A/N: I'm so sorry it took me so terribly long to update, I've been super busy, I was in Rome and Zurich and today I just wrote my Chemistry Finals. But now I have my summer break and I'm back :D I hope you enjoy the chapter. Reviews are always appreciated and I'm also still looking for someone to beta this, so if you're interested just pm me.

As always, I don't own Glee or the characters, the only things that are mine are the story and the poems.

Santana was drumming her fingers nervously. She hated waiting and Quinn was the only one who ever dared to make her wait. Her fellow cheerleader knew exactly that Santana respected her as her Captain and friend and the Latina had by now gotten used to being second to her, but sometimes she was really pushing it. Like right now. She had been sitting in her car in front of the Fabray mansion for the last 10 minutes and the only reason she didn't just drive off or break something, preferrably Quinn's window, was that her Captain had promised to let Britts sneak off with her early, if Coach was leaving her in charge. That was definitely a privilege she wanted to keep at all cost.

Finally the door swung open and Quinn strode out, forcefully shutting it again straightaway. It worried Santana, because unless she was in a really bad mood, Quinn did not lose her composure or ladylike behaviour, especially not around her own home. Her suspicion got confirmed, she knew her best friend well enough to see immediately that the girl was very close to tears. For Fabray standards she was crying an awful lot lately.

"Hey, what's wrong with you? You're late!", Santana scolded, but her voice was soft. She wasn't the greatest with kind words and they both knew that she was going to be there for Quinn regardless of what she was saying. The blonde leaned back in her seat and drew in a shaky breath.

"I'm okay."

"Yeah, no, you're not. What's the matter?"

"What is usually the matter? Common San, it's not like you don't know him."

"Oh, so it is Mr. Fabray being an asshole again. What's he bitching about today?"

Quinn gave her a disapproving glance for her language, to which Santana answered with an eyeroll and a dramatic sigh, so Quinn started talking.

"It's prom again. If I'm not prom queen, he can't possibly be seen with me anymore, especially after all the money he already invested in the dress. Also, it would undermine my position as number one, and I can not lose my status in school. He would be so disappointed!"

"Well, nothing new there then."

"I also don't want to go back to being her, you know. I was desperate and I was sad, everything is so much better now, San. I can't let it all go, just by not winning that stupid crown.", Quinn added softly.

"Don't throw a fit now, hon, it's not like you're not going to win anyways!"

Santana really was trying her best to be supportive and she hoped it showed.

"Well, yeah, but I'd have to date Sam, because I can't go to prom without a boyfriend that looks good on me. Daddy works with his dad and he's a good Christian. Suitable, since we all are, too", her voice now had a sharp and sarcastic edge, it made her intimidating.

"And, you know, people start talking if I don't have a suitable boyfriend anyway. And since Berry is with Finn, there really is no one I could take to that damn prom, but freaking Sam!"

"Common, he isn't that bad. Your daddy wouldn't have approved of you going with Berry anyways!", Santana joked in a desperate attempt to lighten up the mood.

Quinn glared at her, opened her mouth in an attempt to say something, closed it again and wiped at her eyes furiously to stop the upcoming tears.

"I was talking about Finn!"

Now Santana actually felt sorry and very helpless, she hadn't meant for it to come across as mean, especially since she'd never really believed that Quinn cared about her ex-boyfriend much.

"I was joking, Quinn, common!"

"It's not funny, San! I really don't wanna date Sam.", Quinn just managed to squeeze out before the tears that had layered her voice all along burst out and she started to tremble with sobs.

"Wow, wow, Quinn, no need to cry. Calm down, please?"

Santana awkwardly patted the shoulder of a quivering Quinn.

"It's three months till Prom, you can think about it, you can ask Sam, you can not ask Sam, whatever you want, kay? Mios Dios, no one gives a shit, you'll be prom queen anyways. And if you really want Finnocence back just say the word, I'll gladly murder midget Streisand for you."

Finally Quinn stopped crying and gave the Latina an almost playful glare. Santana let out a relieved breath, she hated it when someone cried. It just got straight to her heart and Santana Lopez's heart had a reputation to be ice cold, she couldn't let some cheerleader with idiot parents and a surprisingly vulnerable side ruin it.

"You don't have to murder anyone, I don't care about that asshole!"

"Too bad.", Santana mumbled, her smirk showing just how glad she was Quinn was back to her old self.

"Feel free to slushy her though."

Quinn's eyebrow was raised and she wore her evil smirk. She was HBIC, captain of the cheerios again.

"And get your car moving, if we're late you're doing extra laps in practice."

Santana was aware that her Captain knew exactly that she wasn't the one responsible for their tardiness, her shimmering hazel eyes, looking even more dangerous after her little display of weakness, were daring her to say something about it. So she shut her mouth and drove on.

Rachel was sat in her Literature class, front row, eyes fixed on the teacher. There was no one sitting next to her, it wasn't very cool to be sitting in the front row and it was definitely social suicide to sit next to Rachel Berry. She was aware of that and it stung slightly when she thought about it, but at least no one was keeping her from paying attention to her subjects. Literature was one of her favourite classes, she'd always liked to read, she enjoyed the words and the pictures they would paint. Poetry is very similar to music, it allows us to experience emotions through a medium, so they become slightly less personal, but even more intense. Art allows us to live everything we need to, without putting ourselves in danger.

Rachel adored her teacher, because she thought he understood and conveyed exactly this attitude towards the books they read. He was a passionate man, but always seemed a little confused. Today they'd been looking at different structures and themes in contemporary english poetry. Rachel had come alive, having read so many poems and being able to offer a vast knowledge on this subject.

That's how she ended up practically having a private lesson, starting with discussing poets who purposfully don't structure they're poems at all, ending with an animated conversation about how Mr. Rhavedig was fluent in German, just because he really wanted to read Kafka and how Rachel sometimes looked through dictionaries and memorized new words as a mean to expand her already very sophisticated vocabulary.

Five minutes before the end of the lesson she kindly reminded him that the bell was going to ring soon and that he had in fact other students, even though they seemed more interested in learning text speech than how to create great literature.

Mr Rhavedig ruffled through his sheets until he found some assignement he might or might not have prepared for this lesson.

"Listen up, students, I require a poem from each of you tomorrow. I would like you to put at least one sentiment you are experiencing right now into it and then find a structure that matches and reflects this sentiment. Remember, the stronger the feelings, the more convincing your poem."

The students groaned, some scratched their heads, deprived of any ideas.

"For heavens sake, you lot are teenagers, you are supposed to be pure emotion without rational thoughts! Channel some of that energy!"

He was in his element now, trying to spark a tiny bit of interest for his subject in the listless crowd.

"You, Mr. Puckerman", he waved at an annoyed Puck who had rolled his eyes as soon as feelings had been mentioned, "Could even compose a beautiful piece about your excitement for the fairer sex and all the pleasures it brings."

Puck grinned at that, and Rachel admired the teacher even more, for quite probably being the only teacher getting Noah to write anything, even if it was going to be about sex.

Suddenly a chair shrieked and Quinn Fabray strode to the front. She passed Rachel who couldn't help but inhale her perfume. She should definitely add smells to her list of things that could paint pictures in your head, at least Quinn's smell. If she closed her eyes long enough she found herself under a tree in a overgrown backgarden with a book in her hands and the sun kissing her face. She never really knew there was a smell to the feeling of complete and utter peace with a hint of adventure somewhere in the air, but now that she thought about it, it was definitely what Quinn smelled like.

"I will not write poetry! I am here to learn about literature not to gush about my feelings. What a ridiculous assignment is that, anyways? I haven't learned anything in this lesson and now you expect me to what, share my deepest secrets with you? I refuse to write poetry. I don't do poetry!"

She all but shouted the last sentence and seemed incredibly worked up. Why she was so reluctant Rachel couldn't understand, but then again, this was Quinn, Quinn who was mysterious, who never shared anything about herself, who ruled the school without any sign of conscience. And it was a sight to behold, the angry cheerleader, cheeks flushed, not seeming to care that she was refusing a teacher. Rachel couldn't quite decide if the girl in front of her was an incredibly brave rebel or just a coward who couldn't even bring herself to write a poem.

"If you have a problem with me not completing this pointless homework, I suggest you talk to Sylvester!", Quinn hissed, "Have a good day!"

She stormed off and the bell rang.

Sam was nervously clutching his bag. He was about to ask Quinn Fabray to go out with him and even though he didn't like to admit it, it made him very anxious. Quinn could be intimidating, scary even, and he didn't want her wrath upon him.

