summary: 'I can feel you, all around me, wind and rain and devastation—you rip me apart—and the waves beat against my shores, a heartbeat dragging me out to sea. But afterwards I am new. I am so, so alive. I am ready to start over and over again. Forever.' Faberry post-OMW, college reunions. Rachel's POV, Quinn's love letters.
an (1): lovely friends, well. i feel like completely silly for writing this because a) it's the middle of the night and b) i have two of the world's most boring midterm papers to finish by the weekend, but i bought mumford and sons on vinyl and THEY HIT QUINN WITH A TRUCK. so then this became stuck in my head. there are five (FIVE!) love letters from quinn in this piece, so hopefully you guys enjoy :). let me know what you think. merci boucoup! Xxx
an (2): recommended listening: "take care" by beach house.
for you a thousand times over
.
le suprême bonheur de la vie, c'est la conviction qu'on est aimé.
(the supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved.)
—les miserables by victor hugo
...
one. will you wake me when you leave?
.
She really does wake up in the morning, which you think is pretty much the most spectacular thing in the entire world.
"Quinn," you breathe, and her right eye flutters open and her left stays swollen shut, and she groans a little. Santana and Brittany are on her right side, so they can hold her hand, and they do, and you aren't jealous of this contact. In a way, it feels strange for you to be here, in this moment between friends who have been friends for a long time.
But Quinn scrunches her face up in pain and groans out your name. She swallows a few times and then tries to look towards you. "Did you get married?"
It's in the startling moment when she licks her lips—like always—that you realise that somehow your world had shifted to put her in front of everyone else, while you were too busy applying to NYADA and running for president and getting engaged to notice. But there it is, in the rise and fall of her chest, in the little stitches holding together the slashed skin along the top of her left hand that's poking out of a yellow cast.
There's your world.
You fight back the urge to laugh, to tell her then and there that you're like a werewolf or something and you're imprinting. Hard. On her.
Instead you say, "No. No, I didn't get married. I couldn't—not, not without you."
Quinn arches an eyebrow—possibly the most comforting gesture you've ever seen—and then Santana rolls her eyes. Brittany grins.
"Excellent," Quinn says, and you smile, and then she winces again, which causes you to feel physical pain.
Santana calls a nurse briskly and they give Quinn a fair amount of morphine, which you're glad for, because you despise the idea of her being in pain.
She starts to fall asleep almost immediately after that. Brittany kisses her forehead and whispers something about Lord Tubbington coming in for a visit soon, and Santana squeezes Quinn's hand.
And then Quinn turns towards you, looks at you with as much focus as she can muster, and says, "Don't leave without saying goodbye. You can wake me up."
Your hand goes to her hair on its own accord, the intimacy of the gesture only occurring to you afterward, but you don't take it away. "Okay," you say. "I promise."
"Thanks," she slurs, her eyes closed. "And I'm sorry I ruined your wedding."
"No, you're not."
"No," she mumbles, "I'm not."
.
25 January 2016
Dearest Rachel,
The first night we spent together—and granted, it was in a hospital, but still, it was our first night I woke up with you in my arms—you asked about Twilight.
I think I knew why then. I think I know why now. It made me laugh when I realised it, finally, in the middle of my gender studies class yesterday. Because I think you were having this silly moment of thinking of Jacob imprinting.
And I know this because I'm writing this in the middle of the night, because I can't stop thinking of you. This winter break was the warmest I've ever had, the most full of love and wonder. I miss you. I hope you know how much I miss you. I hope you know that every morning I wake up without your arms and legs and heart beside me is a morning I feel unready to face the world, but then I remember that you love me, and this is what seems to matter through my day.
So don't ever mention this to anyone (or I'm serious, I will commit murder-suicide, of course) but I understand. About the imprinting. Because the first time I heard you sing, my entire world fell away and it was you on the cliffs, diving, and I knew only your voice like the sky and your lips like the sea, and your eyes like the wings, hollow bones and feathers that would never stop beating, taking me to see worlds I never even dreamed existed.
Happy Monday. I love you.
Yours,
Quinn xx
P.S. I'm serious.
.
When you get there the next evening, there are tears streaming down her face.
"Quinn," you say, rushing into her room. For some reason, she's alone, although Judy was supposed to be there.
Quinn shakes her head. "My mom's in the bathroom," she says.
You sit down on the edge of the bed. She's propped up on a few pillows, her left arm in a sling, the swelling around her eye going down so now she can open it a little. "What's wrong?"
