Summary: "You had skinned a small patch of skin off the bridge of your nose when you hit the pool wall, but the pale mark was hardly noticeable when placed above your most outstanding facial feature. You put your hand over your nose and continued to examine yourself in the mirror, and when you successfully reimagined a different nose, you whispered, 'Perfect.'" — Faberry Week, Day 1: Scars — Faberry, Quinn's POV, summer before college, WTWG universe

Rated: T

The Flowers Don't Quit Opening

All species have a notion of emptiness, and yet
the flowers don't quit opening.

- Terrance Hayes, "Lighthead's Guide to the Galaxy"

1.

You look at yourself in the mirror as you worry your bottom lip between your teeth.

This is the first time in eight years you've warn a one-piece swimsuit. The last time you wore one, you were pudgy and nearly blind in the pool without your glasses. Your mother had signed you up for a "summer camp," which was actually a fat camp without saying the word "fat." She thought it would be good for you—meaning Frannie had hit puberty in a moderately graceful fashion, while you collided into it head-on and it collapsed on you like a ton of bricks.

Because of your fear of touching your own eyeballs, you had yet to attempt contacts when you attended your swim class. Clad in Speedo goggles and matching swimsuit, you were eager to prove yourself in the pool. As a Fabray, Russell raised you to be the best. Without glasses, however, it was difficult to tell when you were approaching the pool wall. Your competitive nature got the best of you during a race, sending you face-first into the pool wall. You successfully closed the pool for a day with the amount of blood that poured from your already large nose.

The gossip quickly spread amongst camp members that Lucy Fabray got her period in the pool. Your bunkmate advised you to avoid the ocean since sharks could smell blood. They called you Sharkbait Fabray for the rest of the week. Even other chubby kids struggling with growing pains could be brutal to one another, especially when those kids belonged to the same country club. It wasn't a camp full of community-building and compassion, but ruthless competition in attempt to outshine others, working adamantly to achieve the perfect bodies—be the perfect children their parents could be proud of.

Luckily, this was the very reason you switched to gymnastics. Once you found your center of gravity, you discovered you had a natural talent for it. After the first week of gymnastics, you began to lose weight. Once camp ended, your mother agreed to sign you up for private lessons, and you put yourself on a diet; your father beamed at you when he watched you force down steamed, bland vegetables instead of the main dish at family dinner.

When you looked at your reflection on your thirteenth birthday, you stared at the scar of your healed nose for ten minutes. You had skinned a small patch of skin off the bridge of your nose when you hit the pool wall, but the pale mark was hardly noticeable when placed above your most outstanding facial feature. You put your hand over your nose and continued to examine yourself in the mirror, and when you successfully reimagined a different nose, you whispered, "Perfect." Your parents called you brave when they agreed to getting you contacts and a nose job—your only birthday wishes.

You sigh, looking at the faded, white scar on the bridge of your nose, placing your sunhat on your head, then your sunglasses.

"Quinnie!" your mother calls, "Santana's here!"

"Be right down!" you call back.

You turn and look over your shoulder. The tank-top covers most of the darker scars, only pale white ghosts of where the glass cut into you peek out. You know what lies underneath, what will inevitably show when you pull it off to go swimming. The low cut back of the swimsuit will show exactly where the doctors had to cut you open; you hate that all evidence of what you survived is so ugly.

You take a deep breath and find yourself repeating, "You're a lot more than that," in your head. You pick up your overnight bag before taking the stairs down toward the foyer. You see your mother talking with Santana, dressed in her old Cheerios shorts and a cut off tank-top from one of Brittany's dance camps.

"Hey Q," Santana says with a grin. It's so gentle you refrain from rolling your eyes because you know Santana is working really hard to be nice to you. If you hadn't been hit by a car, she'd have called you fatty and made fun of your outfit.

You end up laughing when you get a good look at her face and see she has lifeguard-style, light blue sunscreen on her nose.

She lets out a knowing sigh, "Britts read an article about skin cancer and doesn't want my face to melt off," she explains, "She made me put on one layer of sunscreen, and I have to reapply when we're a half-hour from the beach."

You just nod, stifling more laughter. Santana has been almost overwhelmingly warm to you since graduation, and you know the both of you don't want to waste any of the summer with bickering that turns to full-blown arguments.

"Well, Brittany is a very smart girl," your mother says, handing you a mini-cooler, "I packed a few snacks for you girls."

"Thanks, Judes," Santana says, cutting in and taking the cooler herself. "I'll drive safe!" she says, making a hasty exit before you can insist on carrying the cooler.

"Thanks, Mom," you say, giving her a small smile before heading out after Santana.

You may have used Santana's summer sentimentality to convince her to invite Rachel along for the small road trip-slash-slumber party; you are friends now, after all. Santana begrudgingly agreed, but you smirk at her in the rearview mirror when you catch her harmonizing with Rachel's radio sing-along. She gives you a brief glare, but you both end up chuckling quietly.

You and Rachel laugh quietly when Santana obediently pulls into a rest stop when the GPS reads 30 minutes until you reach your destination. Brittany makes Santana strip to her swimsuit on the sidewalk and hold her arms out before practically emptying her sunscreen all over her. (SPF 30, which, according to Santana, was a battle considering Brittany purchased an SPF 80).

You watch Rachel reach down into her back and pull out her own (all-natural, of course) sunscreen. She pulls her Les Mis t-shirt off, exposing already-sun-kissed skin, before applying it to herself.

"Do you need some?" Rachel asks, holding out her bottle to you.

You shake your head. She merely shrugs and leans down to coat her legs, making you divert your eyes from the way she rubs the lotion into her calves.

You take your own sunscreen out from your bag—SPF 40, because you're still a Fabray and Fabrays don't want wrinkles by 30. You finish your arms and legs, reaching under your shirt to apply some to your stomach and chest, where you feel the raised skin of the scars from when the EMS had to slice open your chest to drain your lungs on sight of the accident.

You pull out a spray sunscreen you bought from the store, and you're about to get out to quickly spray your back, but Rachel's voice stops you.

"Those kinds of sunscreen aren't very good for you, Quinn," she notes, finishing her facial sunscreen. "Aerosol cans are also caustic to the environment."

"Rachel…"

"Think of all the dying polar bears," she says giving you a pointed look. "Just give me your other stuff; I can help."

"You don't have to."

"I insist."

"It's… I don't want to gross anyone out," you confess to prevent a Rachel Berry rant about natural cosmetics and environmentalism.

Rachel's face falls when she realizes what you mean. "You're a beautiful girl, Quinn. Nothing about you is gross."

You divert your gaze and pick at the label, looking for some other excuse. You look up at Rachel as she slowly reaches toward your hand and takes the bottle. She smiles reassuringly and motions for you to turn around. "It's okay," she says softly.

You turn around in your seat, taking in a shaky breath.

"I'm just going to lift your shirt a bit, okay?"

You nod, swallowing with some difficulty. You feel her lift your tank-top, slipping her hand under it and gently skimming her free hand over your shoulder to avoid surprising you with her touch. You hold back a shiver when you feel the cool lotion and her hand meet your skin. The shirt rises more, and you can make out Rachel's focused expression in the tinted window's reflection. Her hands are soft, and she doesn't pause when her hand glides along the scars on your back.

You let out a trembling breath when she lets your shirt fall back into place.

"Thanks," you say as she gives you a small smile.

"You're welcome," she says, handing you the bottle, "Anything for the polar bears."

You chuckle, making Rachel's smile widen.

"I'm happy you're here," she says sincerely.

"Me too," you busy yourself with putting away the sunscreen and add, "And I'm glad you could come along today."

"You two done lubing up, or what?" Santana says, getting back into the car as Brittany hops into the passenger side, turning to you and Rachel with an excited grin.

You feel your face flush.

"I love that warming kind!" Brittany says, "It's really good for—"

"B, remember what we talked about?" Santana says in her patient tone reserved for Brittany only.

"Oh, right," the blonde says, turning back around to face the front.

You glance over at Rachel and see that her cheeks are tinged pink. She gives you a dramatized look of relief. You grin before looking out the window, wondering how many of these small exchanges with Rachel you missed throughout high school. You know why you did. At least you're starting to understand. The strange fluttering in your stomach that makes you feel equal parts terrified and excited reminds you why you try not to think about it.

You stand beside Rachel as you take in the beach on Lake Erie. It's a weekday, so it's not too crowded.

"We made it," Rachel says with a happy sigh.

You breathe in the summer air, grinning as you prod Santana with your elbow, "Considering Santana drove us, that's a feat."

"Don't make me leave you here, Fabray," she says, huffing as she waddles her way toward the sand with Brittany's floats and beach chairs in her arms.

You're helping Rachel set up an umbrella when Brittany grabs Santana by the hand, a unicorn floaty in the other, and races off toward the water.

"I don't think I fully understood the term 'whipped' until I saw Santana with Brittany," you say, watching Santana try and run away from the cold water, but quickly get dragged in by her girlfriend.

"I think it's sweet," Rachel comments, lying out the beach blanket.

"They make it look easy," you say, mostly to yourself, sitting in the chair beside the blanket.

"I like to think it can be… sometimes anyway," Rachel says, slipping out of her shorts and pulling off her shirt, reclining on the blanket. "But that's coming from someone whose passion is musical theater where people fall in love in a two-minute song."

You catch yourself scanning Rachel's body, her flawless skin. You know she takes pride in her skin care regiments, but you've only learned your make-up routines in effort to hide or disguise parts of yourself.

"Was it easy with…" you trail off, wishing you never started to ask.

"Yeah. Most of the time," Rachel answers, looking up at you with a small, sad smile. "But life isn't a musical. It was frustrating too," she shrugs and sighs, "I guess I don't want it to be easy—just worth the hard parts."

You nod, watching Brittany flip Santana off the unicorn float. You wonder if you'll ever have that lightness—laughter that empties your lungs so they ache for more air, only to empty again—to share that with someone. Or if you'll ever be so breathless from kissing someone that you forget all the scar tissue locked in your ribcage.

"You'll find it, Rach."

Rachel lets out a breathy laugh, "I'm pretty impossible sometimes, so let's hope someone tolerates me enough."

"You're worth it," you bite the inside of your cheek, "I mean, we're friends despite your endless rants and all."

Rachel's smile broadens, "Yeah. If I can be friends with Quinn Fabray, I guess anything's possible."

"You never know," you say with all the nonchalance you can muster. As you close your eyes, you try to think of anything other than the feeling of hope that blooms inside your lungs, taking up too much space, when Rachel's voice replays in your head—anything's possible.

2.

You breathe in deeply through your nose as you watch Rachel stretch her arms out over head before rolling over to her stomach on the blanket. You imagine your hand tracing the line of her spine, down to the dimples of her lower back. This isn't the first time you've thought of something like this. You haven't looked into the depths of what this means; you don't want to exhume the reasoning behind the bullying, the ways you tried to shove her out of Lima—out of your life—under the guise of getting her away from Finn. Finn was never worth it, and you know that excuse doesn't hold water.

Some nights, especially nights after drinking with Santana and Brittany, you let yourself go there—below the surface, just enough to delve into the less frightening but darker parts of yourself. You've had these feelings for a while, these make-believe scenarios. If you're drunk enough to be brave, you let your imagination run free, and it always conjures an image of Rachel or the sound of her voice—all quiet and close, whispering lovely wishes and dreams into your ear that plants seeds in your diaphragm, so you breathe spring blossoms and things you always thought were too alive for you to possess—it all sounds a lot like love.

You shake these thoughts from your head and focus on the sounds of Lake Erie—the children screeching in joy, the enthusiastic shouts of a nearby volleyball game—the soundtrack of summer, an easier life.

"The water's so nice!" Brittany says, skipping to the blanket, dropping the unicorn float, and plopping down beside Rachel. "You two should go in!"

"Where's Santana?" you ask, looking around for any sign of her.

"Getting us ice cream sandwiches," the blonde says cheerily.

You smirk.

"I would like to cool down," Rachel says, sitting up on the blanket. She stretches again, and you stare for a bit too long at her shoulder blades and the exposed sides of her breasts.

"You should too, Quinn," Brittany adds, giving you a smile. You wonder if she was making a snide observation, but it's all innocence and encouragement.

"Don't make me go alone," Rachel says, giving you a small pout.

"I'll watch our stuff," Brittany insists, pulling her sunscreen out from her bag.

You sigh, then nod resolutely. You stand from your chair, slipping out of your shorts, then your shirt. The summer heat eases the pressure of the scar tissue along your back, but the ache in your bones always remind you of the marks that stand out on your pale skin.

"Aw," Brittany says, looking at your back. You brace yourself for a possible pity party. "Ryan Seacrest is all blotchy."

You let out a laugh, much louder than you expected, "I had my first removal appointment a week after graduation. Soon he'll be gone."

"Just like his career," Santana notes, joining the group and taking Rachel's place on the blanket.

You don't miss the way that Santana subtly looks at your newly exposed skin. She squints in the sunlight when she looks up at you, "Like the swimsuit, Fabray."

You roll your eyes, kicking some sand onto her feet. "Thanks."

"Let's go," Rachel says cheerily.

"Take the mini-raft! It's fun," Brittany says, pointing to what resembles a small air-mattress.

"Thanks, Britt," you say, picking it up and following after Rachel.

You smile the entire time you watch Rachel squeal as she gradually enters the water. It's cold in contrast to the hot sand, but your body adjusts; you also have the advantage of holding onto the float.

Once Rachel is waist-deep, she takes a deep breath and dives under the small waves. She breaks through the other side as you float over it, and you hold your breath when you see how the sunlight glitters in her wet eyelashes. She just blinks the water from her eyes and grins at you, and you feel brave enough to let your body exist in this space.

"Don't make me flip you over," Rachel says, half-swimming-half-walking toward you, now up to her chest in the water.

"Fine," you say, rolling your eyes before flipping yourself over into the water.

Through the sounds of the water, you can hear Rachel's laugh. You let your body carry itself to the surface, live in the weightless world and take in the lightness of Rachel's voice as she calls your name. You're sure if you started to drown that Rachel would be the one to bring you back.

You take a deep breath after coming to the surface.

"It's nice," you say, "I haven't been swimming in ages."

"Yeah, I'm excited to live near the coast," Rachel says, grabbing hold of one end of the float before pulling herself up onto her stomach. Her skin shines, and you watch the way the water trails aimless paths down her body.

You pull yourself up in a graceful manner, rocking the float but managing to keep a giggling Rachel on. "Same," you say, closing your eyes as you feel the sun warm your back. No one else is around to stare, but you find you don't mind the way Rachel looks at you. With her cheek rested on her folded arms, she looks mostly at your face. You wonder what she sees, what she believes about you.

When she closes her eyes and hums in content, you have to refrain from reaching out to touch her, trace your finger along the path of a drop of water down her jawline. She looks peaceful, her back slowly rising and falling—you imagine this is what she looks like when she sleeps.

"Let's just stay out here forever," Rachel says with a sigh, opening her eyes and smiling at you.

You feel your heart ache when you realize you'd consider the possibility of staying out in the water if that meant it would be like this.

"No Broadway?" you say.

"I guess not forever," she says with a breathy laugh, closing her eyes again, "Just a bit longer. It's just so beautiful and calm. I need calm in my life."

"Me too," you agree, closing your eyes and letting your mind drift to a place where you and Rachel could share more of the calm, softer, warmer parts of life.

When you get back to shore, Santana has moved everything closer to the water so Brittany could build a sandcastle.

You and Santana watch as Brittany recruits Rachel to help build the moat with her team of sandcastle experts—some children from the nearby families. You wrap a towel around yourself before sitting in the chair next to Santana.

"Fresh coat?" you say, noting Santana's blue nose.

"Yup," she says, chuckling as she shakes her head at herself.

You see a little girl with light brown hair and bright green eyes approach Rachel, "Can I help?"

Rachel gives the girl a bright grin, "Of course. Want to help me make the castle walls?"

The little girl nods excitedly.

"I'm Rachel. What's your name?"

"Cecilia."

"That's a pretty name."

Santana hands you a Diet Pepsi and opens one for herself. She reads a magazine as you continue to look on, watching the sandcastle grow.

"What's that?" Cecilia asks, pointing a little finger to Rachel's knee.

You'd never have noticed it, but there it was—about a square inch of pale skin toward the side of Rachel's right knee cap.

"A little scar," she tells the little girl in a soft voice.

"How'd you get it?"

"I was a little older than you, and a boy pushed me at recess. I scraped my knee pretty bad."

"Why did he do that?"

"He wasn't very nice," Rachel says.

"I don't like bullies," the little girl says, furrowing her eyebrows.

Rachel mirrors this action and you find her expression adorable, "Me neither."

"I'm sorry you got hurt," Cecilia says sincerely.

"It's okay. It's all better now."

It's late by the time you all arrive back at Santana's house. Her parents took a small trip to Cleveland for a few nights to celebrate their upcoming anniversary, so she insisted on hosting a girl's night. Puck insisted on staying, but Santana only handed him the money for the wine and shut the front door on him.

It only took a half an hour for the first bottle of wine to disappear and for you to start feeling drunk. Brittany and Santana insisted on an 80s movie, but after the second bottle of wine was finished, they were making out on the couch adjacent to you and Rachel.

You merely roll your eyes, grab the open third bottle of wine, take Rachel's hand and lead her out to Santana's back deck.

"They lack self-control," you say, slipping out of your sandals. You take a seat at the edge of Santana's pool, dipping your feet in. The water is cool, and you don't mind the warm feeling from the wine coursing through your veins.

You can tell Rachel is slightly drunk by the way she plops beside you. "You can't control love, Quinn," she says with a little snort.

"Yeah, but they could keep their pants on with other people in the room," you say, drinking some wine from the bottle before passing it to Rachel.

"You sound like a grouchy grown-up," Rachel teases, swaying to bump her shoulder with yours.

"I am."

