which schools you'd like to attend?"
He says it like a passing remark, though his question is nothing short of rhetorical, one that comes naturally with years of experience in court, and sometimes I wonder if he sees me as nothing more than another case to attend to.
"I have a few options in mind," I reply, leveling him with a steady stare.
"I hope Harvard is one of them."
It's not.
But I'm not telling him that.
He already knows.
"I thought we agreed on Berklee," he reminds me the next day in school.
"I know, Sam," I deadpan with an impatient scoff. A few stray strands of hair falls over my face and I try to blow them aside, silently cursing the fucked up timing for a bad hair day. Not to say that I'm insanely vain or anything, but I'm pretty sure I look like a lion exploded on my head.
"You do remember me saying Berklee, right?"
We stop by my locker. "I do."
"So what's this shit about Harvard?" he asks again for the umpteenth time, his hands flailing about animatedly.
I glare daggers at him because he's not helping the cause, especially since he damn well already knows the reason why. It's grating on my last nerves. Fortunately for his wellbeing, he gets the message and immediately backs off; smart boy. As a punishment, I snatch the baseball cap from his head.
"Hey," he protests as I shove it on.
"That's for pushing your luck, Sam Evans."
There's no escaping the stereotypes in high school—especially not one that you happen to share with Santana Lopez. Of course she has to be the head cheerleader—short skirt, a high ponytail, a posse; basically, the works—and a bitch slap to match that high-and-mighty attitude. When she walks, everybody else parts just for her.
And to top it off, she fucking hates my guts.
Lord knows why; perhaps it's a kind of girl code that I'm unaware of. Maybe someone passed around a guidebook one day and forgot to give me a copy.
"Nice hat, Quinnie," she snickers past me on the way to her seat. "Did you steal it from a hobo?"
Wow, that's a really old one. You'd think with the amount of practice she gets everyday, she'd learn not to recycle her insults.
"Now that you mention it, Satan, I think I saw your mom right down that alley."
Cue synchronized gasps from her brainless minions.
"You take that back," Rachel Berry—a.k.a bimbo number four—shrieks, looking utterly mortified. Somewhere in China, the dogs are howling.
I plaster on the most sickeningly sweet grin I can muster and try not to throw up in my mouth. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, why don't I pencil you in with my ass so that you can kiss it?"
More synchronized gasps.
I'm on a roll, baby.
If I can hit three before the teacher enters, I might just treat myself to a lobotomy instead.
"You are such a freak, Quinn Fabray," Santana retorts nastily.
That one is classic.
Tilting my head to the side, I blink with faux innocence. "At least I'm not you."
Score!
"What the fuck is that?"
"Shepherd's pie," he answers, cautiously poking into the mix of yellow and brown blob on the plate. "I think."
"Looks disgusting," I comment, munching into an apple chip.
His face contorts after a mouthful of the cafeteria cuisine. "Tastes disgusting," he blanches and steals my carton of orange juice to wash the ugliness down his throat. "It's like licking Coach Sylvester's hairy armpit."
I'm cringing at the traumatizing mental image.
"I think I've just lost my appetite, Sam, thank you very much."
Despite the blatant sarcasm in my voice, he winks back playfully and proceeds on to polish off the rest of my lunch, practically inhaling everything in plain sight. What the hell; does his parents not feed this poor child?
"You're still coming over later, right?" he asks between swallows. "I mean, we really need to crack this song for the contest."
For the hundredth time, "yes, I am."
"Puck's going to be there too."
Oh, God, just kill me now.
"Great."
Sam nudges my side with his elbow—a little too enthusiastically, in fact—and creepily waggles his eyebrows. "He's been asking a lot about you recently."
"Can you please just tell him that I'm not interested in his Mohawk or his nipple ring?" I grouse in chagrin. "He keeps sniffing my hair; it's weird, okay?"
Instead of empathizing with my situation, my so-called best friend bursts out in rude laughter, and it's only appropriate that my visceral reaction is to whack him in the bicep.
"Ouch! Jesus, Quinn," he howls. "You hit like a fucking dude."