Finally she strode down the hallway. Her lips were pressed together tightly, her eyes sparkling with anger. She looked fantastic and Sam swallowed audibly. He felt awkward doing it, it was one of these moments, where you try not to swallow, but you have to anyway, which leads to an audible gulp. Quinn must have heard it too, because she turned to face him. Sam gathered all his courage and opened his mouth. "Yes?", Quinn asked, managing to sound bored, impatient and annoyed at the same time. He wondered if she practised her tone at home.

"Yeah, I'm.. Sorry, yes. Uhm, hi."

He smiled at her dorkily. She shook her head and was just about to head off when he finally squeezed his words out.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go to Breadstix? With me, I mean."

Quinn rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. She looked up at him again, her anger was gone, replaced by something that reminded him of the look that the soldiers in the war movies he liked to watch got, just before they followed a command, throwing themselves into sure death while screaming "For my country!".

"I'll go.", Quinn sighed. "This Friday, six o'clock, my house. You drive and pay dinner."

"Okay", Sam was astonished, that was easier, but also decidedly weirder than he had imagined it.

"I'm looking forward to it!", he called after his pretty date, who was already striding down the hallway again. She pretended not to hear him.

Rachel had been standing by her locker for several minutes now, trying to look busy, so people wouldn't stare and think she was strange. She felt like they did anyways, and she was certain that in half an hour there would be a post on Ben Jacob Israels blog about her being a serial killer planning to assassin Quinn Fabray, plotting the most painful death for the cheerio, while standing at her locker and observing the girl. In reality she was of course aware that no one was interested enough in her to even notice her, but she just had this paranoid feeling she always got when staring at Quinn secretly.

Because that much was true, she was looking at Quinn, however she had no desire to kill her. She'd rather take a bullet herself, than hurt Quinn. But that wasn't what she had to worry about right now. The only one hurting was herself, she felt sick and something was pulling at her heart painfully. Her eyes burned and her head throbbed from holding back the tears. She was trying to bite back the emotion, telling herself she was being unfair, but she couldn't help being jealous of Sam.

It wasn't the fact that he had made her realize once again what she herself couldn't do by demonstrating how devastatingly easy it was for him to ask Quinn on a date. Although having it rubbed in her face was maddening, she had gotten used to that thought by now. It had been a mantra in her head for too long to really faze her anymore, the edges of her pain had softened from touching them all too often.

What really got her this time, was that she liked Sam. She adored the boy, he was kind and gentle and there was no way Quinn would not fall for him. Maybe he would be the first boy the sad beauty would really love. Rachel could imagine it.

The worst part was that Sam did deserve a girlfriend like her, that he would make her happy, love her unconditionally, like a faithful little puppy, and that there was no excuse for Rachel to tell herself how much better she'd be for Quinn anymore. If Quinn was in love, there was no way of getting near her, no attempts to make her happy, no hope to get her, because trying to do so had the potential to harm something that was perfect.

Rachel did want for her love to be happy, but at that moment she realized that she wasn't as selfless and generous with her love as she thought. She'd rather see Quinn alone and struggling than with Sam and happy, because as long as Quinn's life wasn't perfect, Rachel could still be the missing piece fixing it. And she hated herself for that feeling, hated herself for putting a stupid dream before the happiness of the person, that meant everything to her.

Still standing at her locker she opened the book she had brought to school, scared of leaving it at home, as though the words could escape.

Ropedancer

Pouring them all on a thread

Watching them flow

Dancing with me in my head

Free now to go

Tighter, tighter

more

faster, faster

spin

Stop!

It must soon become too much

Holding them all

Careful, so fragile to touch

Seeing them fall

How beautiful, how selfless must one be to stop holding on, to bear the pain and watch them fall, setting them free. Her poet had painted a picture in her head, a flawless picture of a perfect human being. A perfect human being in so much pain, balancing like a dancer on a rope, not daring to step aside, yet still allowing "them" to fall.

Rachel tried to push her own worries to the back of her head, to plan the next step. But she wasn't the poet, she wasn't the dancer, her feelings clinging to her and making her stumble.

She sucked in a deep breath, steadied herself to keep going. She managed to gain back composure without falling, she could go on, just carrying a bit more weight.

She looked to Quinn's locker. The girl was gone.