A/N: For Mar, as a VERY belated bday pres – except apparently I'm unable to give appropriate *happy* birthday gifts, so I apologise HUGELY for the angst – still, I hope you like it bb :D
^ that was a warning btw, this is not a happy fic – also, there are a couple of parts that may be… 'non-PC', that's a warning too. It's character-speak, not author-speak though, please remember that!
Thank you to everyone who helped me along the journey, it means so so much to me :D
TO AVOID EXTRA CONFUSION, PLEASE READ: The first paragraph is the main event that the story centers around. Everything AFTER the first para explains the events leading up to, during, and then after it. It switches to full present tense in the last para, the rest is told as if retelling the past.
Title: Running Up That Hill
A/N: Title from the song by Placebo, you should listen – it's quite haunting.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, but the characterization of Sarah and the plot
Summary: This is not a love story. It does tell not of redemption, or even survival. It is simply an account of Life, and how Death ruined their chances. PR, though Rachel&Sarah-centric
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"The stars are always there, but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
To Write Love On Her Arms
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The world spun on its axis on a Thursday afternoon during Glee practice.
She can still hear the scraping of his chair against the floor from when he had stormed out of the choir room, except it's overshadowed now by the haunting sound of flesh colliding with metal.
The slam of the door against the wall as he had stalked across the threshold had been the foundation for the screeching of tires, the dull thud that had resonated through the entire area and the rippling gasp across the plane of glass meeting bone.
The lonely clipped ring of his footsteps in the empty corridor is a feature she still wishes didn't accompany the rest.
When the hiss of the other engine had cut through the air, the commotion that had built had been monumental; but all that remains to echo in her ears is the single ragged breath that had sung to her across the chaos while her world had come crashing down around her.
.
She could say she doesn't know how it started, but she'd be lying.
It started, as all of their moments did, with a slushie.
A blue slushie to the face – and she'd gone flying. In her haste to get away, her emphatic steps, determined and forthright, had done nothing to keep her grip on the floor beneath her soles.
He caught her before she hit the ground.
It was to be the start of a pattern between them.
Until the day he wasn't there with outstretched arms and a smug little smirk just for her when she realized it was his chest she was cocooned against. She hit the asphalt almost in tandem with him; pebbles of glass dug into his skin as he was thrown from his vehicle, the sound like a cannon blast, the momentum just as powerful. Tiny rocks ripped at her palms as the scene unfolded before her and her hands twisted into solid fists and she crushed them against the hard surface below, grinding them until the skin across her knuckles ripped with the motion. She wanted to feel but an ounce of his pain; she couldn't take it away, but she could empathize. Whatever happened to him; she wanted to be with him in it.
Funny thing about life that they never really tell you – death is infinitely more powerful, it is a solitary act and it will win out in the end. No matter what you do. You can only ever cheat death for so long, and apparently he'd been running from it his whole life.
He was forced to pay up right before her eyes, in her arms; blood spilled from his lips, his glassy stare blinked up at her and she cried rivulets of tears that washed the crimson from his face and created a bleeding heart watercolor on the sidewalk.
She remembers wondering if the responding officers would use bottles of Coke to wash the stains from the stone, like his sister had once told her was their practice. She cried even more then, his life washing away beneath her, something as simple as soda overcoming one of life's most potent necessities. Looking back, she wonders if it was because she knew she was losing him, or because she knew she wasn't the only one.
.
She overheard them one time. After that time when he'd saved her from probable death. Quite literally, since she could have most definitely had a brain hemorrhage due to the fall.
The irony is not lost on her, but she refuses to dwell on it. Memory is a painful thing, hindsight even more so.
They were arguing, and was it really her fault that their voices were raised and she was the only other one near the choir room, and she (still) has a radar on par with her psychic abilities for detecting moments when her own name is used?
"Don't call me that," he had said and she had her hands on her hips as she glowered back at him.
"Why not? We're having a baby together, and you're supposed to be convincing me you're serious about this, about us," the blonde had been fuming, that much was evident. "And you won't even let me call you Noah."
He worked his jaw and she can still recall wishing he wouldn't because she knew he was grinding his teeth, and it was not at all good dental care.
"I don't get why this is such a big deal, you've always called me Puck – everyone calls me Puck," he had replied, frowning at her like he couldn't work out what her angle was. In truth, the blonde rarely played anything straight before she was pregnant; while she was pregnant she became infinitely worse.
"I just told you," she had huffed in return. "We're having a baby – together – and I think I should be allowed to call you by your first name."
"Look, only my sister and my mom call me it, so I don't know why you're going all crazy – "
"I'm crazy?" the blonde had screeched at him then. "No. Rachel Berry is crazy. Rachel Berry calls you Noah, and you two were only together a week! Last year!"
She remembers seeing him shrug, a slight smirk on his lips, as he told the other girl offhandedly, "Yeah, but she's Berry, isn't she?"
If she hadn't been rationally minded, and was privy to an extensive amount pertaining to the human body, she would have almost sworn the blonde's eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.
"She's like impossible to compete with or whatever, you know?" had been the next words out of his mouth, and a casual shrug that was anything but the reaction he had induced. "I dunno, Quinn, she's Berry. What you want me to say? She's way out there – in her own league, isn't she?"
And though it had lacked eloquence and it wasn't directed at her specifically, she still thinks it could possibly be one of the nicest things he ever said about her. And yes, that includes the comments during their brief spell of dating originally when he continually reminded her of how appealing he found her physical attributes – although those were certainly quite lovely to hear also. They got considerably better, more detailed and more frequent, when they migrated towards one another once again. They lasted considerably longer than a week as well; she'd like to point out. They'd have lasted longer if – if both parts of the equation were still present.
