A/N: This is my first time ever doing a fan-fiction, it's kind of nerve-racking, but none the less, enjoy! I don't have a beta for this so all mistakes are fully mine; I still don't understand how to use this infernal site, so I couldn't find a beta. Anyways, hob goblins, yes you sitting in that chair! I'm trying to be as canon as possible for this fic; I like the challenge, and I'm also trying to incorporate as much of the character's real personalities as possible while still being able to bend it the way I want it. Please review and tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is encouraged! This will possibly be rated M for later chapters. Anyways, hob goblins, enjoy.

Chapter 1

It happened so quickly. One second she's taking out her books; one second she's closing her locker, and in one second she's hit by a flurry of freezing blue slush. He can smell the artificial blueberry flavor from across the hall, and then all you can hear in the stillness of the hallway is shrill laughter. Santana's keeled over cackling, and Naya Puckerman is clutching the Styrofoam cup looking smug as ever. The only one showcasing any remote signs of contriteness is Brittany, her face contorted between amusement and a knowing sense of regret. And they say she's the dumb one.

Rachel, argyle sweater lathered in 'Roaring Cool Blue' slushy, is standing there with her hands in mid-air, face scrunched in complete shock. It's amusing; although this exact same scenario is played over at least three times a week, she still is paralyzed by utter surprise every single time.

"And that, my gals, is how you slush bomb a loser." Naya says above the maniacal laughter of Santana Lopez—the Latina is fit to pass out from lack of oxygen.

And in that precise moment, Quentin Fabray is filled with utter disgust despite being rooted to the spot. It's impossible to move his feet. So impossible—he can't even budge them. No surprise, of all the times that this exact moment, exact scenario, has happened—why would this day be any different? All Quentin can do is stare at the little brunette soaked in the color blue, his mouth set in a grim line.

Naya reaches over to high five Santana and then the trio are on their way, as if nothing occurred. Rachel stands there shivering for just a second longer and then her exterior mask is on, right on queue; she wipes the excess slush off of her hard set face and then storms off into the girl's bathroom. The throng of McKinley High students part like the red sea; they're too afraid of getting their clothes stained.

Utterly Pathetic.

Quentin sighs and shuts his locker with a bang that verberates throughout the hallway, and it seems to awaken all the frozen teenagers into sudden movement, for school life continues like nothing even happened. Quentin pinches the arc of his nose in frustration. He knows this is just how high school works; the cream of the crop set the standards for the caste system, but why should he be worrying about this now? All he does is worry—worry for what? He's one of the best running backs in the state; he's the golden boy of the school alongside Finn, and he makes his way with the ladies fairly easily. Eye sexing with those translucent, glorious, hazel, eyes being his number uno tactic whether he's aware of it or not.

It's not like he hasn't made fun of Rachel before. Not like he created the nicknames manhands, RuPaul, and troll, but every time Rachel is ostracized, or worse, straight out humiliated, the feeling is like no other—like a knife being jabbed in his gut and twisted ever so slowly, and he can't fathom why. Yes, Rachel is talented. Yes, Rachel is pretty, although no one wants to admit it, and yes, she is so freaking adorable—the way she talks, the way she smiles with that million watt smile no one can permanently rip off, the way she makes those farcical yet perfectly cute faces when she sings and even the way she storms off during her countless diva tantrums. God, yes she is adorable, but she isn't supposed to be. She isn't. She's not.

"Hey dude, you're just standing there. Don't we have chemistry?" Finn stumbles by with his goofy clown feet.

God, how is this uncoordinated buffoon a quarterback?

Although he and Finn played football together since they were both little, Finn always had been uncoordinated. Quentin, at the time, blamed it on Finn's ever present growth spurt, but that excuse was soon fading. Quentin really shouldn't complain; Finn proved to be an exceptional quarterback quite a while past—his and Finn's last second awe inspiring and timely plays could be considered proof. Whenever the game came down to the wire, he and Finn were expected to come to the rescue—calm demeanors in place and constrained façades in motion.

Even though Quentin is short of Finn's height by three measly inches, he finds himself feeling pathetically puny.

"Uh, you just gonna stand there man? We have class, you heard?" Finn waves his huge hands a hairs length away from Quentin's face.

"I heard you the first time."

"Whoa, relax dude. What's got you all in a jam?" Finn asks, hands in mock surrender.

"Nothing…nothing, let's get to class. Dr. Rodman'll kill me if I'm late again. Talk about exorbitant amounts of homework. Last night was rough."

"Uh, yeah…wait…exorbitant? That's a bad thing right?"

Quentin buckles up laughing—Finn's idiocy never ceasing to amuse him and annoy him at the same time. Finn's existence only proved to contribute to the stereotype that all football players were dumb, and that perturbed Quentin to no end since he was a straight A student and a running back at the same time. Quentin liked to think all stereo types could be broken, and he was the epitome. He refused to be a loser. More so, he refused to be a Lima Loser.

Class started without a hitch. Quentin and Finn made it on time to the uproarious hoots and boos of Azimio Adams and Dave Karofsky. It still bothered Quentin that four of the high school football players all attended the same chemistry class. Didn't the school staff have the common sense to realize that stuffing a bunch of hellions in one room would lead to a not so exemplary outcome? Lack of logic could be the only justification.

