a/n: i don't know so don't ask.

title from the song "give in to me" by faith hill, which is amazing so listen to it.

Quentin's…changed.

Ray can't help but stare, either, and that's what's bugging him because being caught staring at a dude is certainly not going to help his reputation, but it's just mindboggling how much like himself Quentin doesn't look.

Ray can remember a time when Quentin had that hair that he kept short and perfectly in place (not that he liked it or anything) and those tight-fitting polos and khaki pants (not that he liked those either), when Quentin was all about his popularity and making sure it didn't get fucked up, no matter the cost.

And now he's all…Ray doesn't even know how to describe it. His jeans are ripped and there's a skull and crossbones on his shirt and his hair is all spiky and choppy and pink. And it's not that he looks bad (Ray notes that he even looks kind of good – in a totally not gay way), he just doesn't look like Quentin.

The two of them are sitting on the bleachers – two rows of seats away, Ray notes – and Quentin's hunched over with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and Ray watches the way his Mohawk is shifting as the wind hits it. It'd be comical, if it wasn't already tragic.

"You're different." he says, and crosses his legs and looks away like he hasn't been prepping to say this aloud for the past five minutes.

"No shit, Sherlock." Quentin replies without looking at him, and the conversation seems to halt at an awkward end. Ray focuses on a very small bug that is skittering across his toes. It's a purplish color. Weird.

He looks back up at Quentin, and he bites his lip at the muscles that tighten after he says "We all miss you. Norah too."

"She can go fuck herself." Quentin responds, but it's quiet and not as harsh as he means it to be (because in truth he doesn't mean it).

Ray closes his eyes a minute, curls his hands into fists and stumblingly makes his way down to sit beside the other boy. Quentin doesn't move a muscle, not an inch, just stares straight ahead at the freshly mown grass and holds the cigarette between his teeth in a vice-like grip.

"You should come back to Glee," Ray ventures, taking note of how close their hands are and pretending like it doesn't make his stomach twist in dangerous ways. "We could use your voice. It may not have quite as much range as mine, but an alto such as yours is a lovely one, if I have to admit it." Quentin laughs at that, and it makes Ray want to laugh, even though he was being totally serious. Quentin shakes his head and aims a look at him that makes Ray want to swallow his tongue and then barf it back out again because his eyes are sparkling, and if he were a girl (because he's not gay, he's as in love with Fiona as he can be) he thinks those eyes might make his stomach lurch and his heart flutter and all that stuff he sees in those romantic comedies.

"You're so…persistent." Quentin says, leaning back so that his shirt slides up his stomach and, whoa, did he get abs over the summer? They're…nice. "Why are you being so nice to me? You should be happy I'm not obsessing over getting Fiona back and ruining your life anymore."

"Admittedly, it's nice to know you're not doing that," Ray agrees, "but still, it's not the same if you're not there."

Quentin watches him like somebody might watch a child, with disbelief and wonderment and the kind of jealousy you feel when you've lost something and they've got it and all you can do is want it more. Ray thinks back to all those movies he watches, and thinks if they were in one this would be the climatic scene where Quentin would lean in and kiss him and it'd be soft and tender – you know, if this was a movie. Which it's not. So it's not going to happen, and Ray is definitely okay with that, you know.

For a split-second he thinks he notices Quentin lean in, but it's obviously the sun getting in his eyes because a) there's no way Quentin would kiss him and no way he'd want him to, and b) the cigarette that's currently dropping ashes on Ray's hand and burning tiny welts onto his knuckles would certainly make any kiss unenjoyable.

"Yeah, okay." Quentin says and he's standing as he removes the cigarette and blows out a puff of smoke that almost starts Ray's asthma up. "You need to stop being so nice. I'm just going to screw you over."

"Alright, I will." Ray breathes, and watches Quentin walk away because he knows he'll never stop.