AN: Hey there! So, I typed out my second story in just a few hours. It's not something I thought would be like, my style, but I went on and wrote it anyway, even if it's only a one time thing. I posted it to lj earlier this week, and now I decided to put it up here. I was inspired to do this after Iqbal Theba tweeted it to Dianna Agron. So... I really hope you like it. Constructive criticism FTW. Reviews = kudos. So please review, yes? =3
Disclaimer: Not owning Glee today. Maybe better luck tomorrow? =D
The doors you are walking through are more like portals, portals to another world. To another person. To another side of someone you thought you knew: your mother.
You never wondered what her life was like before. What it was like before her life happened. Judy Fabray's life – husband, kids and bingo on Wednesdays. You feel ashamed now, that you never knew and never even wondered. You plan on making it up to her.
It's why you're here, bonding, even though you don't really like poetry or literature, you are visiting a poetry night. It's not because you're stupid or because you don't understand, and not even because you haven't tried to like it, but God, usually it's just so boring. Supposedly grand and emotional, but all you can see are words. Words can turn out to be empty. Actions too, but at least they feel more real, at least they don't feel like they will poof into air outside of your mind.
But your mother, she likes poetry. She loves poetry. You never knew, but now you're here, in a large hall filled with intellectuals left and right, like you stepped into another world. You didn't even know that there were intellectuals in Lima. Everyone has gray hair, and every man has a beard, and they all welcome your mother as one of their own.
"Sweetie, this is Peter Henderson. We studied English together. This is my daughter, Quinn."
Your first – but ridiculous – thought is that you are looking at the human form of Lord Tubbington.
He looks older than your mother and he's wearing a pair of dirty looking glasses. You wonder if he could see through them. You're tempted to make a face at him, just to see if he would see it at all.
"I've heard all about you," he said with a yellow-toothed smile. "We were all very excited to meet you here."
He says it with expectation, and you can't help but feel like you're being recruited, even if your mother isn't the one trying to pressure you. After so much pressure for so many years, you've become accustomed to the feeling and sometimes you think you feel it all the time.
"So," Peter Henderson started, "Have you inherited your mother's love for books? Or perhaps even her stunning writing skills?"
You try not to let it show on your face – surprise with a stab of disappointment in yourself. So many things to learn about each other – you didn't even know your mother had a creative side.
"I'm afraid I haven't, sir," you say with a fake smile. You know no-one is going to see through it, it's far too practiced, even you can barely tell it from real. "I don't really read or anything. And I certainly don't write."
"Oh, well. You certainly have inherited her beauty. She is of course still a beautiful woman, but when she was your age there wasn't a man on earth that would have rejected her, not with that face! I must say, you do look a lot like her. Same nose," he smiles.
Your beauty makes up for everything. Every flaw is cancelled out by sculpted features. It's one thing you do know about your mother; she's still beautiful, but she used to be an angel, like everyone says you are now. You try not to find it too ironic that he called out your nose – the one thing you truly changed about yourself with the help of a sharp knife and a skilled doctor.
He seems to already have given up on recruiting you, and for some reason, you wished he would have given you another chance. It's too tiring to be beautiful. You don't care if you sound like a brat, like a girl that everyone hates, but when you have that kind of beauty, that obvious, angelic face to fall in love with, it overshadows everything else. No, she's not a writer, but hey, is it too much to ask to be seen as more than a pretty face?
She's not used to it, not even now. It used to be the best thing. After years of not being beautiful, to finally be seen as pretty was all you wanted. But now, God, you can't even…
You wonder – what does your mother think? There was nothing that she expected from you before, not after quitting the Cheerio's there wasn't. What does she think you are now? Does she know you any better than you know her? Was there anyone who ever told you that you were more, more than just a pretty – very, very pretty – face?
The last – and now you think of it, first – time anyone explicitly told you that, it was Rachel Berry, minutes after you smacked her during prom. God, the irony. That girl, who never felt beautiful but had so much more going for her, told youshe thought, no, knew that you had more to offer.
You think about her. About your… friendship? Peace? Whatever it is, it's pretty freaking complex, but you don't care. You don't care, as long as she's still there, so you can have your weird complex moments and your weird intense conversations in which walls crumble down into a dusty pile of rare truths. Those moments are one of the things that keep you going. Even though you don't know why – or you do, but you decided to keep that between you and your unexplainable dreams at night, after which you wake up and you only remember her familiar face, but you feel things inside your body.