Quinn looks at you then, bites her bottom lip. "You know," she says. "They told me about—I can't—my spinal cord and—"
"Quinn," you whisper, then hug her gently. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she puts her right arm around your shoulders and sobs into your neck. "You're going to be okay," you promise. "Everything's going to be okay."
When Judy comes out of the bathroom, she looks to you and Quinn doesn't even notice, and Judy's face crumples, but she silently walks from the room, offering you a little nod.
"Quinn," you say when she's gently sniffling into your shoulder, her head growing heavy. "Do you want to sleep?"
"Forever," she mumbles.
"I'd miss your annoying insults too much for forever," you say, and she smiles this tiny, heartbreaking smile that cracks your world in half. "But for tonight it'll be okay I guess."
She gently unwraps herself from your arms and then lays back against her pillows. "Turn the lights off," she says, which you get up and do, then go back to sit on the edge of her bed.
She sighs. "This fucking sucks."
You take her hand, and its warmth surprises you, jolts against your fingers. "They told us it might not be permanent."
She shrugs.
"Quinn, that matters."
She meets your eyes. "Yeah. It does."
"And you can do, like, anything," you say, which makes Quinn laugh.
"Rach?"
"What?"
"Will you—can you—I—" she scoots over feebly in bed and glances at the empty space next to her.
You nod, then climb as gently as possible next to her in the small bed. Her cheeks flush pink and her heart rate monitor beeps away.
"Thanks," she says.
"Have you read Twilight?"
"Yes," Quinn says, "in like seventh grade. But if you tell anyone that I'll kill you. Also I hated them."
"Oh."
"Why?"
"Nothing."
"Awesome."
"Me too," you say. "I hated them too."
She laughs. "I suppose I can be your friend still."
"Thanks, Quinn," you tell her sarcastically, "that means so much to me." You mean it so much more than she knows.
But then Quinn whispers, "Please don't leave."
And you promise you won't.
This is the first time you wake up in her arms. (It is certainly not the last.)
...
two. there's no more single fate, you make me feel myself
.
It's thirty-three days after the accident, late at night, while you're in Quinn's bed watching Winter's Bone,in the middle of the most boring and depressing film you've ever seen in your entire life—but it had been Quinn's choice, so you don't complain—that Quinn smacks your hand.
You look over at her and her eyes are huge in her face, and it looks like she's having trouble breathing.
"Are you okay? Quinn?" you ask.
She gulps two breaths and then says, "I can feel my legs."
"What?"
A smile erupts onto her face—and it bursts into your mind that you really, really want to kiss her—and she nods. "I can feel my legs!"
She starts to cry and then you're hugging and then she scoots back and bites her bottom lip, and there's a moment when neither of you breathe, but then her lips are on yours.
For a few seconds, you don't know what to do, but then you close your eyes and her tongue enters your mouth, and you moan entirely not of your own accord.
An entire lifetime later, she stops kissing you and takes a shaky breath, stares at you. "I—"
But then you kiss her back, you kiss her first, because there's a million things you need to say and she's always been better with words.
.
1 February 2016
Dearest Rachel,
The first time we kissed I knew. You did too. I knew then because I knew I'd never feel anything else quite like it.
I knew because there were no words that could compare to your lips on mine, to the smell of your skin, to the texture of your hair through my fingers. You were perfect. You still are.
I knew because I felt more in that one kiss than I ever had with anyone else, doing anything else. You're more than all the poetry I've ever read, did you know that? Did you know that you terrify me because I don't think anyone has ever created anything as perfect as that kiss? Did you know that you managed to put me back together with your lungs pumping life into mine, with your molecules taking mine over, my cells submitting as trees in a hurricane to your body?
Did you know that still I'm helpless against it?
Did you know that the moment you say my name is the eye of the storm?
This is the moment unlike all others, this is the second of peace that most people never get to have.
I can feel you, all around me, wind and rain and devastation—you rip me apart—and the waves beat against my shores, a heartbeat dragging me out to sea.
But afterwards I am new. I am so, so alive. I am ready to start over and over again. Forever.
(And I still think so, Rachel. I do.)
Happy Monday. I love you.
Yours,
Quinn xx
P.S. I cannot wait to see you! Please don't worry about transportation—I think I've paid my dues to karma or God or Jesus or whatever. I'll be fine. Don't freak out.
.
After she's texted you she'd finished her ninth physical therapy session, you go over to her house. She's in little Nike running shorts and red TOMS and a t-shirt that says New York Herald Tribune on the front, and she's sitting on her front porch, on the steps, her hair messy and short and glinting in the sunset. This, you're certain, is your favourite version of her, relaxed and unpolished.
