Author's Note: This fic is a very different style from my other Glee stories. The tone of this fic is much heavier and darker than I've written before, and as such it will cast both characters in a not-so-great light (Will moreso just by nature of their relationship). As such, if that thing bothers you, be warned.

Alternatively, if such subject matter interests you (as it obviously does me), I would LOVE to hear your opinions on this fic and characterizations of both Will and Rachel. Truly, good or bad, I haven't written like this before and I want to know if it works or doesn't.

Finally, the title of this is from "Get It Right" and you may recognize selections from the song throughout the first two parts. The titles of each part are from the song "Beauty from Pain" by Superchic[k]. THIS IS NOT A SONGFIC, however as I was proofing the fic I happened to hear this song and it really clicked for me. As such, if this works I'm considering making an accompanying fanvid, so opinions on that would be great, too.

Thanks for reading, enjoy!

i. through my fists that i made (my dreams run like sand)

Her fingers play idly with the ivory keys as the tears fall silently down her cheek. Months of effort and sweat and hard work and discipline, and she still let them down. A year later and nothing was different; dirty tricks from Sue, a silver trophy for Aural Intensity, half-promises of something more from a boy that isn't hers.

(Embarrassment, shame, and loneliness.)

((She knows these words well.))

No consolation prize this year, no dopey grin to reassure her. Just glares from her peers and blame placed squarely on her shoulders.

(Wanting to get it right doesn't make it so, and even those who heard the message are unsympathetic.)

She thinks she hears a whisper, but pulls her sweater tighter and plants her feet firmly on the ground.

"Rachel?" A voice is behind her, so soft, and her breath catches.

Unbidden, the tears fall harder, and she doesn't realize it until the pressure in her chest starts to leave black spots in front of her eyes.

Blinking them away only makes it worse and the cold streaks on her heated cheeks do nothing to make her feel better. She can hear him shifting behind her at her lack of response and she waits for him to leave her.

(Everyone leaves her.)

((She can't get it right.))

"Rachel?" It's in her ear now, so soft, so sweet, and the repeated, "Oh, Rachel," is the last sound before the rushing noise of blocking everything out. That pressure in her chest is moving, traveling to her brain and she can't help but crave the inevitable peace that will follow the explosion that must be coming.

(What is she becoming?)

It's there, mounting, an ocean wave about to break the shore. No, she realizes, more tears, and she couldn't feel more pathetic.

The heat of his arm is unexpected and oh so what she didn't need. She tries to tell him, refuse his pity, but she can't speak above the crashing waves.

She's afraid to look at him, to see the disappointment and anger in his eyes at her foolish grab for fame and spotlight when she clearly wasn't ready.

(She's starting to think she'll never be ready.)

He's speaking again, soft, sweet, soothing, and she can't help but look up at him now, as he whispers, "It wasn't your fault, Rach."

His arm is snug around her shoulders, but his hand is hanging stiffly, his fingertips just brushing the sleeve of her sweater.

(She thinks if this were Finn he would have brushed her breast.)

((She is disappointed he will not do the same.))

The thumb that wipes away her tears is his, but he is as shocked as she is. When he cups her cheek it is a slow decision, one that she is sure he will apologize for but not regret.

(She would regret but not apologize.)

He is offering her excuses, blaming the judges, Sue, his choreography, but she's certain he thinks she wasn't ready.

(She is ready.)

((She wants to prove him wrong.))

"I am ready," she whispers. His fingers pause in the slow caress of her pink cheek, now dried of the slick streaks marring it.

His brow crinkles in confusion and her hand is on his. She's pushing into his side, curling into him to test the waters.

He stops making excuses for her and swallows hard.

He's not pushing her away.

She looks him in the eye and then she is pulling his hand over and is setting it on her breast.

He's about to pull away, scold her, tell her it's inappropriate and wrong and he can't do this.

(He won't tell her he doesn't want this, doesn't want her.)

((She's certain now.))

She wants him, wants this because he's sweet and soft and soothing even when their heads butt, and that's the best offer she's had so far.

(It may be sad, but she's learning to take what she gets.)

((She'd never thought she had limits until him.))

It's destructive for both of them so it's natural that their lips meet in the middle. For her it's comfort and recklessness and oblivion and she thinks it might very well be the same for him.

She decides it doesn't matter his reasons, as long as his tongue keeps doing that thing to hers. She can't help the thrill that runs up her spine when the hand on her breast relaxes and presses harder into her, holding the weight of her in his hand.

Before she can make a sound of approval his hand is retreating, his arm is leaving her, and the hard warmth of his chest and arm are sliding back on the piano bench.

The lights are off, have been since she entered the room, and she is suddenly terrified that he is getting up to turn them on. The glow from the streetlamps outside is enough, is more than enough, she can see his face, can make out the conflict in his eyes, and there is no need for more light.

(Their arguments take place in this room during the light of day.)

((The light will remind him of all of her flaws, she's sure.))

So she slides forward, toward him, and there was no need to hurry, because he is turning enough to slide his leg over the bench so he is completely facing her. She matches him, the short skirt of her blue dress sliding higher.

(She wore this dress a year ago.)

((To sir with love.))

His hands sneak around her waist and he pulls her to him, all the way over onto his lap until there is no space between them. He maintains eye contact, and his eyes look like fire and ice and that contradiction is too much for her to figure out so she puts her hands on his chest and kisses him again.

(She can feel her anger, frustration bubbling up and she wants it out, wants it gone and he is the nearest person.)

((Forget the love.))

This is using, she thinks, and she realizes where her sudden desire to do this, to touch him came from.

His teeth steal across her collarbone and she can feel the hard press of him through his pants.

Well, the desire for him, she'd always known. It's this urgency, this need, this scratching from inside that is clawing upwards, outwards, marring everything in its path—this is new.

She rolls her hips, her thighs clenching around his as his hands bracket her waist, helping her. Her hair fanning out behind her as she flips her head back, her throat dry from those inner claws, as a strangled cry brushes her tongue.

(She wants to say his name, test it on her tongue like this.)

((She isn't sure what to call him.))

(((She won't get it right.)))

Skirt bunched under his fist, her hands in his hair, holding his lips to the swell of her breast. Gasps and sighs and begging for more, begging not to stop, begging not to leave.

The last doesn't cause him more than a second of pause so she lets him up from her skin so she can reach for his belt.

She expects a hand to stop her, gentle words meant to discourage but not deny her, and that apology from earlier.

She gets fingers in her hair, blue flame eyes, and no hint of regret.

She keeps his gaze. She pulls the leather toward her. The metal clicks and she feels the belt loosen.

He is so hard beneath his jeans and she thinks about resting her hand there a moment, just to feel him.

(Feel the effect she has on him.)

((Feel the power she has.))

Instead she bites her lip and looks at his face, shadowed as it is in the dark choir room. His eyes are open but so is his mouth, and his shoulders are shaking with the effort of holding back, of breathing as hard as he is.

That thrill is back, rushing down her spine to settle low in her belly as she pops the button on his jeans and pulls the zipper. His breath is audible now as she wraps her hand around his cock and squeezes lightly.

His hands are pushing his jeans from his waist. It's tough but she doesn't let go of him, just keeps moving her hand.

(She likes to think he approves of her choice.)

((She thinks the vein on his neck means he does.))

It's sloppy, she knows. She's inexperienced and unsure, but she wants this so badly she thinks she can make up for her lack of technique with how much she wants this right now.

His hands are sliding up her thighs under that blue dress and she wonders if he recognizes it.

(She wore it they day she hugged him.)

((The day he hugged her back.))

She thinks this memory will make it even more special, even as she remembers the announcement he made hours earlier.

(Glee was no more.)

((Two years culminating in her biggest request.))

(((She still couldn't get it right.)))

The urgency with which she lets go of him to stand is alarming even to her, but she doesn't stop, instead reaching beneath her skirt to pull her panties to the ground. They fall to the linoleum by his jeans and she's back on the bench, climbing back over him.

"Rachel, we—" and she responds that she's on the pill. She thinks it wasn't the issue he was going to raise but it stemmed any other response because she knows he won't clarify now, like this.

So she unbuttons the front of her dress, exposing the white lace of her bra as his hands hold her dress to her waist. Her movements are halted at his worried expression, but before he can realize he's about to fuck his student she reaches for his cock and guides him inside her.

The pressure is more than she expected, but she thinks she likes the hurt of it, especially now.

(Especially from him.)

((They have a habit of hurting each other, but she has to admit she always feels better after.))

She's hovering at a critical point right now; she can feel him straining against her, his muscles taut beneath his skin. She can only just feel him inside her, and she wants more.

(She always wants more.)

She thinks she wants him to be the one to take it the rest of the way, so she puts her hands on his shoulders and squeezes, hoping he gets the message.

He does.

She cries out then, waiting for the hurt to finish and the heal to start.

(She notes the two usually overlap when they're involved.)

((She also notes that he's been more of the former as of late.))

With a roll of her hips she lets him know he can move, has to move, and he does. It's greedy and clumsy and uncoordinated, and yet she realizes that it was never really meant to be more than this.

Their bodies are colliding and he's shut his eyes tight, but she can't seem to close hers. He's beautiful like this, and she wants more.

(The wanting will only lead to heartache.)

((She wants it too much.))

The more she wants is his fingers on her clit, she realizes, as his fingers splay across her back, curling into the fabric there, where he'd rested his hand a year ago.

(Everything was coming full circle.)

((Geometry sucked.))

He's speaking again, telling her to let go, he had her, he was there.

A new wave is building, waiting to break the ocean and she will die if she cries now, like this with him.

The water is bubbling, rolling and ready to break.

A dry sob claws its way out of her throat and she sighs in relief.

(That the pressure was gone.)

((That he wasn't.))

She closes her eyes to stem the tears and when she opens them he is watching her, the light still streaming from the streetlamp as if nothing had changed.

(Nothing had changed.)

((Really, it hadn't.))

He offers her a small smile and she offers one back. She swings her leg from his waist and stands up, grimacing at the unexpected feel of them sliding out of her and down her thigh. She waits for the embarrassment to rush over her but it never comes.

Instead she takes in the man before her and feels soft and sweet and soothed.

A real smile gracing her lips, she reaches down for her panties and, now bashful, hopes the shadow hides her flushed face.

"I'll see you tomorr—" It's the worst thing she could say.

(Worse than calling him Mr. Schue.)

((Worse than calling him Will.))

(((Why couldn't she get it right?)))