You realized you zoned out – and decide that it doesn't really matter. You place your hand on your mother's shoulder, and say that you're going to walk around for a little bit. You know, check out the poems and stuff like that.
Your mother looks at you and you can tell she knows you're out of place, and she doesn't know how she can help. Then Peter Henderson comes, with a suggestion that would spin the evening around.
"If you walk a little more to the back," he said, "there are a couple of makeshift podiums they laid down on the floor. The people walking around on them are actors from the Lima Theater Community, and they all have learned one poem by heart. If you ascend the platform and walk up to one, they will recite it to you. It's really a good tip."
You say you'll look into it and walk off, stalking off in the direction he pointed at. It never hurts to look.
The platforms are made from dirt. Like, they are made of actual earth. There aren't any steps or anything, you just have to take a large step and feel like you're hoisting yourself up the damn thing, hoping you don't fall over and eat dirt. The men are dressed for a costume drama – you expect one of them to walk up to you and introduce himself as Mr. Darcy, just because Jane Austen is the only writer you can think of from that era.
The women are wearing dresses, no exceptions. Some are sporting the same old-fashioned look, with corsets and hats and parasols, but some look more like nature's nymphs. There's even one girl barefoot, with a green dress that reminds you of an elf. She's looks tall, but that could be the height advantage of the platform, and her hair is dark brown and shiny. Her back looks very approachable, and you feel yourself drawn to walk up there and hear her voice, listen to her speaking someone else's words.
You hoist yourself up the stage and everyone ignores you. You think they're probably forced to, all of them being into character or something, and they can't talk until you come to them. That might be the thing you like the most.
Now you're on the stage, the girl isn't really tall at all. Actually, she's tiny, about 5"2, and you realize. You know that backside and don't know why you didn't recognize her at once. It's Rachel.
You take a few steps into the right direction – or at least, towards her, and it feels like the right direction – before pausing. Would this be the best idea? Probably not. But you feel like maybe you'll have another one of your weird intense moments and you haven't had one since prom, and God, you could really use one right about now. They make the world more real, and they just add something to your life, or something.
You try to ignore the thoughts about Rachel Berry adding some kind of unique thing to your life but you still walk up to her. She's talking to someone else, one of the intellectual looking men.
If you hadn't realized before, you would have now. The voice reciting the unfamiliar lines is unmistakable, powerful, emotional, and you realize that your deepest wish right now is that that voice be directed at youand would speak immortal and powerful words.
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."
The stranger smiled affably, and Quinn knew he wouldn't appreciate how special it was, what just happened. He had no idea that it was Rachel Berry in front of him, and he wouldn't know how extraordinary this moment was until she was the superstar she would become. During moments like these, you understood Rachel's desperate need for stardom very well.
"I always have liked Robert Frost," he said. "Though he's very strict about his rhyming scheme, wouldn't you agree?"
You can't see her face, but you're happy she doesn't reply. You think maybe she's not allowed to. Maybe the only words she is allowed to speak are those of another. You still want to hear them anyway, have that moment too, and you decide to look her straight in the eyes as she speaks and not look away for a moment.
It is now you realize you have officially decided to do this stupid thing, even though you're not a fan of Robert Frost like the intellectual, because Robert Frost is a poet. But poetry in the form of Rachel's voice would be infinitely better than the original. She can make lyrics sound like poetry with that voice.
You walk around her and stop right in front of her, giving her a strong look, drilling into her eyes with your own. You can tell she is taken by surprise, and for a second she seems to want to say something, a conversation, but she shakes it off and seems to turn into another person right in front of you. It's something to watch, alright.
You lean forward, but don't touch her. You're trying to get her to speak, to do it, to make it happen. Make her magic voice happen – and for your ears only, in the form of this poem. If you could rip the words from her throat, you would, but for some reason she hesitates, like she's not sure if she should do it or if she should take this moment and mold it into something else.
You can tell by the look in her eyes that she's going to do something – something she's not supposed to, something different, and you are just so glad, so happy. You're different. Different from all the others, because Rachel Berry is about to change it up for you, about to show you that you are different to her by not reciting the same Robert Frost poem she's probably recited a hundred times this evening.
