Rating: PG, maybe a very, very light PG-13
Pairing: Jesse/Rachel
Summary: One year. She knows, she remembers, she feels. That won't ever change.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, Jonathan Groff, Lea Michele, or their characters.
Author's Notes: My first fic post, ever! Spoilers for the back half of S1. It's a little AU, some references and events in their relationship portrayed in this story didn't happen/weren't shown on the show. No other spoilers.
She misses him more than she can ever admit to anyone, least of all herself.
She knows how long it's been since she last saw him.
(345 days, 17 hours, 22 minutes.)
She knows how long it's been since she last felt the warmth of his touch.
It used to burn through her slowly, used to work its way through each and every one of her startlingly alert veins with an alarming speed as his arms would wind their way around her waist – binding her to him. Such a simple action, and yet it evoked such a potent response. She used to think it wouldn't be so bad, being bound to him forever in a multitude of different ways.
She still does.
(352 days, 13 hours, 12 and a half minutes.)
She knows how long it's been since they last talked.
And she means real talking. Not those trivial conversations about the seemingly meaningless occurrences of their everyday lives… no. She means whispered words that held depth and power and unbelievable amounts of emotion, all exchanged in the dark of night where the only facet of their personalities they were able to express to each other with absolute honesty was their vulnerability. Because they were vulnerable, painfully so. Hearts were exposed, raw, waiting for an attack and a heartbreak they believed they'd never inflict upon each other.
It was all too easy for her to think he'd never hurt her. And she knows it was all too easy for him to fool himself into thinking he'd never cause her harm.
Coincidentally, that was the night he first told her she was the only one he could ever imagine himself having a foreseeable future with.
(354 days, 9 hours, 45 minutes.)
She knows how long it's been since they last fought.
She remembers his words all too well, with almost too much of a startling clarity. His words were sharp, stinging whips against the cool spring breeze that had blown against them that day, unrelenting and decidedly unforgiving. She remembers everything he said to her, from his accusatory why don't you think I can be enough for you?, to his shockingly blunt he isn't going to be able to love you like I will, now or ever, to his broken whisper of I can't share you with anybody, either you're in this relationship and committed to it or we can't have a relationship at all, and finally to his you need to make the choice, and you should probably do it before one of us leaves you for good and then you won't be able to do anything about it anymore.
That last one hurt the most. How could he ever think he couldn't be enough for her? He could (and he still can). She might have been hesitant then – it was the beginning, after all – but it was more of a hesitance in starting a relationship with a boy who had the potential to give her everything she wanted, everything she truly needed. She thought it might overpower her. Make her weak. And she couldn't afford to be weak. She'd gotten through her hell of a high school on the notion of her independence, her reliance on her unbreakable inner strength. Who was to say he wouldn't be the one to break this strength, if the outcome of their situation turned out to be anything but positive?
Though it ultimately did, she remembers sneaking into his room at 2 o'clock in the morning the night of their quarrel and sliding under the covers with him, tracing the line of his jaw with trembling fingers and whispering those precious words of confirmation.
"I want you. I choose you. Him, he's nothing. You. Me. Just us."
She thought he'd been asleep. Imagine her surprise when his hand came up to curve around her waist, fitting her into his side like two matching puzzle pieces. She could feel every definite line of her body against his, and she felt, rather than saw, his smile as his lips ghosted across the skin of her shoulder.
In that moment, she knew he'd forgiven her. He'd forgive her everything.
It would be her, in the end, who couldn't find in her the ability to forgive him.
(358 days, 11 hours, 27 minutes.)
She knows how long it's been since he last took her out.
By the time she was ready, nearly every single item of clothing she owned had been haphazardly tossed in an unceremonious heap on her bed. She turned her drawers inside out looking for the perfect outfit, the ideal ensemble to make her look classy and sophisticated without making it seem as if she had been trying too hard – as was customary for every single one of their dates. She always had problems picking out what to wear because she always felt the need to make an impression.
And amidst the newly created chaos of her room, she finally succeeded in deciding.
She ended up slipping on a deep burgundy strapless dress, paired with a simple black cardigan, patterned lace tights and her favorite pair of black high-heeled boots. She curled her hair, dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. She'd gone with minimal makeup, as she did each time, simply because that heavy look had never particularly suited her (a fact she was well aware of), and minimal jewelry to emphasize… well, she wasn't really sure what she was trying to emphasize. It couldn't be the straightforwardness of her nature, because she was, and remains, one of the most complicated people one will ever meet in their lifetime. However, she gave up thinking about that when she heard the doorbell ring.
It figured that her heart would be set off racing uncontrollably every time she heard that sound.
Moreover, it figured that he would have been punctual.
The dinner was, admittedly, as close to perfection as can be reached. He took her to a nice, cozy restaurant at the end of his block, with a crumbling and less-than-impressive exterior but a beautifully decorated interior, the epitome of casual dining and yet the typical image of elegance and dignity.
At one point during the meal, the opening chords of their favorite song began resonating through the overhead speakers. She remembers the fleeting suspicion of him having had it arranged for her. Nonetheless, he got up, walked to her side of the table, offered a hand, pulled her up, and danced with her in the middle of the restaurant.
It was the definition of cheesy and overdone, and yet he executed it flawlessly. She doesn't think she's ever smiled as much as she did that night.
Afterwards, he took her to the lake on the outskirts of town. They perched themselves on the hood of his car, saying nothing. But it spoke volumes and was worth all the silence in the world when he reached across the metal and looped her fingers through his.
That moment signified the unfolding of a story that wouldn't be over for a long, long while. She didn't know why she hadn't felt it in the other times they'd gone out. But she surely felt it then. They'd become connected, irrevocably tied together. She hadn't noticed it happening, but it had nonetheless.
