"And our 2011 William McKinley High Prom Queen is—"
Quinn can't hear a thing because the blood is rushing so swiftly through her head and beating heavily against her eardrums, but she knows the moment Finn gently tosses her hand away from his that they've lost.
This game they've been playing, the masks they've been wearing, the lives they've been living — over. It's all over.
Waiting only a beat to clap politely for the winner, the smile on her face is an eerily calm one as she turns away from the stage. Her high heeled shoes click slowly and steadily across the hardwood floor, still graceful in spite of the major loss and endless taunting soon to follow. The crowd parts like the Red Sea for her – for probably the last time in her life – because no one sees the point in her staying, and no one wants to follow her out either.
Only once she has escaped to the abandoned hallway does she breathe again. It doesn't come easy because the pressure in her chest feels so tight and the air feels so thin that she wonders if she won't just suffocate right then and there. The beautiful corset ties up her back suddenly feel too constricting, but she can't reach when twisting her hand behind her back to loosen them. Perfect blonde curls fall out of her intricately woven up-do as she methodically plucks bobby pin after bobby pin out of her hair, tossing each one to the floor with a quiet but metallic clatter.
The lights in the girls' locker room are dimmed but she doesn't bother to flip them on because she doesn't want to chance a glance of herself in the mirror. At first she wanders through the dark, dragging her fingertips along the row of lockers and counting in her head until she thinks she has found hers. Not until she grasps the combination lock does she realize her fingers are trembling so hard and her mind is racing so quickly that she can't even manage to unlock it. The more time that passes by, the more she feels as if she is being smothered.
In a panic, Quinn throws herself into one of the empty stalls and yanks the shower knob on. A rush of crisp, cold water drenches her perfectly curled hair and her perfect, pale pink dress that her mother picked out while crooning about how she would look like such a princess in it. All Quinn could think of when looking at it was the pale pink blanket wrapped around the little girl she had given up, the one that she would hear crying in her dreams and wake up to take care of her – but the perfect white crib and the perfect little baby she pictured were never there.
It doesn't take the ears of a bat to hear her choked sobs over the sound of rushing water, but he's always had a sense for knowing where she is anyway. After tossing his jacket across an empty bench, Puck peeks into the stall to find her curled up in the corner with her knees against her chest. "You're not allowed in here," she tries to hiss softly but her voice no longer has the same bite to it. "It's nothing I haven't seen before anyway," he smirks for a moment, but neither of them laugh. She doesn't move, so he does, settling down onto the cold wet tile next to her.
"You'll ruin your tux," she mumbles, gaze averted toward the ceiling as she attempts to calm herself down and steady her breath. "It's a rental," he shrugs, "and it's just water right?" In his mind, quelling a panic attack will be worth whatever cleaning penalties there will be to pay.
"I'm nothing," she whispers, face blotchy and red from crying and from the cold water still beating against her face. "You weren't much before," he offers, eliciting a sharp glare from her. "No, I mean," he sighs and slides a hand over his mohawk, leaning backward and into the wall. "All that shit?" he waves a hand toward the rest of the room, toward the gym where couples were slow dancing the night away, "doesn't mean anything. You didn't lose anything because it wasn't anything to begin with. It's just superficial shit. Do you think we're going to care about all this in five years?" That phrase sounds familiar, and it pricks both of their ears just as soon as it slips from his lips.
"I can't sing like Rachel. I can't dance like Brittany. I can't ace every exam like Artie. I won't be a star, I won't even get any scholarships, I won't go to a good school or get out of this forsaken excuse of a town. I'm not funny, I'm not talented, I'm not brilliant, I'm not the Queen, I'm just—" she swallows hard, fingers pressing into her sides as she hugs herself tightly. "I don't know what I am anymore," she drags her lower lip between her teeth and bites down nervously and so hard that he's afraid she'll start bleeding.
"You're Quinn Fabray," he smiles warily, tentatively starting to wrap an arm about her shoulders. It doesn't take much prompting on his part, because she turns into him and buries her face into his chest. Black streaks of mascara smear all over what was once crisp white fabric – there goes a few more bucks, he thinks to himself. Leaning forward, he kisses the top of her head and tries to gently smooth out her tangled, wet locks with his fingertips. "I know the girl I still love is in there somewhere – you just need some time to find her again." He pauses and looks away while gently stroking the back of her neck. "Starting over isn't always a bad thing," he murmurs, and the only response he receives is the affirmative curl of her fingers into his shirt - right above where his heart begins to beat a just little faster.