Quentin, sat next to Finn, takes notes fervently. The latter, with that same mystified look—the look where his baby brown eyes glaze over and his mouth is set slightly a gape, stares at the projector screen, tapping his pencil on the hard black top lab table. As if pushed by a thought, Finn suddenly snaps out of his trance, eyebrows furrowed, and opens his mouth to speak.

"Hey, you think Coach T will be mad if I miss practice today?" He whispers over the tedious droning of Dr. Rodman.

"Tanaka? Well…not really. I don't really think he gives two craps about the team. Why?"

"Uh—nothing, I just…" he hesitates for just a moment, searching for words probably, "I just need to help my mom out is all, yunno… after school and stuff."

"Please don't give me that lame prostate excuse. I've told you a million times, women do not have prostates, okay? I've been hanging out with you since we both learned to catch a football. So stop trying to bluff me; it's embarrassing."

"Yeah, okay." Finn's face slowly turns into a slightly red shade.

Dr. Rodman turns around sharply and scolds the boys with a harsh shush. A few seconds tick by in silence and Finn begins again.

"Well, I mean…yunno Mr. Shuester right?"

"Yeah, the Spanish teacher. Go."

"He said—he said he found weed in my locker."

Quentin's head whipped around so fast he could've sworn he had back lash, his radiant hazel eyes boring into Finn's.

"Wait! Look, it's not mine—I swear, but he says I was in possession and that I can be held accountable by the law or something like that and now…" Finn's voice drops to a barely audible whisper, "and now I have to join glee."

Quentin's eyes bulge slightly, and he has to cover his mouth with the back of his hand to block the impending laughter from escaping.

"You mean that club full of dancing losers? God…and you're actually going to join?" He chortles.

"I don't have a choice."

Quentin knew it was malarkey. Finn never did drugs. Hell, when Naya threw parties he barely even drank alcohol. It was fishy and Quentin felt like he knew why. Although Finn was his 'best bud' in a sense, he would rather let Finn get ensnared in this mess than warn him.

Besides, Finn and him were competing to become captain of the football team and damn Finn if he were to take it from him; Finn joining the glee club would only rally his team mates and coach in deciding that he was the rightful captain of the team—hands down. And that was totally fine by Quentin.

"As long as you don't miss Celibacy Club, whatever man, it's your grave."

"Yeah," Finn sighed, "I guess it is."

Class goes by rather slowly, but after that Quentin finds himself in geometry which has never been much of a problem for him although he hates anything that revolves around math with a burning passion. The only subject he can admit he's fond with is English and perhaps history—perhaps. Besides the fact that geometry is his worst subject, he never fails to get anything lower than an A.

The reason Quentin can tolerate geometry, if not for his outstanding grades and impeccable intelligence, is because Rachel is in the class, hard to admit as it is. The class was one of the few he had with her, English and psychology being the other two.

Quentin sat towards the back, second to last row, just two aisles away from Rachel who sat further up and to the right. Her form was rim rod straight, two hands laced together on her desk. He wished he could see her full face, only viewing the side profile—which slightly irritated him.

That proved to be the only down fall of sitting in the back…amongst other things…like sitting next to Jacob Ben Israel who was, at the moment, busy drawing Rachel shirtless with ginormous tatas. He drew horribly, but Quentin found himself staring at the horrifically drawn brunette with a quizzical brow. Ben Israel proved to be the biggest creep in McKinley High School and Quentin had the sudden urge to beat the living daylights out of him for debauching Rachel by drawing such verboten pictures of the girl.

If anyone was going to draw pictures of the girl it would be—wait don't finish that. Quentin instead, after the teacher turned to write something on the board, threw a pen straight at Jacob's face; it bounced off of his obtuse nose.

"Ouch, what was that for?" Jacob whined.

"You better throw that drawing out before anyone else sees it, you heard?"

"And what if I don't?"

Quentin raised a perfectly arched brow.

"I mean, yes—yes I'll throw it out…but…what do you care? Last I checked—"

"I don't."

"Or so you say, but I think—"

"No one cares what you think, Jew Fro. If I see this conversation in the school article as a twisted pathetic story of yours, I will personally give you dumpster dives for the rest of your miserable three years in McKinley, got it?"

Instead of further enraging Quentin, Jacob shook his head fervently up and down.

"Good."

The teacher asked a question that Quentin couldn't really make out; he was too flustered by his altercation with Ben Israel. He didn't know why he responded that way—normally he wouldn't care what Ben Israel was up to in his perverse little Rachel bubble. For Christ's sake, Quentin really didn't respond to anything concerning Rachel; she was beneath him. Yeah, he was possessive, he's Luther Quentin Fabray, but what did he have to be possessive for? Rachel was…Rachel. Rachel wasn't his, never was going to be, but damn it! She wasn't Jacob's either.

In response to the question asked by the teacher, Rachel shot her hand up rapidly. Despite the groans throughout the class, she began speaking although the teacher did not call on her, per usual. God, she was so cute. She spoke rapidly, with much animation, her words articulated and precise. Quentin loved that—the vocabulary. He would never admit it, but he learned at least one new word from her every day. From across the room he could smell success in her voice; Rachel Berry was going to go somewhere one day—somewhere important. He could feel it. He felt beatific, so happy he could crack his cheek bones from smiling so hard. It felt unusual. Instead of loathing, which he should feel, he felt so childishly happy for her.

But God, why did he feel that way?