"Hey," she says, "I have something to show you."
Your heart races. "Okay."
"Help me up," she says, which you do. You hold onto her arm steadily, but then she says, "Let go."
You do and then she takes exactly three steps—beautiful, glorious things—before she reaches out her hand for you to take again.
You do, and then you say, "You're amazing."
She looks down shyly.
"You are. You know that?"
She smiles up at you, a crooked, adorable thing. "I love you," she says.
It's the easiest thing you've ever known. "I love you, too."
She laughs once, brightly, then tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I might fall over," she whispers.
"Oh," you say, then help her back to the porch steps.
"My mom won't be home until late," she tells you. And then you kiss in the sunset, her leg wrapping around yours.
"We're high school sweethearts, you know," you whisper when it's almost dark.
She shakes her head. "This is different."
"You think we could—"
"Yes," she says. (You think so too.)
...
three. you've got a warm heart, you've got a beautiful brain
.
"You're like really smart, huh?"
She rolls her eyes. "Rachel."
"I mean, you're probably the smartest person our age that I know."
"I was valedictorian."
You shake your head, propping yourself up onto an elbow so you can look at Quinn, who currently is wearing a tiny bikini and a huge sunhat and large sunglasses, laying out by the pool in her backyard. "But we're in Lima, Ohio."
"What does that have to do with me being of above average intelligence?"
"What'd you get on your SAT?"
She shrugs.
You put your hand against Les Miserables and push it down, away from Quinn's face. She glares. "I mean—" you gesture towards the hefty book— "your favourite summer reading is unabridged Victor Hugo. In French."
"It's better in French," she mumbles.
You hide a smile. "And you randomly recite poetry. And I think you're really smart, Quinn. Smart enough to be smarter than most people at Yale."
She swallows and takes her sunglasses off.
"Your brain is beautiful," you say. "Don't ever forget that."
In between kisses, she mumbles, "I got a 2320 on my SAT."
.
8 February 2016
Dearest Rachel,
I can't believe I'm publishing in Atlantic. I know this is where you'd say, "I told you so," but you've already told me that about twelve hundred times on the phone and Skype, and this is my letter, so I'm saying it anyway.
Thank you for believing in me. For trusting that somewhere in me lay stories that other people would understand, that the words inscribed in my muscles and tendons and ligaments, scripted onto my bones, are things worth telling.
You fill me with blood and marrow, you pump my heart and blink my eyes. You move my fingers. So you're every single story I write. The good in every character, the redeeming quality, the bridge across fault lines, those are you. Those are you in my world. You never paved over the cracks like everyone else tried to. You climbed down into them with me, you stayed in the shadows and held me in the dark, you planted gardens and fed me when I couldn't leave—not just yet. You draped blankets over me when I shivered in the winter cold, you gave me water in the summer sun when I couldn't move.
You never gave up. You may have been one of the first people in my life to do that.
And then you held my hand when I was ready and we climbed out of those canyons. We did, and now we're here (away from the edge, away from the edge, away from the edge). Those canyons are still there—scars and tears and days when my legs still can't seem to work right, and memories too—but we really can stand and watch the sunrise over them, admire all of the world that exists outside of them: the Paris of my heart (I love you, with light), the New York of my lungs (they never sleep), the San Francisco of my mind (you always clear the fog).
You're every word that I will ever write, Rachel, because you're alive in me constantly.
Happy Monday. I love you.
Yours,
Quinn xx
P.S. TOMORROW I will be in your arms.
.
"I'm so tired," Quinn mumbles into her computer screen, raking a hand through her hair, which makes it disheveled and adorable, and it only makes you miss her more. Her roommate swats at her head with a grin.
"Is this your girlfriend?"
Quinn turns and you can only imagine her bashful, shy smile, then she turns back towards you. "Rachel, this is Hazel. Hazel, this is—" she arches an eyebrow at you with a smirk— "girlfriend, Rachel."
"You know she never stops talking about you?" Hazel says, smiling, patting Quinn on the shoulder.
"I don't think she ever stops talking in general."
Quinn rolls her eyes. "Really feeling the love. Thanks guys."
You and Hazel laugh. "Well, I'm going to class. Nice to meet you, Rachel," she says, then leaves with a wave.
"She seems cool," you say.
"She is," Quinn says. She smiles, resting her chin in her hand and moving closer to the screen.
To keep yourself from crying, you ask, "How are your classes?"
She sighs, but then she nods. "Classes really aren't that hard, just a lot of time consuming work."
"Look at you," you say, "classes at Yale are easy."
She laughs. "I didn't say easy."
You put your hand to the screen as if you could feel her. "I expect you to write about me someday."
"This is very Perks of Being a Wallflower of you, Rach."
"I'm serious."
"You'll already be a big star, famous and all. No one will want to read some boring old love story of the ages." She grins.
"God, I love you."
"Apparently my writing is sexy to you. Good to know."
You roll your eyes. "Go take a nap. You're a brat when you're tired."
"You insult me like a four year old. What happened to us slapping each other?"
"It's not as much fun when we're not kissing."
Quinn frowns. "True."
You laugh. "I love you, really."
She smiles. "I love you, too. Really."
"I'll text you later, okay?"
Quinn nods. "And Rachel?"
"Hmmm?"
"Everything I write is about you."
...
four. this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
.
Quinn's mom stares for a few seconds, and the circulation to your fingers had been but off long before, but you're sure Quinn's still squeezing for dear life.
"Okay," Judy says.
"What?" Quinn says. "Really?"
Judy nods. "Yes, Quinn. I don't—" she takes a steadying breath— "I love you more than anything. Nothing will change that. I think you're going to have some choices to make for your entire life as a Christian, but I want you to be happy. I love you."
Quinn starts crying and then Judy comes to hug her, and Quinn squeezes her tightly, closes her eyes. "I love you, Mom," she says.
Judy kisses Quinn's forehead and wipes her tears with a little smile. "Thank you for telling me."
Quinn lets out a breath, then smiles. "You're so welcome."
Judy grins at you, then, and says, "If you hurt her, the same rules apply to you as they did to boys."
You nod and laugh and say, "I'd expect nothing less."
.
9 February 2016
Dearest Rachel,
I'm just so excited I have to write you a letter on the train.
I've been thinking I might write my French honours dissertation about the role Victor Hugo's works have played in contemporary French literature. Because, well, Les Mis always just feels special. And it's kind of risky, my advisor said, but he thinks I can do it, because I'm a "brave writer." You make me brave. You always have.
Watching you perform is like the seventh day after God created the world. I imagine that it's what God felt like after those six days he shaped the earth and the seas and the sky, when he made light and there it was. And there were people whom he loved, and he got to sit back and watch them revel in the beautiful, perfect place that had been crafted just for them.
When I watch you, it's like you're just perfect, you exist in this perfect moment of creation, where all of the stars bend to your will and the wind stills at your feet and the entire world—the entire world—was made for you to know. It's the most sensuous thing I know, Rachel, watching you on stage, doing what you were made to get to do. I'm so lucky to be a part of it.
Happy Tuesday. I love you.
Yours,
Quinn xx
P.S. Twenty-nine minutes until I kiss you.
.
Before the first time you perform at NYADA—at the end of the fall semester, and you do get to play Cosette in their production of Les Miserables, which is almost unheard of for a freshman—you very nearly get so nervous you debate not going on.
But just as you're about to puke, or have a full-fledged panic attack, Quinn walks through the door of your dressing room, perfect in a pretty dress and heels, her short hair shining, in messy curls.
You burst out of your chair and hug her, and she laughs lightly as she returns your embrace. "You're going to be perfect, you know."
"What if I'm not?"
She backs up and quirks her head. "Well, I can't really speak for any other roles in other musicals, but I've read Les Mis about fifty times—in French—" she adds with a playful smile, which you can't help but return— "and you're by far the sappiest, most romantic person I know."
"This is a helpful pep talk," you mumble.
She holds up a hand. "And, Rachel Barbra Berry," she takes your hand, squeezes, "you are the most talented person I know. You're the bravest person I know. So, tonight you'll be all of those things. And everyone will love you."
You take a deep breath and Quinn smiles, then puts her hands on either side of your face and kisses gently.
"And I love you," she whispers. "I'll be sitting there, loving you more than I've ever loved you before. Just remember that."
"I will," you promise. (And you do, for every performance after that too.)
...
five. with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair
.
Your first time is over winter break, your freshman year.
Stars explode behind your eyes and Quinn holds all of you, and her lips are everywhere, and she takes you and makes sure she keeps you together as you completely fall apart.
You do the same for her.
Afterward, as you curl up in her limbs and the duvet on her bed, she says, "E.E. Cummings called it the transcoloured instant. I had no idea what he meant until now."
You smile into her collarbone. There's a little scar there, and you kiss it softly.
"I'd be happy if you were mine for the rest of my life," she confesses.
"Me too," you say, and the way you love her is like falling asleep: slowly, and then all at once.
.