"You scream like a fucking schoolgirl but you don't see me whining about it."
He smiles even though he knows I've won this round and throws his arm around my shoulder, reeling me in to drop a chaste peck onto the top of my head.
"You know, you'd make one kick-ass lawyer," he teases, using the bitterness as final ammo to rile me up. "Maybe you should go to Harvard."
If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I can blow his head up. "Fuck you, Samuel."
"Love you too, Q."
Noah Puckerman decides that he wants to ride shotgun today, and because Sam is too oblivious to my misery, he gleefully obliges to the dude's request, much to my dismay. This is possibly the longest eight minutes of my life. Traffic rules be damned, I gun down on the gas pedal in hopes of saving my sanity as Puck tries his earnest to hit on me.
"And so I told her, 'hey, babe, you're looking fine tonight', and she totally thought that I was that dude from the band."
I nod appropriately, my lips pressed into a thin line, gritting my teeth as I tighten my grip around the steering wheel. Exercising self-restraint is a lot harder than it seems, and I'll most likely burst a blood vessel before I hear the end of it.
From the reflection in the rearview mirror, Sam tries to stifle his laughter.
Jerk.
A good two hours—and a million sarcastic remarks—later, Puck finally decides that he's sufficiently entertained enough to leave. When the door slams shut in his wake, I all but collapse on the couch, breathing hallelujah.
"Son of a bitch," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
Sam comes over and perches himself by my feet. "Oh, come on, don't be such a big baby," he pouts. "At least this time, he only made one lewd comment about your boobs."
Absolutely not amused, I land a sharp kick to his kidney, effectively throwing him off the sofa. There's a thud, followed by a grunt of some sort, and I find some satisfaction in knowing that I'm causing him half the distress that his oaf of a friend had inflicted on me. "Shut up, dickhead. How would you like it if I told you I write lullabies about your penis?"
His face appears mere inches from mine. "Well—"
"No, actually, don't answer that," I tell him, clamping a hand down on his mouth. "But can you please tell Puckerman to stop ogling my breasts?"
He shrugs his shoulders in that nonchalant manner and casually runs his index finger down the plane of my nose. "I can't refrain a dude from enjoying life's simple pleasures."
Shoving him away, I say, "you're such a fucking pig."
"You just need to loosen up a little, Q."
I roll my eyes at his generic statement. "Are we going to work on the song or not?" I ask, switching the subject to gear us back on track.
"Damn, slave-driver."
A cushion sails through the air and smacks him square on the stomach. "Don't flatter yourself. I'd have you whipped for being so shit at your job."
"You're so kinky, sometimes, I feel like you want to jump me."
And so the game begins.
The deviousness in his grin matches perfectly with mine, and slowly, with my gaze still locked onto his, I sit up, poised and ready for the kill. His eyebrow arches in preparation, the telltale flush coloring his pale cheeks as he darts his tongue out to wet his full lips.
"I think it's the other way round, Sam Evans," I murmur huskily, leaning forward at just the perfect angle in lieu of using his weakness to my advantage. "You want to jump me."
He gulps visibly, his resistance faltering in that split second it takes to move a step.
"Sucker."
Just like that, I've won.
Again.
"That's so not fair," he grumbles. "It's not like I have a cleavage to weaponize."
"Ten bucks, Sam, hand it over."
He calls me at three in the morning, the phone blaring in my ears and practically waking up half of the earth. Not entirely in favor of dear old dad storming in with a lecture on respecting other people's REM cycle, I reluctantly answer it.
"What?" I bark impatiently even though he deserves a lot more than that right now.
"I've got it!" he exclaims, all excited and high on caffeine. "I have the perfect song!"
"Go to sleep, Sam."
"No, you have to hear me out," he gushes much too enthusiastically for the hour as I creep closer to snoozing back into dreamland. "Why don't we write a song about dog tags and purple hoodies?"
"Are you drunk?"
"No, I've just been staring at the Beibs for too long."
"Good night, Samuel."
"You look like shit," I comment as we're running—or jogging—laps around the track.
