I still have Bulletproof Romance in the works, but I decided to take a break from the high school environment when writing. Mostly because it's boring since I'm in high school too. So, I tried this other AU instead. My life story aside, I hope you would read this, appreciate, and tell me how it made you feel.
Her name is Quinn Fabray, but she hates introducing herself as so. It's not that she hates her first name, but rather, her last. It speaks too much about her past and her father, whom she despises as much as she hates limited connectivity and routers that don't blink their neon green lights. The name 'Fabray' may not mean a thing where she is now, but after twenty years of being known as 'Russell Fabray's definition of disappointment', introducing herself as simply Quinn became a habit.
It is one of the only few habits of hers that she likes.
One habit of hers is the incessant biting of the skin around her thumbnail. If you look at her right thumb, it would be pink and raw and falling apart with bits of skin that feels rough to the touch. She also has the habit of staring at people until they notice. She likes people-watching, because that way she can make up stories on her own, without consent. That, in its own, has charm.
Another habit of Quinn's is sneaking illicitly into off-Broadway theatres to think and write. Usually, they would be empty and she would love it. Sometimes there would be a small group of people auditioning and she would love it just the same. She is a closeted Broadway geek, but you can't tell anyone.
Quinn ducks her head to hide herself from view and takes a seat on the hard plastic chairs of the Vineyard Theatre. Only the stage lights are open so it is a struggle to write on the notebook on her lap, so she brings out her light clamp and switches it on. The page before her is empty, but it won't be for long. Uncapping her favourite black pen, she scribbles down words; words that would invoke an emotion, thus provoking a combination to spill out of her fingertips.
Innocent. Musical. Pristine. Effervescent. Afflatus.
Holy crap that girl is good.
Quinn tucks a lock of her bothersome blonde hair into her beret before refocusing on the girl standing in the middle of the stage. From her super mega backseat, she notices that the girl is a brunette, short, but powerful. Her voice, Quinn meant, is as powerful as a freight train, the Titanic, a motherfucking Boeing in the middle of her tiny apartment. It is that sonorous, but not in the incredibly obnoxious way that makes people cringe at the sheer volume.
No, it is far from that.
That girl's voice drips with magic in its very essence.
Quinn watches and listens, jaw unhinged and ears tingling with appreciation. Wow, she thinks, even in her mind she is breathless. Those are some lungs.
She may have been imagining it, but the girl's eyes landed on her, making her skin explode in a flurry of blushing and flustered movements. It feels as if the arteries on her face ruptured.
Their eyes met, but nothing cheesy happened, like time freezing or anything like that. No, time passes by usual as the girl sings, and because of that, nothing else matters; nothing but her voice, her presence that sweeps the stage with how amazing it is.
The final chord of Maybe This Time vanishes with her voice and Quinn resists the urge to clap violently. So instead, she grips her pen and writes. Furiously, with passion, with fervour that she isn't aware existed; except that she does know about it. She's read about it in novels she dreams of writing and poetry that etches itself into her very bones. Now, the girl's voice is something she will be dreaming about, night after night and hell, even during days when Quinn is feeling as lonely as a mushroom in the middle of Central Park.
A period of time passes by, and Quinn is completely unaware. When she pulls her hand back and urges her wrist to cease all movements, she has five pages of words that tell a story about a cosmic brunette with the voice that can cure the world of any disease if she so wills it. Quinn is frightened by the sheer inspiration that this girl offered to her that her legs shake like the walls of her apartment when her neighbour is having an impromptu disco night.
Leaving was the first and only thing in Quinn's mind. She can't deal being around this girl if she can help it.
But, of course, she can't.
Quinn is attracted by a force so pungent, her feet refuses to move her from her spot standing in the middle aisle, staring at the girl who sucked out words from Quinn's verbose consciousness, as she approaches the terrified blonde.
"Hello," the girl whispers, and Quinn finds herself thigh-deep in a rut she can't seem to get out of.
"Err, hello."
"You are aware that this is a closed audition, right?" The girl asks, not a hint of malice in her tone or eyes. God—except Quinn doesn't really believe in one, not anymore—her eyes are gorgeous. Brown and deep and has the capacity of melting anything in sight. Quinn wonders absently if the girl before her could shoot laser beams out of those pretty eyes.
"Not really," Quinn responds softly. "Sorry if I messed with your aura or something. You should've had kicked me out."
"No!" The girl shakes her head eagerly. "If anything, you helped me perform my best."
"O-oh?"
"Hey Berry; I thought I told you this was a closed audition?" The balding producer guy demands, tapping his heavy boots against the carpeted floor. "You can't have your friends waltzing in and giving you support all the damn time!"
"Sorry Lucas," the girl named 'Berry' said with a small pout. Quinn has to look away to prevent herself from imploding like a bomb that is yet to be invented.
"I'm not exactly—"
"Is that all? Can we go now?" 'Berry' asks 'Lucas' who just nods his head and flicks his wrist to dismiss them. 'Berry' takes Quinn's arm and half-carries, half-drags the blonde out and into the brisk fall air that smells richly of soil and smoke. That's New York for you.
"W-what are you doing?" Quinn asks 'Berry'. She chuckles at the thought of this girl being named 'Berry'. It's fitting, if not for the legs that peek out of that ridiculously short skirt. Berries don't have gorgeous legs! Quinn would know; she is a fan of fruits, after all.
"Lucas tends to be very impatient," 'Berry' answers, stopping once they are a few feet away from the main entrance of the theatre. "My name is Rachel Berry."
Well, look at that. Her name isn't just Berry, Quinn thought. "Okay? Nice to meet you?"
'Rachel' laughs, and even her happiness is beautiful. It flows, like a smooth-sailing river free of rocks and boulders that might chop the waters that flow along its wake. "It is only common courtesy to introduce yourself too, you know." She teases with a smile. "Or did your father not teach you that?"
"My father taught me a lot of things, but being polite isn't one of them." Quinn responds easily. "It's something I had to learn by myself."
A beat passes and Quinn has yet to say anything. From those thirty seconds, Quinn manages to draw out the fact that this 'Rachel' girl is a very impatient being. The way her features scrunch up into a ball of frown is enough indication for that.
"Quinn," Quinn says.
"What?"
"That's my name. Quinn."
"O-oh! I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Quinn! Now, would you like to join me for a cup of coffee and a mid-afternoon snack? There is a place…"
Quinn looks ahead, past 'Rachel's' head, gauging the distance that she can sprint and avoid the girl for the rest of her young life. As her duty as a music-loving girl, Quinn appreciates 'Rachel's' voice, but that is it. 'Rachel' talks too much, and Quinn isn't in the mood of losing her ear in the midst of all the stories.
"Sorry Rachel," Quinn sighs, opting to take the polite way out of this predicament. "I would love to but I have a meeting in…" she checks her watch and frowns. "…approximately ten minutes. Maybe when I see you around, I'd drink that coffee with you." She isn't lying, she really does have to be somewhere, but not 'till an hour later. Still, it doesn't hurt to be early, right? Right.
A smile is Quinn's number one weapon of evasion and she is never afraid to use it. She flashes 'Rachel' her patented, Quinn-Fabray-is-an-honest-angel smile and departs, faster than what is deemed appropriate for a polite exit, but she manages to depart nonetheless.
However, a tiny monster, nibbling at the back of her mind wishes that she meets 'Rachel Berry' again.
And soon.
How was it? Good? Bad? Do you even ship Faberry?