summary: "You can't swallow, or blink, or really even formulate any rational thought when you see Quinn at school. Because the wicked cave of her absence is gone, the hollowness of her time readjusting—(or is it just adjusting?)—to life after; after." After 3x15, Rachel's POV, angst but happy Faberry ending.
an (1): THEY. HELD. HANDS. that is all. kidding, but really, i just had to write this after seeing tonight's episode. my heart is so sad but also so hopeful i needed to just work it out here—(i think my facial expressions mirrored rachel's most of the time)—so i'm sure you all understand. it's a little angsty but always a happy ending, and it follows cannon through 3x15, so i hope you guys enjoy it! :) also, please review and such, because i love those like chocolate and fountain pens and all of the girly, vintage, magical things in the world. xx
an (2): all of the references in this piece are from of monsters and men's self-titled debut album. which is beyond beautiful. i'd recommend the entire thing, but for this fic, recommended listening: "yellow light" by of monsters and men.
i move slow and steady (but i feel like a waterfall)
.
(she follows me into the woods, takes me home)
...
one. and these fingertips will never run through your skin
.
In the waiting room, in the hospital—and it's all wrong, isn't it?, because she had been driving to your wedding—the doctor comes in and says, "It's touch and go for now."
And it's fast, the way those horrifying thoughts surround your head as nightmares, as mosquitoes, invading your blood: dressing in black, straightening Finn's tie, going to Quinn's funeral. Graduating with her empty seat behind you; someone else would be valedictorian, now, and when they gave their speech everyone would be thinking about Quinn instead. Getting married without her—because now no one would talk you down from it, no one would be brave enough—and somehow it feels like penance. Going to New York and having no one to visit in New Haven every other weekend. Walking into an Anthropologie to buy her a Christmas present before you remember that—
"She's done well," the doctor reports two hours later. Apparently, the next twenty-four hours are crucial, but Quinn is probably—this qualifier is unacceptable—going to live.
It's her laugh, you think, that you'd miss most.
And the way she reads books, because her eyes skim over them with lust and adoration. Even if you never touch her again, you'll feel her gaze your entire life—she looks at you exactly the same way.
(It's now that: Finn's hand burns against yours—stings your skin, scalds and presses and causes the palms in your mind to turn red and blister—and you want to take it away, but you don't deserve that. Your life with him will not be happy. You don't deserve that either.)
...
two. your blood on my bones
.
They've managed to clean all of the blood off pretty well. It's the thing that separates humans from beasts, you think, this ability to place tragedy and wounds and swaddle them in white.
Somehow you're sure Quinn would hate it.
When you see her for the first time, she's really groggy. Judy's gotten to see her for two days, but she finally gets to move out of the ICU and non-family visitors are finally allowed.
You don't cry, because Quinn's awake (sort of), and you don't deserve to get to be the one crying, not when Quinn's cheek is held together with a few little strips of tape, not when one arm's in a sling across her chest because she's bruised ribs.
Not when she can't feel her legs.
But Quinn's not phased in the slightest—not yet—because when you get there, and she sees you, she beams.
"San told me you didn't get married," she slurs (it takes much too long and is too unfocused to be the same Quinn you know).
"I didn't."
"I've been dreaming of you."
You stifle the acid guilt corroding what used to be your heart in your chest, and then Quinn flails a little in bed.
You understand that it means to take her hand. So you do.
"They were good dreams," she says, and you kiss her knuckles because talking at this moment is impossible.
That night your body exists in your dreams as shredded ribbon. It's bizarre. You dissect yourself, take apart your skeleton, cut open your skin, thread your way through stringy muscle.
Your heart is not there.
You trace your sternum—clean, white, clinical, all of the blood cleaned off, leaving a wasteland of desert bone—from diaphragm to sunrise.
(It's now that: The phantom rays of the sun are Quinn's hand in yours when you wake. There is a connection, you are sure.)
...
three. i'm looking for a place to start but everything feels so different now
.
You can't swallow, or blink, or really even formulate any rational thought when you see Quinn at school.
Because the wicked cave of her absence is gone, the hollowness of her time readjusting—(or is it just adjusting?)—to life after; after.
The gap has been bridged by her yellow cardigan and, god, she's wearing a barrette and her hair's gotten a little longer and her makeup is the same (perfect) and her skin's completely healed and it's Quinn.
Your Quinn.
Except for it's not, because as her smile sucks all of the oxygen out of the hallway, she is in a wheelchair.
(It's now that: A universe, planets and stars and entire, sparkling, mysterious, unnamable, unreachable, unchartered galaxies—a black hole of your guilt is there. It threatens to swallow you entirely.)
...
four. as the world comes to an end, i'll be here to hold your hand
.