"Thanks," he pants, huffing and puffing as he drags his legs through the corner bend.
"Did you even sleep?"
"I couldn't stop thinking about those damn hoodies."
"Then fuck me."
He chokes, and then trips over his feet and stumbles, arms flailing awkwardly in the air.
Oh, man, he makes it way too easy.
"Shit, Q," he gasps, catching his balance. "That was dangerous."
"I beg to differ," I call out over my shoulder. "I think that was genius."
I hate non-buttered popcorn because it tastes like Styrofoam but Sam insists that we not indulged in a heart attack, so I'll just have to settle for tasteless-in-a-bowl. It's not the best food for inspiration—considering the amount that we need to write this damn song—and if I don't get a jump on my palate soon, I think I'll hijack his entire fridge.
"How would you like to be screwed?"
There's a pregnant pause that seems to go on forever.
What the hell kind of a question is that?
"Sorry?"
That infamous smirk makes another grand entrance. I notice that mischievous glint in his striking green eyes and I know that his head is definitely in the gutter. "Against the wall? Chained to the bed? Furry handcuffs?"
"Just to be clear, in what context are you referring to?"
So sue me, I'm a judge's daughter.
He sets his notepad down on the floor and turns onto his belly to properly face me. "Your first time losing your v-card."
"Okay, first of all, please don't ever say v-card again or I might just have you put on Santana's cheerleading skirt," I frown, wishing I could scrub the aftermath off my tongue. "Secondly, what the fuck is wrong with you? You don't ask a girl that."
"But this is us, Q. There are no secrets."
It's true, though. Sam and I have been best friends for so long now, there's nothing we don't know about each other. I slant my eyes over, studying his hopeful expression that borders with child-like innocence, and I'm remembered of that one thing that had initially drawn me to him five years ago.
"You don't trust me."
He says it with a slight dose of hurt lacing in his deep voice, and I can only imagine what my hesitation looks to him. With a resigned sigh, I lower myself so that I'm lying on my side with my hands tucked beneath my ear in a makeshift pillow.
"It doesn't have to be fancy or special," I begin softly, feeling somewhat vulnerable. Averting my gaze to the collar of his blue T-shirt, I gnaw on my bottom lip in embarrassment even though he'll never judge me that way. "I don't need rose petals, or candles, or wine, or even an expensive hotel suite. Those things, they mean nothing to me."
I feel the weight of his hand on my hip, and slowly, his arms encircle round my wait to pull me closer.
"I've never really been a romantic—"
"You bawled your eyes out watching Moulin Rouge."
"Shut up," I quip back. "But you get what I mean. I don't do sweet gestures, I can't appreciate teddy bears, and my idea of a date is pigging out on the couch and playing Rock Band all night."
"Maybe you need a dick," he snorts.
"Hey, are we still talking about me losing my virginity here?"
"I'm sorry. Please continue."
"I don't want my first time to be perfect," I admit sheepishly. "I want it to be bad so that it can only get better from there, does that make sense to you?"
He nods and tightens his hold around me.
"It has to be about us—me and him—and nobody else. No expectations, no pressure—just us beaneath the sky. I want him to be a freaking mess, not knowing what to do or how to do it because then it'll make me feel less of a loser."
"You're not a loser," he murmurs, almost too inaudibly to hear.
"He's going to apologize a million times, and we'll laugh as he takes me because we'll finally understand what all the fuss is about. Maybe we'll do it on his bed, or the back of his truck, or what the hell, maybe we'll feel adventurous and lose it in the janitor's closet, but it wouldn't bother me for whenever that happens, I know I'll be ready."
He's smiling by the time I'm done with my monologue, a kind of light-heartedness dancing in the depths of his emerald orbs.
"I think you just wrote your first song, Quinn Fabray."
"What?"
"All that you've just said. Let's write it into a song."
I lean away to gawk at his face. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah, let's do it."
My stealth mode has to be faulty or something because as soon as I'm confident I've made it past the front door, my dad appears like a fucking ghost apparition. A quick glimpse towards the clock on the wall reminds me that I'm way past my curfew, but when Sam and I got to writing, it was sort of hard to stop.
