Author's Note: it should simply be noted this takes place in a timeline that exists as if Quinn never gave Rachel the Metro passes, and as if Rachel and Finn did indeed break up, but did not send Rachel to New York immediately.
NIGHT BEFORE
–I–
Sweat dripped from her forehead; Rachel would be leaving the next day. There was nothing she could do about it – she should have purchased those bus tickets for her. She should have done everything a long time ago, not the last day before the brunette was to leave for New York: this was too late, she would look horrible and manipulative as if she waited for this moment only to present an ultimatum that Rachel couldn't bear turning down. At prom, Rachel had bared herself to Quinn and spilled all her feelings, and that was the right time to do it. Or the day after, or the week after, or the month after, but not so much later as Quinn had decided to do.
The air conditioner decided to break now; it's as if it was mocking her – you decided to do this so I decided to do that. Irony burned the soul of Quinn Fabray: she almost wanted to die. After a long while of thought she reached for her phone, unsteadily dialed the number of her best friend, and held the phone to her ear. She waited during the long pauses; they seemed to go on forever.
Finally Rachel Berry answered.
—Hello? she said through the line.
—Hey, Quinn responded.
—How are you? Rachel asked, and Quinn could feel the smile in her question; she was glad Quinn had called her.
—I'm alright, I just needed to come over and talk with you face to face, if that's alright.
—Of course! Rachel said, excitement dripping; Quinn broke a small smile.
Quinn said her goodbye, as did Rachel, before she quickly hung up and ran down the flight of stairs, slipped into her shoes, and left her house without even a single word to her mother. She could wait: Rachel couldn't.
In a few moments Rachel opened the door as her friend's car stopped in front of her house. A wide grin spread across her face and hurt Quinn to the core: she would be the one to rip this happy girl's heart out, she could tell. Pursing her lips as she entered Rachel's home the thought of how exactly she'd explain it ran through her head; many ways had occurred to her, but she thought them all melodramatic and even exploitative of the girl's feelings. The decision was made in that moment, however, to go with the least flamboyant of ways. She would say simply, 'I'm gay, and love you' and be done with it. Not even that: was she gay? Did it matter? She loved Rachel. That was all she needed to know. That was everything.
Rachel showed her upstairs, bliss bubbling in her. She so enjoyed having Quinn over: she made everything complete, and she had to admit to herself that she would have felt guilty if she had left for New York before speaking to Quinn one final time.
—I'm so glad you came, Rachel said, I thought it would seem silly of me to ask you to come over. We'll still talk right? Communication is the most important thing in a relationship.
Relationship. Goodness, Rachel and her obtuse speaking style. So unfit was it to modern dialogue. Relationship. As in friendship. No love, no romance, no sex. Just talking and laughing. Just. As if that weren't enough. Of course it was enough. Of course. That's what made her fall in love with her brunette friend. The long talks they'd have, the laughs. But to deny sex as part of the equation would be trying too hard to appear heroic and respectable. No. She so ardently felt desire for the short tan body; the long legs with their smooth flesh that she so freely exposed during the summer; her fingers that she would intertwine with Quinn's so innocently, how she'd want to feel them on her and in her; round and pert breast that so modestly hid in most of what Rachel wore, until she wore something rather bold; her lips, and the way her tongue would lick them – how red and plump they were. Sensuality incarnated.
—I came here for a reason, y'know, Quinn said.
Rachel's face faltered for a moment, but only a moment, before she returned to a gleeful expression. She was quiet. Quinn continued.
—I'm – I love you.
Rachel quirked her eyebrows, shrugging her shoulders.
—I love you too, Quinn, she said innocently, is that it?
—No! Quinn almost seethed, I'm in love with you.
The other girl remained motionless, shocked, surprised: was she hearing this right? No, couldn't be. She tried to smile. She tried to.
—I'm sorry, what? she laughed it out, airy; denial was in it.
—I'm in love with you, Rachel.
Rachel's big brown eyes focused hard on Quinn's face, she wanted to be able to tell if she was lying. Quinn in love with her . . . impossible! Quinn Fabray was Quinn Fabray, she could never be in love with her, Rachel Berry. Frustrating herself with self-babble, she gripped her hands tightly: it scared Quinn. To death. Anger, had she ever anticipated this? No. Rachel Berry angry because someone loved her was the farthest thing from her thoughts.
Those fingers were turning white.
—Don't joke about something like that, Quinn; laughter was the only way she could cope with what she had been told. Quinn. Loved. Her.
—I'm not joking, I swear. I love you.
—No, no. Quinn I must ask you to leave if you're going to insist on this cruel joke. The real Quinn wouldn't tell me she loved me the day before I was leaving for college. She's much too smart for that. She'd have told me ages ago when it was practical. Whatever else you plan on saying, she said, you should say outside to yourself. I will hear no more.
It broke her heart, Quinn thought, and this broke hers. She shook her head, rushing up to her friend and squeezing her hand, begging with her. No. Not like this, this is not how it would end. Forced out because she was accused of lying. Forced out because she was found guilty of love, is what she could handle. But not this. Not this . . . ludicrous melodrama she wished to avoid.
—I love you, Rachel. She said it through tears. Tears of fear, more than hurt.
—No, you're playing with me. She wouldn't even look at Quinn. She was too afraid of the truth.
Clinging to Rachel was all she could do, crying into her abdomen, hoping that the brunette would come to her senses or allow herself to still sympathize with the crying mess of a girl – could she? – a laugh erupted from Rachel's throat: cold and sardonic but trying to be amused.
—What a good performance!
Quinn shook her head, getting to her feet and wrapping herself around Rachel, and hugged her tightly.
—Look at me and believe me, Quinn cried. Her hands cupped Rachel's cheeks and stared right back at her. She physically stuttered. She grabbed Quinn's hands. Quinn kept on her, she wouldn't let this go.
—You love me?
—Yes I do Yes.
Rachel's face flattened out and she moved to sit on her bed. It was slowly starting to seep in. All her insecurities that kept her from accepting what Quinn was saying were giving in. Quinn loved her. It all seemed so impossible, but she was here, and she was saying this: how could she deny reality. Should she pinch herself to see if she was sleeping? That would be cliché . . . she felt Quinn sit next to her. She was still; Rachel didn't move for a few moments, and when Quinn did the same, she knew. She turned to the blonde and took in a deep breath.
—You love me? she said.
—Yes, Quinn replied.
Rachel nodded in recognition; she didn't have the energy to do anything else. Her face softened: the news was growing on her. Tracing her lips with her tongue, her hand moved to cover Quinn's.
—Why? her voice was soft and low, not really reaching for an answer: it was just something to say to keep the silence away.
—You're beautiful and you make me feel good, Quinn said.
—I make you feel good?
—I feel happy, I feel warm, I feel cared for. I don't feel like someone you just put up with: I actually feel like you want to talk to me.
All those times they had been together in the past few months, had Rachel noticed anything? Had she known she was piece by piece making this girl fall deeper and deeper in love with her? The sleepovers . . . watching movies cuddled side by side, not realizing what sort of pleasure she was giving her friend. As if there was nothing else in the world that mattered. What did Quinn feel when she had said to her what she meant at prom so few months ago: what did that possibly do to Quinn?