Rachel sluggishly picked up a stool from the stage and dragged it over to the ropes backstage. Neatly lining it up with the rest, she sniffled as she pulled her sweater tighter around her. Over the sound of her own shuddering breath she heard a weak, "Thank you, Rachel."
She squinted quickly and wiped the last few tears from her eyes. Turning confidently she walked past him, her head cast down to hide her red cheeks. A phony smile in her voice she picked up another stool and tossed over her shoulder, "Of course, Mr. Schue. We really meant it."
She spent far too much time lining it up with the quickly growing rows, but she froze at the sound of his still much too quiet voice. "Rachel—" he paused, cleared his throat, then, "No, I mean thank you."
Feet shuffling closer behind her, and then, almost in her ear, "Lulu? To Sir, With Love?"
She willed her body to stop shaking as his hand settled on her shoulder. "No one else would have known that song. You organized this." His hand dropped from her shoulder and she was facing him before she could tell herself to do so.
"But we all meant it, Mr. Schue. It's the leader's job to represent the group." She looked down, like she had so many times before, her confidence waning in this personal moment. Tears stung at her eyes again and she discretely pinched her hip to try and stop herself. "I—" Her voice cracked and she broke away, grabbing the last stool from the stage.
"You didn't say goodbye with everyone else." She sets the seat down and with the scrape of the metal on the stage and the rush of blood in her ears it almost sounds like, you're not like everyone else.
She wants to tell him why and she wants to keep it a secret, just this once, because she's always so open, but the hurt in his voice is evident and she's always fed off of the energy of her audience. "I didn't think—I don't think I can."
The words sound more intense than she expected them to be, and suddenly she is the star-eyed school girl she was just a few months ago, and she is certain he will push her away, tell her no again.
"I know what you mean." It's the perfect thing to say and the worst thing to say and now she's crying again. The tears are hot, they burn her skin as she bites the inside of her lip to stifle her sobs. But her shoulders must be shaking more than she thought because suddenly his hands are holding her together and she didn't even know she was breaking apart.
"Rachel," she turns into his chest and his arms tighten before his hands awkwardly pat her shoulder and upper back. He pauses for a moment too long and Rachel realizes that she's losing it when it's supposed to be her turn to hold things together for him, the reason she led them in the song. "I'll still be teaching Spanish."
She laughs because she knows as well as he does that, no offense Mr. Schue, but that doesn't amount to much of anything. The laugh is curtailed by a choked sob and she still owes him that explanation. "Thank you."
"Anytime," he says, and he thinks she's talking about his attempt at humor. She's just about to let things rest, hold onto that secret, just this once, but then his smile wanes just enough for a lump in his throat and she decides that if anyone ever deserved this it would be him right now.
"No, I mean," his hands dropped from her back when he mentioned Spanish class, but it isn't until right now that she feels the chill from the lack of his warmth. "You didn't write me off, Mr. Schue. I really—thank you."
His smile is small, but there, and she could leave right now. Stop talking, flick the lights off and smile back. But for all of Rachel's faults, leaving things unsaid is not one of them, so she continues, knowing that the pressure of a secret half shared is so much worse than merely sharing or keeping. Her decision is made as he starts to step back, so she takes a quick breath and rests her hand gently on his forearm.
"I know teachers talk about me. Call me obnoxious, goody-two-shoes, annoying." His eyes flash at the last one and she looks down. "The same things my peers say. It doesn't bother me, except that I get penalized for it." Her hand drops to play with the hem of her sweater.
"I work so hard to do well, to be good, but it never matters, because it never off-sets my personality." Mr. Schuester looks lost, nervous, so Rachel steps back and keeps talking so he knows he doesn't have to. "What I said to you, when you came to the dance studio, it was unfair."
He's staring right at her, his attention completely on her, which is all she's ever wanted, but suddenly she wants to not be there, under the weight of his interest. "I assumed you were just like everyone else, not willing to look past my ambition." Finally, she whispered. "I was wrong. Thank you, Mr. Schue."
"Oh, Rachel." She wants to cry at the pity in his voice and it makes her stomach turn, but she has to say the last bit she was holding onto.
"My voice was the talent that outweighed me. Without that constant reminder I'll just be your annoying Spanish student."
It was harder, hurt more, than she expected it would, so the dizziness that came over her was a surprise but not unwarranted. She moved quickly toward the stage steps, ready to flee through the house. She was halfway down when she heard, "You'll never just be my student, Rachel."
She stopped by an aisle seat and placed her hand and the back, her other hand flying to her sternum, hand clenched in a delicate fist. It was dramatic, too dramatic, so she dropped her hand to her side, but she felt too exposed so she brought it back.
Mr. Schue didn't say anything else, and Rachel was starting to believe that maybe she had imagined it. Let her fantasies run away with her like always.
"That came out wrong," his hand found its place once again on her shoulder, his thumb now resting on the collar of her shirt, her neck tingling at his warmth. "I don't need the constant reminder that you're talented, Rachel." His hand draws back, slowly this time, and she could swear she felt his thumb brush across her skin twice before it was gone.
Rachel turns to him and his expression mirrors hers of just moments ago, when she was ready to quit sharing her truths.
"Your personality," she steals herself for another blow, "doesn't need to be off-set. I was out of line if I ever made you feel like that, Rach. And," his eyes widen almost imperceptibly before his hand shoots to his mouth and he furrows his brow as he fakes a cough.
He brushes past her, and she should let it go, take what she's been given and call it a night, but, of course, she can't let things rest. It's the reason she knows she can never go to Vegas; wanting things too much tends to cloud your judgment quite often. "And?" She catches him before he's even four feet from her, and she adds a little sniffle for his benefit.
He seems to struggle with something before the hand that caught his "cough" is run through his hair. "Anyone else who made you think that is wrong." He's turned toward her but not facing her and she thinks he's trying to protect himself but she can't figure out against what. "You're ambitious and passionate and you want to leave your mark on the world," she thinks he whispers something else but she only catches, "inevitable," and then, this time meant for her ears (she's pretty sure, they're still a little quieter), "And you're right. You shouldn't be penalized. I'm sorry."
Her Mary-Janes are almost silent on the carpeted aisle, but she can see Mr. Schue tense just slightly. She has second thoughts, but decides to go for it, and gives him an awkward hug, her hands sliding around his stomach and her cheek resting against his strong back. A brief sniffle and then, "Tha—goodbye, Mr. Schue."
His hands are still at his sides and she's about to pull back and run, but then his hands cover hers, clasped together just above his navel. "I'll see you later, Rachel." He squeezed her hands, and she thinks he leans back against her just a little before he lets go and leaves through the auditorium doors.