"Come here," she says, and you do—you're magnets, maybe, flipped the wrong way for so long.
Your face just crumples, but then—a breath—her still-strong arms wrap around your shoulders and you smell her hair and put your cheek against the soft silk of her pretty blouse, and you allow yourself to cry, just a little.
Because she's here.
She holds your hand, and your accordion lungs expand a little, and you feel the pulse in her wrist as surely as you know your own.
(It's now that: It's longing, too—the tide, the in-and-out rise of her chest, her fingers between the spaces of your knuckles. Her eyes are the moon. You won't let go.)
...
five. past the ones that i used to know
.
Her absence is something no one talks about, but it had been her idea to go to Six Flags, so when you ask, "Where's Quinn?" and no one answers, it's clear that she's not coming.
You're excited for one roller coaster ride, and you get to go at the front, but then Finn tries to hold your hand and his touch threatens to detonate your impending implosion.
He makes you let go of that red balloon that maybe will float high enough that Quinn will look up and see it (and think of you, because you're thinking of her and how she loved Banksy). He wins you fourteen stuffed animals and you think of giving them all to Quinn. All you want is to ride a roller coaster with her.
(It's now that: It's the worst, most cliche metaphor ever, and Quinn would scoff at it maybe, but you're pretty sure you want the ups and downs of your future to be accompanied by her breathless smile and possibly a squeal now and then. Her eyes bright:
"Can we go again?")
...
six. troubled spirits on my chest where they laid to rest
.
She implodes first, at once surprising and predictable.
You're walking by her locker by yourself after the fight that you and Finn have—all you do is fight lately, because you're not sure you love past-him or present-him or future-him anymore—and Quinn's books spill out of the small space. You silently bend down and start to pick them up, and she stares in the other direction, at the floor.
Without direction, you know to put all but her AP English 12 notebook and her copy of The Crucible (you have class together and she was doing a project on Arthur Miller) back on the locker shelf and shut the door, and when she still hasn't moved, you arch over so you can see her face better.
"Hey, it's not a big—"
"—Giles Corey was pressed to death," she interrupts. "You know, stones against his chest, one by one, until he died." She glances up at you as her eyes fill with tears. "Until he just stopped breathing, because of the pressure. It'd break ribs and puncture his lungs, did you know that?"
"Quinn," you whisper.
She shakes her head. "He didn't even do anything wrong. It wasn't fair. He didn't."
It's a plea, the way it floats up from her breathless, broken ribs, her teeth dancing with her lips.
"I know, Quinn," you say, "I know."
And then you hug her, without saying anything, and Quinn sobs, big, painful gulps of air.
The bell rings and the hallways empty, and Quinn calms down—in your arms, she feels safe enough to fall apart like she needs to—after a few minutes.
(It's now that:
She says, "You're taking the stones away.")
...
seven. to forgive us for our pasts, to be a better man
.
Two days later, it's the first time you go to her house. You sort of invite yourself over—not that she seems to mind—for a movie, because school still makes her tired, and she agrees.
You let her pick and she hands you La Vie en Rose on DVD—"It's in French but it's about an opera singer and you'll love it and I already do so..."—and you put it in, push play, and then sit down on the couch.
She's still in her wheelchair beside you, and you ask, "Do you want to sit on here?"
She looks uncertain, biting her bottom lip.
"I can help you move; I won't be weird or anything."
She laughs. "You're always weird." But then she offers her hands and instructs you on the proper technique, and soon, she's sitting—a little haphazardly, but the two of your share a satisfied smile—next to you on the couch.
She falls asleep pretty quickly into the film and kind of flops over onto you. It's not graceful like you've always imagined—(and god, you really have thought of this a lot, haven't you?)—but is instead clumsy. She looks years younger, and you try to situate your shoulder so it supports her head comfortably.
"I'm so sorry," you tell her again.
You swear she hears you because her brows knit together and she swats at you, but she never wakes up.
(It's now that: You poke her leg, and it twitches. Pins and needles erupt as tiny divots and mountains all across your skin. You wonder if she can feel this (too). You will make it up to her in all the ways you know how.)
...
eight. the sky wasn't big enough for them all
.
You break up with Finn before graduation.
It's in the middle of the night when you do it, and you're regretful for all sorts of reasons, because it's just gone on for so long.
And then it's not fair in the slightest, because it's late and even though she's—(unequivocally, irrevocably)—your best friend, she deserves sleep, but you call her anyways.
She answers with a scratchy, slow, "Rachel?"
"I broke up with Finn," you say, and you're crying.
"I'm sorry."
It could be because she's just woken up, or because she's actually a wonderfully kind human being, but she sounds sincere.
"I shouldn't have called you."
"No," she says, "it's okay. I'm glad you did."
This is sincere, too.
"Do you want to come over?"
"I shouldn't bother—"
"—Rachel, it wouldn't be bothering me. Come over."
A few minutes later, you're at her house and Quinn answers the door, in pink boxers and a Cheerios sweatshirt, her hair messy, her smile bright, and she reaches up to hug you. She—or really Judy, because Quinn can't reach and Judy's awake anyway, but she seems to enjoy this easy closeness and simple smiles that Quinn offers now—makes you both hot chocolate.
(It's then that: Quinn holds your hand again and squeezes. It's not an anchor, or a tether, or a sink line; instead it's a wing, an engine, ready to make a journey of its own, all over the world, across seas and fault lines and mountain ranges.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
She'll share the sky with you.)
...
nine. we are far from home, but we're so happy
.
Auditioning for NYADA, you think of New York.
And in that is Quinn, always, walking down the streets happily, at first with a limp and then with none at all.
You're together together in the flooding of your eyes by the bright stage lights. It's so beautiful.
(It's then that: You're not blinded by the idea of fame; your world is, instead, illuminated, as it always has been. Quinn's the strongest person you know, solid enough to keep you with her no matter what. Not on Earth, specifically, but in some place only the two of you inhabit: the orange of Ray Bradbury's Venus, only instead that single summer day never ends.)
...
ten. we sleep until the sun goes down
.
"Rachel?"
"What?"
"I've been in love with you for a really long time."
"I know."
Quinn's silent, studying your interlocked hands.
"Quinn?"
"Hmmm?"
"I've been in love with you too."
(It's then that: There exist no more sunsets; only sunrises. Night is another form of life, because Quinn's lips are sparks and coals and matches and candles, only their heat is soothing, gentle light. The sun is there all the time, but, when it sinks into shade, you get to see her with absolute clarity: stars.)
...
eleven. this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore
.
At Nationals, Quinn doesn't dance. And you don't win.
Quinn's walking now, but she's nowhere near strong enough to move that coherently across stage, so she's still in her chair. But her voice is beautiful, and—no thanks to her begrudging extra practice with you—you're certain every note she sings is pitch-perfect.
You get third.
When she stands to hug you—and she's taller, and, god, how you've missed that—all you really care about is each complete, whole safe of the vertebrae beneath the ballet of your fingers against Quinn's straight spine.
(It's then that: They feel like hope. They feel like home.)
...
twelve. the floor under our feet whispers out, come on in, come on in, where it all begins
.
Quinn does walk to get her diploma. (Your cheers are the loudest only because you're the loudest, but Santana gives you a run for your money.)
After, you stay with her a few extra minutes in the choir room, just the two of you.
"Are you excited?"
She looks at you like no one ever has before. "Absolutely. You?"
"Yes."
"I'm a little scared, too."
It's a relief, and you laugh a little, take her hand. "I think we're supposed to be."
After a few comfortable, quiet moments, Quinn says, "You know what I'd love?"
"What?"
"For college to be boring compared to high school."
You laugh fully then.
"I mean, I just want to date you," she says, "and only you. And I won't get pregnant, or go crazy, or have to learn to walk again."
"That sounds—" you kiss her— "like a perfect plan."
"Mmm," she mumbles. She steps back. "You know what I'd really love?"
"What?"
"To sing one last song with you in here."
Your heart swells, stops, stutters, and thumps steadily at the idea. "Show tune?"
She quirks an eyebrow—(you're in love with that)—and says, "Rachel."
You smile. "What'd you have in mind?"
(It's then that: It's Birdy's cover of "Young Blood", and Quinn loves it but so do you, and you get lost in the planet that she is: oceans of her eyes, forests of her hair, deserts (oases) of her skin. Her hands dissolve your blisters with the scars left there from the accident—she is your savior, and you doubt no longer—and you fall completely into the perfume of her eternity. That night, in your dream-dissection, when your chest slices open, your heart will be there. It will be bloody and it will be beating, and when you wake up, Quinn will be beside you, alive, everywhere.)
references. (each of these are lyrics from a specific track from of monsters and men's of monsters and men) the whole album is beautiful, faberry goodness.
.
title. "slow and steady"
quote. "six weeks"
one. "love love love"
two. "six weeks"
three. "yellow light"
four. "king and lionheart"
five. "slow and steady"
six. "your bones"
seven. "sloom"
eight. "dirty paws"
nine. "from finner"
ten. "mountain sound"
eleven. "little talks"
twelve. "lakehouse"
(mentioned: birdy's cover of the naked and famous' "young blood", which is possibly the best coming-of-age song ever recorded.)