"No you're not. We're kids, Quinn," she says with a sigh, drinking and passing back the wine, "At least for a bit longer."

"I wish we didn't have to grow up so fast," you say, looking up at the night sky and making out a few constellations that aren't obscured by the lights of Lima.

"We don't have to. Not really," she tilts her head up and looks at the sky as well. "We just have to pretend to be adults on occasion."

You let the silence float between you. It's not suffocating—just quiet and peaceful. The sound of Rachel slowly running her feet through the water reminds you of the beach.

You take a drink of wine before asking, "What was that boys name? The one who pushed you?"

"Chet Arnolds. His parents told him my dads were sinners," Rachel says, "And he told me so in as many ways as possible."

"Chet Arnolds," you repeat, picturing some sweaty troll of a child, "You know what happened to him?"

Rachel chuckles, "Summer before freshman year he got drunk and took his mom's car out for a drive. He ended up crashing into someone's front porch. Think he took boot camp over jail."

"I'd have made his life hell if he ended up at McKinley," you say, taking another swig before passing the bottle.

"I didn't tell Cecilia that I punched him in the face," Rachel confesses, taking a hesitant sip.

You let out a loud laugh that echoes in Santana's backyard, making you cover your mouth with your hand in surprise.

Rachel giggles at this, her eyes shining, amusement reflecting the back porch light. "He got a fat lip, and I knocked out one of his baby teeth," she explains, holding out her right hand to you, "See?" You could make out a small mark on her middle knuckle, but you take her hand in yours anyway and look closer. It's a slightly curved, pale white line, resembling the waning crescent moon in the sky. "He said he fell off the playscape; he didn't want to admit that he got punched by the heathens' offspring."

You trail your fingers along her palm as you let go of her hand. "Why'd you let me push you around?"

"I didn't, really. It did hurt sometimes," Rachel says, tilting her head as she looks at you, "But I showed up every day anyway. Eventually I figured… you were just trying to help me out of Lima… in a pretty terrible way sometimes, but we're both getting out now."

"I'm sorry," you say, almost a whisper.

"It's okay. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but… I don't really know why… After what I did to you."

Rachel shakes her head and takes another drink. "You are certainly complex, Quinn, but I like to think we stitched up most of our past. And look," she gestures between the two of you, "Look how nicely it's all healing."

You nod.

"Now tell me something."

"What?"

"Anything," she gestures with her arms as if Santana's backyard holds the answers, "More points if you tell me something you've never told anyone before."

"Points?"

"The points don't matter, just incentive."

You sigh, taking the bottle from Rachel. "I went to fat camp."

Rachel's jaw drops, and you feel yourself blush as she scans your body.

"I was ten. And I smashed my face against the pool wall and my nose bled," you hand the wine back, "Everyone called me Sharkbait because people spread rumors that my period is what shut down the pool."

"That's terrible!" she gasps.

You shrug and smile, "It gave me this," you say, pointing to the bridge of your nose. Rachel looks at you confusedly, so you clarify, "I have a scar on the bridge of my nose."

With only the porch light, Rachel leans toward you. When you can feel her breath on your face, your lips, you lick your lips and hold your breath.

"I can see it. You're tan, so it's there, but… I'd have never noticed it."

"Make up helps."

"I like it. You shouldn't hide it," Rachel says, leaning back on her free hand, "It's like… the North Star," she says, gesturing up at the sky with the wine bottle.

You laugh, "What are you on about, Berry?"

"You get a bunch of little freckles in the sun, like little stars, and that's the North Star."

"You're not allowed to drink anymore," you say, pretending as if you're going to take the wine, which she cradles closer.

"It's a metaphor, Quinn," Rachel says, poking your nose, "And metaphors are important."

"Whatever you say," you say with a grin, watching her take a small sip before handing it back to you.

You both look up at the night sky, listening to the crickets in the nearby bushes, and you decide the moon is a metaphor for the growing light Rachel casts on your life. You decide that if you could be anything, you'd be the moon. People like Rachel shine, and the most you can hope for is a moment to hold that light for just a while.

You look at Rachel, and you're sure your eyes would give you away if she saw. Admiration and sadness mixed into the green and gold. When you think of yourself, you think of stone, craters, empty space. Then there's Rachel—not a star, but the sun—photosynthesis, warmth, the bloom of flowers once the winter melts away. Rachel has been melting the ice and warming the muscles in your chest so they can stretch and grow again.

Rachel turns to you and smiles, "Thanks for today."

"Thanks for being here," you say in a soft voice, one you've recently noticed is reserved for her.

When you look at her lips and imagine kissing her there in the moonlight, you know now what this all means.