For even when they were apart, as they would be in the coming months and, eventually, years, they were never over, never finished. Not even for a fraction of a second.
Not ever.
There would always be something more that needed to be said.
There would always be something more that needed to be done.
(360 days, 3 hours, 19 minutes.)
She knows how long it's been since he last kissed her.
It couldn't have been anticipated. One moment they were talking, the next moment his lips were softly brushing against hers in a tentative question, which she wasted no time in answering. It was strange, really, how comfortable it felt. Tongues danced together in an age-old ritual, but neither of them felt any sort of shame. They felt right; they felt connected in a way they both knew would be something that sunk through their skin. It would imbed itself within their bones. A lasting feeling of coming together, like a healing rift.
Each time their lips had met was undeniably better than the last.
This time was no different.
Nothing was ever enough, for her or him.
And to this day, she feels in equal parts terrified and excited at the prospect of becoming used to someone, but never becoming tired of them. You can never be with them too long, no overabundance of spending time together.
She wishes she'd been wise enough to recognize it then.
She knows he had.
(352 days, 13 hours, 12 and a half minutes.)
She knows how long it's been since they said their last, silent goodbye.
The stage lights were brighter than she'd ever seen them, a stark contrast to her all-consuming melancholia. The light of day against the dark of the midnight hour. The ultimate paradox of human existence. Call her dramatic, but it was the truth.
She hadn't been able to feel anything for a week. She'd walked around as if in a trance for seven days. Numb. Snapping at anyone who attempted to speak with her, she deftly shrugged off worried glances as she stared straight ahead, seeing into a different time. The last few weeks of her life seemed so far away, as if they'd never happened at all. As if she'd never been introduced to love and then had it ripped away from her by him. Him, the boy – no, the man – she'd pledged her full devotion to.
It made her sick to her stomach how he could have betrayed her.
Hadn't they had something?
If they did, then it certainly wasn't enough to keep them together.
The crowd's cheers drowned out the last bits of conscious thought she still had left. She knew it was over. They had lost. The place that had once brought her joy at the art of performing, the one locale where she could pour all her energy and talent into a show with no regret or inhibition had turned into the place where he proved to her how much better he was than her – at not only this, but at playing a game she hadn't even known they were playing. Sick and twisted, that's what all this was, and she should have known better. What had happened to her intelligence?
Just one more thing he'd taken away from her, no doubt.
Perhaps it was her latent masochism choosing to come back in full force at what it deemed to be the opportune moment. Perhaps it was the desire to administer even more pain onto an already-shattered heart, to rub some salt into an open and aching wound. Regardless, she couldn't precisely identify what caused her to turn her head in that instance and observe his reaction to winning. She'd glanced at him earlier, but this was an unabashed stare. A scrutiny, or at least a very detailed study.
She wanted to determine one thing: was it worth it? And she didn't want to ask him.
She was afraid of the answer.
He met her eyes without flinching. All around him, his teammates whooped and hollered and shoved at his back, his shoulders, touching every inch of their king that they could possibly reach. But he paid no mind to any of them. Instead, he met her eyes with a gaze that sucked all the air out of her lungs. His blue eyes, tumultuous like twin whirlpools, held so many conflicting emotions. She could only distinguish two: a deep, somehow ancient sadness, and a drowning feeling of regret. It seemed to pull her under, and she already couldn't breathe. Now she was being pushed in, compressed by something she couldn't quite identify. But there was one thing she knew for sure.
She would never feel whole again.
She tore her eyes away from him quickly, turning her back on him for what seemed to her to be forever. She didn't know they'd meet again. She couldn't have.
At that moment, the only thing she wanted was to die.
Who needed love anyway? Who needed his love?
(She did. And it killed her inside that she'd never get any of it again.)
(345 days, 17 hours, 22 minutes.)
She knows how long it's been since she first saw him.
Before.
Before they spoke to each other, where there was nothing linking them together except a mutually vague glimmer of interest from behind their locked eyes.
Before they knew anything about each other, with the exception of names and half-formed ideas of their respective reputations.
Before they underwent the transformation of perfect strangers to impassioned lovers.
Before everything that came after.
Her life has become separated, divided in two: before him and after him.
Now, she lives in the second stage, the noticeably less glamorous one.
She looks back on their first meeting through jaded eyes.
Damn her hindsight.
It is here, so many days, weeks, months later that she comes to gain a sense of perspective. Of what, she doesn't know. Maybe to put her back in her place, to free herself of recent imaginings of him coming back. He is gone, out there somewhere in the world's expanse and completely unconcerned with her. He left the place that holds so many memories for them, and she is cursed to remain here for a bit longer.
The masochism comes back without warning as she walks toward the same bookshelf where he'd approached her. She peruses the same rack of music books, containing scores of songs and librettos from various musicals and operas. Works of art in their own right.
She doesn't stop until she finds the one she was looking at, at the start. The start of her own ruination at the hands of another (despite her incapability of fully blaming him – it was half his fault, and the rest of the guilt resides with her).
She finds the page. She reads the words. She harmonizes under her breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in her throat. Her voice easily rises above what is attempting to bring her down as she gains the confidence to sing alone. The rest of the room is quiet, but nobody tries to tell her to stop. She won't, anyway.
A year ago, he would have started a duet with her. The duet, their duet. The confidence would have been there from the beginning, and she is surprised to find it coming back now.
Then again, it's been a while. Quietly murmured words of a bygone time flash to the forefront of her mind without warning.
"I know who you are."
She doesn't think she'll ever forget.
(365 days, 00 hours, 00 minutes.)