"Hey, dad."
"You're late," he points out curtly. "Where have you been?"
I head for the stairs. "At Sam's."
"Studying?"
"Yeah," I reply, because a white lie isn't technically a sin.
"Have you given Harvard a thought?"
"Honestly, dad, I don't think law is my thing," I inform him as patiently as possible. This can end two ways, and I'm trying hard not to rouse the neighbors. "I want to go to Berklee."
His spine goes rigid, as does his stern expression. "And what will you become? A musician?" he spits out venomously, like it's the most degrading career option in the world.
"It's what I want to do, dad."
"You know what, this is all about that boy you always hang out with, isn't it? He's putting poison in your mind. He has no goals and no future, and I've warned you long ago that he is bad company but you never listen—"
"This has nothing to do with Sam—"
"You'll regret this, Quinn."
We spend the next three days slogging our butts off in Sam's D.I.Y recording space, and it occurs to me now how mildly disturbing it is to be singing about how I envision my first time. It's social suicide at its best, and I'll be damned if this leaks out to the people in school.
"I still think we should change it to v-card."
"I still think I should shove my fist up your ass."
He snickers. "You always have such a way with words, Q."
"Well, what do you think?"
What do I think right now, is that I want to strangle the living daylights out of Sam Evans for even considering this terrible piece of idea. He doesn't heed my heated glare, but rather keeps his attention focused on the dude with the stupid Mohawk, who looks like he's deciphering a page out of the Vatican archives.
"It's definitely different from all your previous songs," he muses out loud, and then turns to leer at me. "But I think you should strip it down."
Never complete without the sexual innuendo.
"Acoustic?"
"Yeah, with just the guitars and shit."
"Sam, we don't have time to re-record this," I say, acting as the voice of logic. "We'll just have to submit the song as it is. Besides, what does Puck know about music, anyway? He's only ever managed to learn the lyrics to 'She Bangs'."
"Hey!"
It's one of those rare nights that I love. The velvet sky is practically black with ink, dotted with speckles of stars, and I marvel at the beauty, appreciating the serenity as I lie down on a blanket just staring up at the universe. Sam plucks a gentle tune on his guitar, the soundtrack for the evening in his backyard.
"Are you nervous?"
He takes a deep breath. "About what?"
"It's tomorrow."
"I don't know," he says after a short pause as I turn to study his side profile. The moonlight casts a silvery glow upon his face, and for whatever reason, my mind wanders straight to a Godforsaken vampire movie franchise. "I don't want to expect too much in case we don't get it."
"Oh, come on, don't wimp out on me now," I playfully nudge him on the shoulder. "I've just dangled my entire reputation writing that song. It better be worth it."
"It's called sacrificing for art, Q," he chuckles good-naturedly, strumming a familiar chord. "Get used to it."
"Are you composing the acoustic right now?" I ask, hearing the rest of the pattern.
"Uh-huh."
"Sounds really good."
"I know."
We settle into a comfortable silence as he continues figuring the song out. At some point, I start to hum along and he joins in with the harmony, and son of a bitch, Puck was right. Sam and I should've just submitted this version. He tinkles with a few notes at the end, and I'm grinning up to the heavens like a retarded idiot because that feels amazing.
"Quinn?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I kiss you?"
I have to keep telling myself that it doesn't mean a thing; that the instant his full lips brush against mine in a tender caress and send a warm tingling throughout my body, that it's nothing more than fulfilling his adolescent curiosity. My eyes are squeezed shut, as I draw in a ragged breath, overwhelmed by this new sensation, so foreign yet not at all unwelcome. He pulls away, just barely, and his scent lingers in the still air, now charged with an undeniable tension.
"Sam, what are you doing?" I ask shakily.
He leans his forehead against mine. "I don't know."
"Why'd you stop?"
If you ever feel alone and
The glare makes me hard to find
Just know that I'm always
Parallel on the other side
A/N: So there's part 1! A little slow at the moment, but it'll pick up, I swear!
Song used: "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake