i. Here it goes. Quinn and Rachel. Let's see what I can make of it. The title is taken from the song by Passion Pit. I do not own these characters.
Forbidden fruit a flavor has
That Lawful orchards mocks;
How luscious lies the pea within
the pod that Duty locks!
Emily Dickinson
There is smoke spilling out of Judy's mouth in the kitchen, with her eyes out the window and a glass in her hand. The ice is slick; it clinks like china, or a silver fork set down against a plate at dinner. Where does vodka begin and water end? How many ice cubes for how many glasses? Is this her first cigarette of the afternoon or her eleventh?
Quinn isn't sure. In the doorway her own hands are empty and crossed over her chest. It is hot, even inside. Russell turned off the AC after the fight earlier; after Judy said she was cold and Russell said it was fine and it's not fine, Russell, I'm cold. So he turned it off altogether. It's my goddamn house Judy, he said. My goddamn money that pays for your nice things. If you don't like the goddamn air conditioning you can go without.
Now it is hot. Too hot. But Quinn isn't going to say anything about it.
She watches her mother smoke. The window over the sink is open but a haze still settles over the room. It leaves the furniture vague, the walls, all of it- surreal and blurred. Judy's blue grey eyes retain the same murkiness. Not her first glass, then.
Sunlight filters through the windows, designed to be large and airy as is befitting the Fabray's large and airy victorian home. But it is summer. With the shine comes the heat.
"Still cold, dearest?"
Judy takes a drag on her cigarette. She says nothing. Only the smoke rises at Russell's bait. When he leaves the room, it is with a snarl on his lips.
Quinn's sundress presses damply against the small of her back. The heat, this goddamn heat. It is only one of a multitude of reasons Quinn regards Lima, Ohio as hell on earth.
Judy does not seem bothered by it though Quinn can see the sweat that beads her brow, the blonde hair that clings wetly to the back of her neck in small curls. Quinn notices: the sweat, the glossy eyes, the smoke; Russell in some distant room, banging things with particular force. She wishes it didn't bother her. Yet, like the heat, it creeps under her skin.
"I'm going to Santana's."
The ice clinks as it shifts in her mother's glass. A bell, a wind chime, Judy drinking her consciousness away, one ice cube at a time. She remains silent.
"I might spend the night."
The only sound is the sound of indifference. Or, out the window, insects buzzing in the grass.
Judy inhales, holding in her breath. Then she lets the smoke spill out of her nostrils. Grey wisps drift upward as her eyes drop down to regard the sink with a glazed look. Was she supposed to do the dishes? There are none. A clear droplet rolls down the side of her forehead.
Quinn feels a similar line of sweat run down her own back.
"If dad asks, can you tell him where I am?"
She does not expect an answer. She waits for a moment on the off chance she will receive one.
Judy stares at the faucet.
"Bye," Quinn whispers.
It is swallowed in the heat.
Hot. So goddamn hot. Quinn's duffle bag digs into her shoulder though she did not pack much. Just a bathing suit and sleepwear. She walks slowly, each flip flop wacking loudly against the pavement. Fwap. Her thoughts are not as methodical as her steps.
Santana. It is on impulse that she is heading over to the other girl's house. An impulse preceded by her own text: Can I come over? I need to talk to you about something. Santana's quick response: sure whore- brng stff 2 sleepover did little to settle her nerves.
It is the summer before Sophomore year. Quinn and Santana are about to become the youngest cheer captains in history on the McKinley Cheerios. Co captains. They have survived Freshmen year. The hazing, the slushies which they in turn were pressured to dish out to others. Santana already has a reputation as a bitch. Quinn has made sure to appear enticing but unobtainable- she's joined the celibacy club and is looking to be the leader next year. Both the quarterback and his best friend have showed signs of being interested in her.
More importantly- most importantly, even -Quinn has met Rachel Berry. The slushy covered (more often than not) loud mouthed diva with two dads, big eyes and incredibly short skirts.
Quinn has come to the unfortunate realization that she might actually be gay.
ii. Beginning of the beginning. Thoughts? Not much to go on, but a feel, a glimpse, perchance.