Your heart is pumping adrenaline to your head, to your toes, to everywhere. You only wish a little less blood would gravitate to your hands, because they are so sweaty you have to wipe them on your jeans.
"Sonnet 18," she whispers, but the look in her eyes is so strong that it would strengthen the weakest whisper. After this, her voice takes on a carrying tone. It carries through you like fire and ice.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
You freeze, because you actually know this poem. Everyone in – and probably outside – the English speaking world knows this poem. It's been overdone, it's a lingual cliché, but here Rachel is reciting it for you and for that reason, it makes the cliché unique and special once again.
"Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date."
You wonder why she chose this poem to recite to you. It's a love poem, for one, and you are… friends? At peace? Something or other that is rather complex? If you both would have liked each other, your Facebook relationship would have been "It's complicated" all the time.
"Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;"
The poem is about beauty, you know this. It's about fading beauty of the summer, and the eternal beauty of the beloved, the besung. The poem is the verbal personification of beauty. And that was what Rachel was telling to her. You are still staring into her eyes, keeping your promise to yourself, and she stares right back at you. You wish you could read her thoughts. What is she doing? You would do anything in this moment, if you only knew what she wanted from you.
"But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st."
You remember the last two lines the clearest, and Rachel's eyes are filled with emotion, overflowing, like it's just too much and there's nothing she can or can't do. It's just, God. You don't even know, can't even…
"So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee," Rachel finishes, back to her breathy whispers. And suddenly you know what you can't do. Breathe. You can't breathe.
Rachel is looking at you and something feels elated and something feels hurt, you're not sure what you are feeling and what feelings you're adopting from her eyes. Everything feels complicated and it's a tiring feeling, but you know that this is what you wanted, what you needed, what you would have begged her for, even though you don't know why you need it or what exactly it is you need. Or why you need it from only her.
You feel the tension hanging in the air – God, you can only hope she feels it too and it's not just an overactive imagination on your part – but you can practically sense her expectations, the expectation for a kiss hanging in the air. No, there's no way this is just your imagination. The tension that's building, it's emotional, but it's also an awaiting kiss, a kiss just waiting to happen. Right?
There is need, need to seal this moment your way, not by words but by solid actions that make everything real, physical expressions that can't be misunderstood. You'd hug her, take her hand, you would have before this moment, but any move you do make can be but a kiss and nothing else. Anything else wouldn't be an option, it feels like a kiss or fold.
And fold it is, because Rachel, well, Rachel is working. She's acting. She's not there for you like you feel like you are there exclusively for her in that moment. She's there for anyone and everyone who craves her attention, and of course, someone already is asking for her, standing beside them impatiently and you fold, you walk away, outside, feeling like you've lived an entire life and love story in the last 3 minutes.
Things seem clearer somehow. You've never admitted it to yourself, your feelings for Rachel, but now it seems that admitting it was a dozen steps ago. You are so past it. You past it and went straight to feeling everything to losing it at once, like you somehow loved and lost in the time span of one poem.
Regret will be cutting through your heart from now on, because you didn't do it, didn't seal the connection your way with a kiss, but you have a feeling that this would be how it would go anyway, forever, and there would be nothing you could do about it.
You're no better than Finn when it comes to Rachel. You would lose her – just like Finn will – to the world. Perhaps the minutes you shared will be like a metaphor, for a story that never happened. And never would?
It's not until she runs outside, and you feel like you are in a movie, like you are the deleted scene, the deleted story from Love Actually, that your story has a chance of happening. Because she walks right up to you, and she smacks you across the face, sealing the connection with physical contact in her elfish, green dress and still not wearing any shoes.
"That was because you dared not to kiss me!" She spits out, and you like her flare for dramatics this one time, because you know that you didn't imagine it, that it was real and not just in your mind and that this is your second chance.
Maybe your story will have a bad ending, but at least it will be an actual story. And who knows? If these minutes are a metaphor for the rest of your life and she followed you outside, it ended with her choosing you, didn't it? Because you know exactly why she came out, and it wasn't to punch you across the face. Okay, it wasn't just to punch you across the face.
A little while ago, the options were fly or fold. Kiss her, or do nothing else. The fold option was no more this time around – there truly was only one thing left to do.
You know it's the right thing when your lips meet hers in the dim streetlight.