She remembers hearing the ex-cheerleader release a strangled scream and then watching as she stormed from the room.
He had breathed out a loud sigh when she had left, making his way to the door as well, while calling out, "You should try using all those crazy breathing exercises when you're stealthin', Berry. Bet they'd amp your ninja skills right up."
He had thrown a wink over his shoulder at the spot she'd been frozen in since she first stumbled on the conversation, but she remembers impossibly clearly how she couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips when she saw it. Moments later she followed the path he had led with a smile across her lips that she couldn't quite explain even to the hammering of her heart.
She knows now that it was simply a continuation of the beginning. A forecast of what was to come. An insight into the passionate love affair he'd hold like a vice over her heart for the rest of her life.
.
She had baked him a tray of Thank-You cookies, delivering them directly to his front door, and practically thrusting them in his face the moment he appeared before her in the open doorway.
"You didn't let me finish what I was going to say the other day," she had told him, because he hadn't.
He'd caught her in his arms, and when she'd turned around in his embrace, following the path up the wide expanse of his strong, hard chest till her eyes locked onto his (though she knew the identity of her savior well before this point – there really was no mistaking his lovely arms, they were exquisitely unique) she had captured something in his gaze. She'd opened her mouth to express her gratitude, when she caught the flash of something flicker over his face and he'd made a flippant remark about her eating habits and how she now fit in his arms.
"I knew what you were going to say," he had countered.
"I highly doubt that," she had replied with a look of quite obvious disbelief.
He'd rolled his eyes.
"I was trying to tell you that if my self esteem issues were as bad as that brief moment during which Finn and Quinn were still together and I got caught with my fingers down my throat by Miss Pillsbury, then you could be responsible for the bulimia that I would've clearly turned to once again in my moment of self-doubt and quite evident show of low self-esteem."
He'd raised his eyebrows, "Woman, d'you even take a breath?"
She had ignored him and pursued the climax to her original point, "As it is, I found a renewed sense of self-worth that day, as well as discovering the fact that I fail to possess a gag reflex and so – "
"Tell me my boy – " he had cut himself off while cutting her off, gulping down whatever else he was about to say. "Tell me Hudson's been making good use of that."
"I'm quite sure I don't know what you're referring to," she had snootily responded.
"I'm quite sure you do," he had told her, wiggling his eyebrows at her with that damn smirk spread wide across his lips.
She can still recall the feeling of the heat on her cheeks as her blush made its ascent, and his cocky smile had greeted her next.
"Noah – " she had tried.
She hadn't got much further because suddenly his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her like she was the only oxygen he would ever breathe.
"Next time I won't be so nice, and I'll have your lips wrapped around my – "
She was the one not to let him finish then. She had slapped him, the cookies falling off their plate and crumbling into an unfathomable number of pieces; a symbol of what her life was to become.
He had smirked at her and told her she'd better not be planning on bending over to pick them up or she'd have a lot more in her hands than cookies. She had kneed him in the groin and sent him a smug smirk when he'd doubled over in pain.
He'd deny it to his dying day – and he had, quite literally, since it was almost a running joke between them, and it had come up in one of their conversations that morning – but she knows it turned him on to think of her holding her own (especially against such a "badass stud" like him).
The day after he had broken up with Quinn and the school was still abuzz with the news the Monday following.
Part of her still suspects he didn't do it because it was cheating ("well, no one's ever gonna do it to me, are they?") or maybe he did. He knew all about her and Finn's 'trysts' while the other boy was still romantically involved with Quinn. It was certainly a tender subject when they got together: her and his best friend, not him and his best friend's girlfriend. That one ended rather abruptly; abandoning your child was never going to be something that sat well with him.
Trust issues present individually, naturally they'd manifested into terrible bouts of jealousy when they clashed so ferociously as theirs did.
However, make-up sex had certainly helped to deal with that.
.
"Talk about lame. An' they're stealing my moves, yo!" she can still hear the grumbling tone his voice had held when he'd found her covered in colored corn syrup for the second time in a matter of days. "I should've got my name stuck on the cups or something."
"You started it?" she had asked, somewhat incredulously, though looking back it made perfect sense.
"Berry, you were wearing a white shirt that stretched all tight across your boobs – why'd you think I threw the slushie over you? I wanted to check out your rack," and he had said it so matter-of-factly too.
"Oh," she remembers being almost stunned for words.
After all, she did have an exceptionally impressive physique – still does! – and he'd complimented her on it more than once, however this had seemed… different. Possessive almost. She rolls her eyes now, because this was to be but the beginning of the saga. As arousing as the sight of him shirtless and defending her honor had been – yes, that's right, she said arousing; he hadn't been known for his sexual prowess and striking features for nothing you know – it could also be extremely tiresome.
She suspects even to this day that that was often his ploy; because he did so love getting under her skin, riling her up and then providing himself as the means by which she could release all that pent-up frustration.
He did so love being the one she went to – for anything, everything – even just the act of seeking him out; she knew it had meant more than he'd ever say. It used to almost be her way of showing him just how reliant she was on him; showing him that others might leave him, but she wouldn't because she needed him.
Oh, how true that remains.
She still needs him; she's never stopped.
.
She'd found Quinn crying in the girls' bathroom when they'd parted ways and he'd finally let her out of his sight to go and freshen up.
"How come I lose every guy to you?" she had been tearfully questioned, "But I'm still the one stuck with the baby?"
The ex-cheerleader had lost the baby too, not that she's ever been one to really rub salt into gaping, bloody and raw wounds. The ripple effect on that had spread faster and farther than even they could have anticipated.
She'd found him bloody and broken, quite literally, and had helped him grapple for the pieces that cut just too deep. She'd cut herself in the process, his mood swings and temper like a million little slices across her skin, bruises blossoming in their absence on the quieter days when it was but the calm before the storm.
But eventually, eventually, they had battled through – together. Miraculously, it had sometimes felt, but always, always together.
She later found that not baiting or antagonizing the blonde in any way had been one of her wisest decisions, because what goes around comes around, and after she'd found support – of varying degrees – in some of the strangest of places.
.
The first time he had asked her 'out' it was to his little sister's dance show; and he'd been as eloquent and romantic as ever in doing so.
"So, my sister's got this dance thing later," had been how his 'request' for her company that evening had started, "an' my mom's working so someone has to represent for the kid. An' there's no way in Hell I'm goin' on my own – an Finn's still being a retard with me half the time or I'd ask him – an I figured you'd be up for going 'cos you're all into expressing yourself an' shit, so how about it, Berry?"
"Was that your way of asking me if I have plans for this evening, and if I'd like to accompany you to your sister's dance recital?" had been her response, and she had smiled sweetly up at him for added effect.
He'd rolled his eyes, and tilted his head to shoot her a look, "She's callin' it a showcase, Berry. That means it ain't no pansy-ass recital shit."
She'd nodded, unable to hide her amused expression; but had raised her eyebrows at him in lieu of her other point.
He'd heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes again, and then had said, "An' yeah, that's my way of asking if you wanna join me. So, you in?"
She'd pretended to deliberate on it for a few moments.
"Come on, Berry, I ain't got all day," had been his mildly frustrated remark. "Either you're busy tonight or you're not. What's it gonna be?"
"Alright," she'd finally answered, with a wide smile. "I suppose it could be fun."
He'd smirked at her, had thrown a wink her way, and flicked his fingers at her as if he was firing a gun at her (she still doesn't understand why he insisted on it being one of his most frequent actions), "Baby, a night out with The Puckerone's always fun."
She'd found herself smiling and ducking her head despite his childish antics; he had the ability to trigger that response in her down perfectly already.
In the car ride over there, it had been as if he had been programmed onto chatter-mode, except he'd only concentrated on one topic. And, in all honesty, it had been somewhat endearing to see him so enraptured by the subject, to see how much he cared for his sister. Not that she'd ever told him that, of course.
However, she had still told him in response, "I'm well aware of how talented Sarah is, Noah, that is not something you need to impress upon me," because she had taught the girl herself.
Except he had felt the need to go on, "Yeah, you taught her ballet, for like a week."
Apparently what he had had planned for their evening was completely different from anything she had seen of the girl; and better, definitely better.
"You've never seen her do this," he had told her, and he had been practically beaming then as he'd said it; even though he'd started out this whole encounter by telling her that he was basically being forced to go by his mother as she was unable to attend.
She can still recall the pride in his eyes when he spoke of his sister then. She doesn't need retrospect to tell her that it was always present, that undercurrent of a familial bond that seemed different from any other she'd ever encountered then or since. It was almost indescribable what Noah and Sarah shared: indescribable, and irreplaceable.
"She's like – fuck, Berry, she's insane. She's like the girl version of Chang – but way more awesome, an' tinier as well, so she looks even more ninja than him," he'd informed her, as if this description alone would be the selling point. "She's awesome, Berry, wait till you see."
And when she had seen for herself; when she had watched that little girl dance her way across the stage, witnessed her wowing the audience and her peers alike; she'd known straight away that even her own brother was selling her short. Sarah hadn't been just awesome; she had been awe-inspiring.
When they had met up with the youngster after her show, she'd reveled in watching the siblings interact; had felt her heart tug at being able to witness such a precious moment between the two. She'd felt such gratitude as well, to him, for giving her entry into this aspect of his life. She still feels grateful to him for it; it remains one of the single most defining moments of her life, when she'd met Sarah.
"Noah says you're a really good singer," had been the girl's first words to her after a quick Hi, I'm Sarah. "Maybe if you're as good as I am at dancing, we could do it together sometime. That'd be pretty rockin', wouldn't it, No?"
Sarah had looked to her brother for agreement, toothy grin staring up at him, and he'd had to tear his eyes away from her. She'd been positively beaming as soon as his sister had said the words: a girl confident in her own talent enough to recognize one of similar ability? Rachel had known instantly that she and Sarah would get along famously.
He'd rolled his eyes at the pair, and thrown an arm around both of their shoulders, steering them both towards the exit with, "Come on, let's get out of here before Berry acts on her crazy an' I end up having to watch you get together right now."
By the time he'd pulled up outside her house, Sarah had latched onto her and had refused to let go, even in her sleepy state. They'd ended up having to spend the night at her house – Rachel had had to carry the youngster to the spare bedroom, because (in his words) "if I'd been able to get her off you in the first place, we wouldn't be staying, so quit shooting me those growlers."
Noah had been left with the couch, despite her attempts to get him to just share a bed with his sister.
"Tiny-tot hogs the covers," he'd told her at that. "And besides, if she has a nightmare, she'll probably try and kick me in the gonads – and they're like diamonds, baby, we don't want no damage like that happening."
She'd rolled her eyes at him.
"I'd rather jus prod her with a stick from this side of the room till she wakes up," he'd continued and she'd scolded him for being so childish and dramatic; the irony of her outburst in reaction to his words had not been lost on her.
When she'd entered the guest bedroom the next morning and found the little girl curled up into her big brother's side, tightly clutching the majority of the covers to her chest, she'd been unable to contain her laughter. She'd been tempted to take a photo, naturally. However, when she'd sidestepped to try and reach over into the drawer to retrieve one she knew her Daddy kept there (he had many, many, electronics scattered all over the house) she'd watched him crack an eye open and follow her move.
"Morning!" she'd told him breezily, flashing him a bright smile.
"Berry, take a picture of this an' I'll give all your underwear to Jewfro," he'd said in return.
She'd gasped, and then her gaze had narrowed on him, "You wouldn't."
He'd chuckled, "Maybe, maybe not."
And then he'd smirked at her; and she'd been appalled. Naturally.
"But it'd give me an excuse to buy you some," and he'd settled back into the pillows as he'd made a show of eyeing her up and down, "What you think, Berry? Red lace to your taste? Or should we jus go for some classic black?"
She'd thrown a pillow at him then, grabbed one that had obviously been discarded and was lying at the bottom of the bed, and would have hit him square in the face if not for his quick reflexes.
"Careful," he'd chastised her then, a wide grin on his face. "Don't want to be responsible for waking the sleeping dragon, now do you?"
She'd growled at him, and he'd chuckled, a hand on his chest as he'd released a sigh. He'd thrown another wink at her, a soft smile on his lips as he'd complimented, "Nice throw, babe."
"Nice catch," she'd returned and her smile had been evident.
"For you, babe," he'd said then, puckered his lips and kissed air for her, "anytime."
.
Their second 'date' had consisted of him driving her to the little record store in town and picking out music he had been determined she should know about.
It'd ranged from Tupac to the Stones to Springsteen. He'd picked out artist upon band upon compilation; and she'll readily admit she still holds it as one of the most amusing, entertaining, thrilling experiences they shared together. It had been something different, and they'd both had input. They'd squabbled and teased one another over their individual choices, and had been (pleasantly) surprised when they'd chosen similarly.
He'd taken them to a spot on the outskirts, where they'd been able to see the whole town behind them, and all that had awaited them spread out like a blanket of possibility before them.
She'd grabbed his hand, made him dance with her as a mix of rapping and crooning swayed in the air around them, earth dispersing below the shuffling of their feet. And he'd spun her around so she was facing the open road; the road that would lead her away from Lima, out of Ohio, carry her to the rest of the world.
He'd stood behind her, their arms outstretched; their hands flush against one another.
"Someone's been watching Titanic," she'd quipped then.
"Titanic ain't got nothing on us," he'd told her then, "But babe, you and me, we could make the whole world jealous."
She'd kissed him then. She'd turned, thrown her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
She misses the way he'd kiss her; the things he could do with that mouth of his remain unparalleled, even a smile could melt her beneath his gaze, turn her legs to jelly until he'd catch her in his arms and she'd be set aflame by his touch.
But his kiss; he'd pour everything he had into a kiss, and she'd capture it greedily, never wanting to let go, never wanting to miss a thing; she'd tried to hold onto it all. Eventually though, it got taken from her, along with everything else.
The moments had built from there. She tries to hold onto them, sometimes she'll spend days doing nothing but recounting all the moments they shared. There's too many of course, and they could span lifetimes; they should've spanned lifetimes.
Sometimes she can feel a breeze on her lips, and she swears his lips are ghosting over hers, feels goosebumps run across her skin and knows his hands are skirting across her skin; eager for one last touch.
Those days are the worst. She doesn't miss him more; she misses him the same everyday, every moment; it's ever consuming. It's just when that happens, when she feels him, it makes it hard to breathe. And breathing is all she has now. With the rise and fall of her heart, the strings that bind it to her lungs squeeze that bit tighter.
She thinks it's her way of suffering with him. She has a lot of catching up to do if she's ever to match the pain that ripped through him that day; though she often thinks the pain she feels everyday could never compare. It's a way to be with him; killing herself in the process might get her to him quicker, but she'll never really acknowledge that that's what it is. She'll never acknowledge a lot of things.
This life she leads will do that to a person.
She wouldn't wish it on anyone.
.
"Happy V-Day, babe," his voice had been low and husky; the memory fuzzy as she blinks open her eyes and spies the calendar on her bedside table.
It is still so fresh in her mind, the sound of his voice, the rumble of his laughter; the feel of his skin against hers, the fire he could erupt with a single touch, a mere glance in her direction.
She'd opened the door to her bedroom to find her boyfriend sprawled out on her comforter with only his guitar to cover his crotch-area (the Puckerone) and his general nakedness.
He'd lifted his arm, pressed the button on the remote control and her speakers had come blasting to life with I like you so much better when you're naked.
With that line surrounding them, the artist sang it over-and-over so he hadn't even needed to jam her stereo onto repeat-mode; he'd thrown her a wink and with a smirk had said, "Come on crazy, give me a dance."
And that was how she had ended up spending Valentine's Day dancing – he had called it a strip tease, she had disagreed; it was a tasteful display of showcasing her new lingerie – in her bedroom, while her boyfriend lay naked on her bed serenading her with his guitar.
She's not sure how the memory of his sister's wedding on the same day, though years apart, will quite compete with that. She's not sure she even wants to think of them as existing in the same category at all.
And she laughs, because if Sarah knew she was pitting sex with Noah against her wedding, she'd likely pitch a fit – and possibly throw up.
It's a change from times gone by, and she knows that it's a huge improvement on her thoughts before; she also knows that she didn't get here on her own. She'll give thanks today, while she gives her sister away.
It's an honor in itself; she just can't help but wish she wasn't taking his place.
.
Diamonds had showered the ground beneath her, twinkling in the bright sunlight as she had held him in her arms.
Red petals had danced across the tiny shimmering gems, creating a river for them to float away on. A crimson moat to surround the castle of angled metal that he'd been ejected from as his car door fell from its hinges like the advanced lowering of the drawbridge so as to allow them access.
And while the dark fairytale had spun inside her head like a haze; she had spied the flashing lights, heard the shoes crushing the glass beneath their feet as they had advanced, their voices stabbing sporadically through her nightmare like a bad attempt to wake her.
The paramedics' movements had been unhurried; there had been no way to save him.
She'd screamed and shouted and it'd taken the combined strength of their teacher and his best friend to finally make her release her grip on him. She hadn't wanted to let go. She'd wanted to savor the feeling of him in her arms for as long as she could. She'd known he was gone, she'd known. She just hadn't wanted to lose him yet.
.
"Sometimes I wonder when I gave up on him," his mother's voice had been hollow.
"I don't think you did," she had said in return. "You wouldn't be here otherwise."
"Maybe I just need to see him one last time, maybe I just need to see if he's really gone," the elder had countered.
She had shaken her head, trying not to think about the emptiness in his mother's voice, the dead look in her eyes. She had tried not to read into the expression on his little sister's face, had tried not to acknowledge that there was an understanding too old for her years in the little girl's eyes.
And she had wondered if he'd known he had the ability to shatter lives in his absence.
.
When she'd been left alone, she'd stood in the corridor outside the room where he lay, unable to move. And then her brain had flooded with thought and emotion; so much of it. Confusion and rage and pain; utter devastation, complete loss.
She'd known she needed to get a grip, but she hadn't been able to.
"Oh God, Noah! Noah, Noah, Noah!" she'd cried out then.
Yelling as loud as she'd been able to, she'd made fists with her hands and punched the wall. Over and over, she'd hit the plaster until it began to crumble beneath her touch, and she'd felt the world wasn't the only thing to disappear from under her.
When the pain had finally seeped into her seared consciousness, she'd stared at her knuckles; had seen the blood, the ripped skin, the splinters embedded there.
And then she had started crying; loud, angry, uncontrollable sobs. She'd clung to the wall like it was all she had left, and even it was unsteady beneath her touch.
Gradually the cries had slowed to shudders, and she'd pulled her handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her face. She had slid to the floor, her back against the wall, until her breathing had begun to calm and her brain had felt like it was merely buzzing numbly in her head.
"Note to self," a young voice had shaken her from her thoughts then. "Stop punching inanimate objects."
She had lifted her gaze to find Sarah standing over her, arms outstretched.
She had taken the girl's hands, had allowed herself to be pulled to her feet by the youngster, their fingers entwining as the girl had led her away from that place. She hadn't let go.
She's been holding on ever since.
Now is the time to let go.
.
It had been his memorial service when she had broken down in full view of everyone, and Sarah had lifted her back up.
She'd been standing before the crowd of people, when the sea of faces had begun to swim before her eyes. Her lip had wavered and she nearly cracked and it felt like the start of her complete undoing.
There's a song that's inside of my soul.
It's the one that I've tried to write over and over again
I'm awake in the infinite cold.
But you sing to me over and over and over again.
So, I lay my head back down.
And I lift my hands and pray
To be only yours, I pray, to be only yours
I know now you're my only hope.
She'd recognized Sarah's voice instantly, and a moment later she had seen the girl too. She'd stood up from her place, moving towards her; voice encouraging her to sing along (because she was a dancer, not a singer – as Sarah still likes to remind her), expression understanding. The only one who had been able to understand at all.
Sing to me the song of the stars.
Of your galaxy dancing and laughing and laughing again.
When it feels like my dreams are so far
Sing to me of the plans that you have for me over again…
"You know Noah would've hated that, right?" Sarah had said when they had finished and she had walked them back to their seats.
"Oh, I'm all too aware," she had reassured the younger, and she'd cracked a smile at the girl.
"Just checking," had been the reply, the small appearance of a smile to match her own on Sarah's face.
They'd gone back to Rachel's house and the Glee Club had ended up in a circle singing anything and everything that Sarah had put on shuffle from her brother's music collection – which was, extensive, to say the least. Finn had used pots and pans to create a makeshift drum-kit and Rachel had handed each of them a microphone from her video game supply and when Sarah had started dancing in the center of the ring, she had known instantly that it had become a party worthy of a dedication in his honor.
It really did become a celebration of his life then; and she had been so overwhelmed she had had to lock herself in the bathroom for ten whole minutes to stop herself from crying once more.
Sarah had found her and taken her by the hand to join the rest of the group, and neither had separated again.
.
Naturally as time passed, the others had started to 'move on'. She, apparently, had been the only one unable to accept that life could continue as it had before, when such a huge part of hers was missing.
"Look, I get that you were into him or whatever, but the guy wasn't like a saint or anything. Puck – sure he could be a laugh, but he was a jerk most of the time and – "
She had wanted to say that she didn't know him, none of them did. So she did say that.
"While I appreciate that you all knew aspects of Noah, saw sides of him, none of you knew him; not really," she had informed them; each word emphatic and punctuated by her hard stare. "I admit I might not have known everything about him, but I knew the parts that mattered, he showed me more than he did anyone else."
They had all looked blankly back at her in return.
"I love Noah, still," she had told them then. "His death is something that will live with me everyday; and the feeling that comes with the loss is something that you can't possibly comprehend."
A few had looked as if they had wanted to say something, possibly sympathize, attempt to empathize even, but she had cut them off.
"I appreciate that everyone is dealing with Noah's… absence in different ways, but please, do not try to compare your situation to mine," she had finished. "It is incomparable."
The days became ever lonelier after that and she began to spend even more time with Sarah. They'd do their homework together, practice together, watch films and read books together. It was as if they were all the other had; and in a way, because of what they had gone through, they had been.
She remembers once wondering how pathetic it was that her best friend was the ten-year-old sister of her dead lover. And then she had realized she didn't give a damn because it wasn't pathetic at all if Sarah was her sister.
.
She had overhead Kurt once saying it had been a tragic love story, and she had disagreed. Loudly. Defiantly.
"Stories end, Kurt. What Noah and I had – what we shared – that is something that can never be lost, or diminished, or cease to be."
They hadn't understood. How could they?
Her name had been the last thing he had uttered, his last breath belonging solely to her, his eyes staring right into her own, and her heart stopped at the exact time she felt that utter loss beneath her palm.
Nothing could compare to that.
.
It had been Senior Year and they'd been nearing graduation when Finn had found her in the empty choir room singing.
So far away from where you are
These miles have torn us worlds apart
And I miss you, yeah I miss you
So far away from where you are
I'm standing underneath the stars
And I wish you were here
I miss the years that were erased
I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face
I miss all the little things
I never thought that they'd mean everything to me
Yeah I miss you
And I wish you were here
"God, Rachel," he'd let out, stealing her breath away and dragging her attention over to where he'd stood in the open doorway; seething. "Can you just stop already?"
She'd frowned at him then, and he'd ducked his head, shaking it as if to rid the thoughts from his mind.
"Just stop chasing something that's never going to happen," he'd said next.
"I'm certain I don't know what you're referring – " she'd tried to protest, bristling at his tone, but he'd cut her off.
"Puck's gone, ok? Gone. And it hurts, I get that; he was my best friend," he had told her. "But he's gone, and he's not coming back, and you just need to accept that, because – I can't keep watching you waste away like this."
She'd narrowed her eyes at him, and his voice had dropped as he'd let out a sigh.
"He wouldn't have wanted you to be like this, Rachel, he wouldn't have – "
"You know what he might've wanted, Finn? To be alive," she had hissed back at him.
She had stormed away without looking back.
.
She remembers the day she left Lima, the day she left Ohio.
She had left more than just her home that day; she'd left all she's ever known.
Sarah had clung to her and made her promise she would write and phone and email and use any other form of communication to ensure they were always in contact.
She hadn't been nearly as committed as she'd claimed; and the guilt still lives inside of her, shelved between the grief and regret that play partner to it.
She'd kept good on her word for a while; she thinks maybe this had been because she's always believed she's needed Sarah more than the girl has needed her.
The first time she hadn't returned any of Sarah's calls or texts or emails, she had felt so sick knowing of her intentional acts to distance herself from the girl that she'd spent half of the day locked in the bathroom being sick. She had known even then that what she had been about to do was wrong, but she had also felt it was something she had to do.
There had been a tightness in her chest that had threatened to choke her, the pain threatening to engulf her; and she hadn't known if it had been because he had left her, or because she was about to do the same thing to the only other person who knew how that felt.
.
She remembers the day she returned. She'd avoided returning for months (years) but she couldn't miss Sarah thirteenth birthday. She'd missed the three years leading up to it though. However, she was twenty-one (she and her fathers had celebrated that one in NYC), an adult; responsible, and guiding and – she had owed it to the girl to be there for this one thing, if nothing else. She had owed it to Sarah, because she had abandoned her like the rest. She had been the only one who could empathize with the girl; truly, and she had just up and left her like they'd never been fused together by a stolen life. She feels sick even thinking about it now, because it is the worst, the worst, kind of betrayal. And she'd inflicted it upon a child, as if the girl hadn't been through enough.
"You're here," had been Sarah's first words to her.
"I'm here," she had responded, mustering up a smile easily; because even now just the sight of the girl – no matter how much she may grow or change – has that miraculous effect on her.
"You missed it though," the birthday girl had said next, nodding to the photo that had caught her eye: the thirteen-year-old's Bat Mitzvah.
"I know I did," she had replied. "And I'm sor-"
"But you're here now," Sarah had cut her off.
And then the girl had thrown her arms around her, and it made her wonder how she'd ever been able to let this girl go.
"The dress was hideous," she'd had mumbled into her shirt, "And it was boring as Hell."
She'd laughed, because she couldn't help it; because the girl had sounded entirely too much like her brother, because she had been expecting this.
"I can't believe you missed it. You left me with all those people."
A shudder had rippled though her like diffusion from the younger's slight frame.
Then accusing eyes had lifted to meet hers; "They didn't leave me alone. Once."
And she had been selfish, because she had smiled wider when her heart had leapt; leapt at the realization that the indignation in the girl's voice was because of what she'd gone through that day; not what she'd gone through since that day.
They had been reunited that day, and nothing would separate them again; she had made a mistake, but she wouldn't make it again. Life had not been kind to either of them, but they had been kind to each other, at one time; and it was the only time she hadn't had to remind herself to breathe, because someone had been there to hold her hand and do it for her.
.
She had spent her last day with Sarah. They'd fallen back into a routine and she'd honestly been sad to leave once again. She'd been in the girl's room, leaving a book for her on her desk so she'd have something to read that's she'd actually enjoy for her next assignment, when a slip of paper had caught her eye.
This is not a love story, she had read, and her stomach had started to churn instantly at the words.
And when she had continued, she can still remember clear as day; it had been the first time she has ever regretted being such an influential part of Sarah's life.
Love stories don't survive this amount of heartache – do they even contain heartache? True gut-wrenching, scream-your-lungs-out-till-your-throat-run's-dry-and-you-can't-sing-or-speak-or-do-anything-but-pant-for-breath-for-days heartache?
They don't rip you apart 'till you feel like an amputee; only you get you keep all your limbs, so the pain's like your punishment and you break on the inside instead.
Love stories have happy endings and a guy and a girl living happily ever after together. They build you up until there's nothing to feel but unadulterated joy and anticipation of a future together.
It's what they should have; but it's not what they got.
This is about her. This is about him. This is about them, and everything in between.
This is not a love story.
Four years ago, my brother died.
The world kept turning, but ours – hers – was never the same again.
They say love is like a thief in the night, it steals your heart like a whisper in the darkness, and clutches it so very close to its being that you can only ever grasp blindly, desperately, for it if you want it back.
I think Death must be the father of Love to have taught him such tricks.
Fathers teach their boys the dirtiest of tricks.
Mine taught my brother abandonment. He taught him how to leave and never look back. He taught him hate; and then it spread like a virus. It spread to me, it spread to her; leaving him in the same breath as his last, it needed a host to survive. It should've spread further. Why didn't it spread further?
My brother died and nothing was ever the same again. Except no one cared. They should've cared. They should've seen what he could do to us, what he did to us. They should've seen how much he mattered; they should've known.
One person can only carry the story for so long.
One person is not enough; it should've spread further; the whole world should've stopped turning.
My world stopped turning, and so did hers. Except she created a new world, one where she had to hit the ground running in order to keep up; she had to catch up with all of you, because your world had kept on going without her.
I live in a house that screams tales of horror at you at every turn; the shadow of a woman who wears ghosts on her skin when the nightmares don't bleed from her eyes, and even sometimes when they do, lurks there. She is my only company; and she's not much company at all.
I can't create a new world outside my head; so I create one inside. People call you crazy for far less these days; but they'd rather call me crazy and give me a wide berth than have to give me pitying looks and hold their tongue when I'm within earshot. Everyone's all about convenience, but I've never known how to be easygoing. Noah used to say it was the Puckerman way and people just had to deal with it or get the fuck out of our way. Except it's hard to play hardball when you're the only one who knows the rules, and even then you can barely understand them.
This isn't survival, so don't say I'm tough. Don't say you get over it, because this isn't something to conquer, this is something that gnaws away at you until it kills you as well; even if you pretend the cause is something different.
Don't say life is hard, because it's unbearable actually, and you're only scratching the surface.
So maybe this isn't a love story because it's more about me than him or her, or them. It should be about me; he left and so did she and I'm the only one still here.
I'm the only one still here; but I wish I wasn't.
I don't wish I were dead; my brother's dead and look where it got us all. Nowhere.
I wish I was somewhere, with him and her and them.
I wish this was a love story, because love stories end; and as far as I can see, I'll be living in this Hell for as long as the Earth will have me.
Not for the first time, she wonders what kind of child, not even a teenager when those words had been penned, could write such a thing. And then she realizes, that in another world that child could have been her own self. Sarah's smart enough, observant enough, that sometimes she finds it difficult to separate her own memories from the girl's. Except hers are laced with more joyous moments, and they lasted longer, filled a greater spans of time. Sarah had her life ripped from her grasp without warning, replaced by something foreign; a mother more alien than the original, a household that morphed the sound of her voice as it echoed through the empty halls, a missing piece forever present in the chasm it left in its absence.
She finds it impossibly sad still, to think of the things that that girl, still so young, so impressionable, had been growing up with that would have inspired such words. And they were so raw, so deep; she could feel each one puncture another hole in the place where her heart still somehow managed to sit, though it balanced precariously on the edge of a knifepoint. She used to wonder if she'd be the one to deliver the final blow herself, or if Fate as the cousin of Death had her set in his sights all along. The blood had poured out ever faster with each letter that skittered past her eyes and she had realized then that this inspiration of Sarah's, this story she was telling; it was her life.
In the present day, this realization has more effect than ever. She feels the color drain from her face and she blinks slowly, the only thing she can hear is the sound of her breathing and the pounding in her ears.
This is her life.
And it is a tragedy.
This was never the way it was supposed to be.
Sarah's right; it's not a love story, but it's the life she's been given.
She doesn't know any other way to live now.
.
She'd barely been back a week when she'd slept with the guy who'd been giving her the eye for the past month.
She'd awoken in his bed – she hadn't been able to go through with it in her own; even if Noah had never even set foot in her room there, the symbolism had still remained.
"Rachel," the guy – she doesn't even want to think his name – had said almost gently, reaching out to touch her arm.
The covers had been thrown haphazardly off her, and she'd jerked away, sweat beading across her brow.
"You were having a nightmare," he had told her, concern etched into his face, his words.
"It wasn't a nightmare," she had insisted, though her voice had been unnaturally hoarse with the effort.
It hadn't been a nightmare, because that would've meant she'd been sleeping for a while, and the chances of that were next to nothing.
She'd left for her own shower and her own space and – she'd just needed to be on her own after that.
Her alarm had been going off when she'd entered, playing a song she hadn't been able to decipher until she'd stepped closer to it, intent on switching it off as she'd dropped her belongings by her bed.
Is it still me that makes you sweat?
Am I who you think about in bed?
When the lights are dim and your hands are shaking as you're sliding off your dress?
Then think of what you did
And how I hope to God he was worth it.
When the lights are dim and your heart is racing as your fingers touch his skin.
I've got more wit, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck
Than any boy you'll ever meet, sweetie you had me
Girl I was it, look past the sweat, a better love deserving of
Exchanging body heat in the passenger seat?
No, no, no, you know it will always just be me...
She'd swiped the stereo off her side table without another thought and when it had splintered and shattered on the floor she'd merely blinked at it.
And then the words had sunk in and she'd crumpled to the floor; because when had her life turned to absolute ruin?
.
She'd had enough life lessons to know that it was important to keep a level head in situations such as that one. Except how could one possibly prepare for that situation?
She had been in such a fog, her eyes blurry, her mind fuzzy; she had been barely able to think straight.
She'd collapsed to the ground and all she'd been able to see was his body sprawled out through the shattered window and the mangled door of his truck.
When she had reached him, all she'd been able to feel was the blood on her hands, the lead weight of his head slipping from her grasp in his blood. Noah's blood. Oh, dear God.
And he had died in her arms, just like that.
She has no passionate or romantic memories about it, like the movies or books or lyrical poetry of life would suggest.
It had been heartbreaking and horrifying; and it still haunts her to this day.
She hadn't been able to do anything, not a single thing; except cry a fountain of tears as grief overtook her before Death even took him. She had held him as he grew limp in her arms, weighting them down with the cost of a sacrifice too large to uphold.
She had waited for the ambulance, one hand pressed tight to the gash on his chest and another cradling his cheek in curve of her hand. She remembers thinking that the slice beneath her palm would surely leave a scar above his heart; and without another thought she bent to place a kiss over the open wound. He had enough of them without adding another.
All she could do while she waited was watch as he convulsed and coughed under her, blood pushing its way out of his mouth, when it had nowhere else to go.
"Babe," he had said, his eyes crinkling, lips cracked. "You're it for me, you know, you're it, Rachel."
And then his words had gotten covered in blood like everything else as the life spilled out of him and stained her shirt a deeper crimson than any cherry slushie he'd ever thrown at her could have.
.
Sarah had gotten pregnant at sixteen and there had been an irony in there that no one had wanted to acknowledge. Except the girl had never claimed to be an innocent, and the boy who'd knocked her up really did turn out to be a Lima loser.
The teenager had turned up at her door in the middle of the night, wide-eyed and so young that she had almost been thrown back to all those years ago when they'd both been thrust so painfully together.
She had taken her back to Lima herself, had stayed with her during those nine months, had helped her get back on her feet; had been the sister she was supposed to have been all the years she wasn't.
And when Sarah had finally convinced her to leave, she had been the one who had needed the extra push to do so.
She had kept her promise that time; had emailed and called and texted and used every form of communication she had available to her, and some she hadn't, to keep in contact with Sarah.
She'd visited and been sent photos and videos and been present herself for defining moments; and slowly life had begun again.
It had been a slow process, but they had started to get there, together. Always, together.
.
Now, it's the day of Sarah's wedding, and honestly she can't stop crying. They're tears of happiness though, because this girl – or maybe this boy (these boys) – has awoken something in her that she never thought she'd feel again. And she's hopeful, for the first time in a long, long while.
She throws her arms around the girl she's come to love like the sister she officially should have been, and her smile imprints against the younger's skin as she presses her face into her neck.
"I love you," she tells her, the words a fierce promise to be forever upheld.
"I love you too, sis," Sarah returns easily, and hugs her that little bit closer.
When they finally part, she places the slip of paper into her sister's hand and closes her fingers around it till Sarah's gripping it tightly.
"Live the life you've always dreamed," she whispers, and her smile spreads infectious across the faces of the two that watch them.
This is a love story.
This is about him, and her, and them. This is about the present and the future, and experiencing it together.
This is about hope, reaching into your imagination and setting out on a journey you want to take; this is about love.
.
Sarah's story is one of love and hope, of fulfilling your dreams and living your life to its greatest potential.
And as much as there will always be that gaping hole between them, that Noah-shaped-space where he would stand with his arms around his two girls and wink at them and nudge them and laugh at their reactions, she knows now that they really can make it together.
They're not alone.
There's the man who possesses all the wonderful parts of Noah, now with the official plans to remain by her sister's side for eternity; it's a display of love that would have melted even his heart. (Because he's been there for her when another hasn't, because he treats her like she deserves, because he loves their little boy so much that a difference in blood could never matter). And the little boy before them who somehow manages to encompass all those terrible traits of Puck and get away with it by flashing a pair of those forest green eyes and a grin inherited directly from the uncle he never got the chance to meet.
They have each other.
And they have him; in everything they are, in everything they do. He will never leave them.
As the New York City skyline appears in her view, she looks down from her little spot in the sky and beams at the world she sees opening up beneath her.
Before she had been Rachel Berry, talented and determined and successful.
Now she remembers, most importantly, that she's also a Puckerman. It means more to her than anything.
She's part of his family.
She's part of his sister's life.
She's part of him.
Forever.
.
The End.
A/N: the part where Sarah finds Rachel in the hospital after she's been hitting the wall was inspired from a small section in 'Maximum Ride' and the nightmare line is from 'Keeping Faith'. Credit where credit's due :)
Thanks so much for reading, please don't hate me lol – but please do let me know what you thought!
Steph
xxx