21 February 2016
Dearest Rachel,
Today's a big day for me, you know, like a second birthday (I'm four!), and I'm so lucky I got to spend it with you. I really mean it—I'm the luckiest girl on the planet.
Hopefully you get this letter on the right day—I wrote it a few days early so I'd be sure to mail it in time. I miss you already, again. I feel like I'm constantly saying that. I probably am.
There are three things you need to know. I have to write them down in letter form because if I try to tell them to you in person, you'll be much too distracting. (Which is a good thing, don't worry.)
The first thing is that I got accepted into NYU's MFA program. This fall. I'm moving to New York, to study writing, to be with you.
The second thing you need to know is that you're the love of my life. You make words seem to fall short, you make every metaphor and simile in the entire human existence seem mediocre for what I want to say you mean to me. Every time we kiss, every time we make love, every time you hold my hand, every time you say my name, I remember who I am again. I remember that I'm someone worth while—I must be, because you seem to believe so, and I believe you. You make my life full of laughter and sometimes tears and lots of screaming, but it's the most beautiful existence I can imagine.
I love you with conviction, Rachel, I love with you the strings of fate around your heart, tugging and holding and pulling me forever closer to that beating thing I want to feel every second of every day.
The third thing you must know is that I want to be your wife. Don't worry, when this letter arrives, you will have said yes already—I'm not cocky, I just know us—but I probably messed the whole thing up and started crying before I got my speech out, so here it is, for you to have forever: I love you. I could write every moment for the rest of my life and never say it enough times. I love the way your nose crinkles when you smile. I love the way your hair smells when it rains. I love that you believed in me all the way back in high school, when I was crazy (and I was, and so were you). I love the way you don't drink coffee and that I'm almost vegan now—bacon, Rachel, will always the best food in the world—because it makes me think of you. I love that I can remember exactly how your laugh sounds when I'm sad and it makes me happy again.
I love that, all those years ago, you held me and told me that everything was going to be okay. And it isn't, Rachel, because everything is wonderful. Lovely. As close to perfect as anyone in this life probably gets. Because I have you, a talented, beautiful woman who miraculously loves me back. You make me so happy. Like blaring-Neon-Indian-at-the-beach-during-the-summer-and-dancing-into-the-middle-of-the-night-happy. I get to make a life with you. We get to go shopping at anthropologie for things for our apartment, we get to go to Paris and buy paintings and records and books at a flea market. We get to have a family, and they'll be talented like you and insane like me, and we'll name them after musicians and authors and we'll embarrass them in front of their friends and we will give them more love than any children in the world. We get to grow old together, and you will always be beautiful.
I love you like nothing else, Rachel.
I love you like the first time we kissed, I love you like the first time we made love. I am alive. I will use my life to make the world brighter, and I will do so by asking you to be in it forever.
Happy Sunday. I love you.
Yours,
Quinn xx
.
(P.S. Dear Quinn,
So we remember always—I did say yes. And I love you too.)
.
It's the seventh time you visit her at Yale that you're absolutely certain Quinn's it.
You're sophomores, and she picks you up from the train station, bright in a teal peacoat, squishing you in a desperate hug before kissing you much more gently.
She takes your bag with a little smile and weaves her fingers through yours, and then she walks hesitantly in the direction of some cabs.
"Quinn?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we maybe go for a walk? I've been sitting for a while and—"
"Sure," she says, visibly relaxing. "We could get lunch—there's a little place really close to here that has wonderful quiches."
You laugh a little. "Perfect."
"I mean, I know French food isn't your absolute favourite, but it's vegan—I've made sure—and—"
"—Quinn. Quinn, how're you doing today?"
Quinn takes a deep breath. "I can't believe it's been two years. It feels like two seconds and two hundred centuries." She laughs a little shakily. "It's so weird to think that I could've missed all of this—" she points at you— "and never get to hold you or see you perform and know my mom and, and—I should've died."
You tug on her hand and she stops walking, puts down your bag and crushes you in a kiss.
"You're alive," you say into her mouth. "You're alive, Quinn, you're alive, you're alive, you're alive."
You pull back gently from your kiss. She sniffles a few times and you wipe tears from her cheeks, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. You pick up your bag before taking her hand again.
"Lunch?"
You nod. "Lunch."
"Rach?"
"What?"
"Thanks for reminding me."
references (yep. check them out.)
.
title. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.
one. "Graveyard Song" by Mae Whitman (Amber) on Parenthood.
two. "Reunion" by M83.
three. "Medicine" by Daughter.
four. "i carry your heart (i carry it in" by E.E. Cummings.
five. "After the Storm" by Mumford and Sons.