Disclaimer: I don't own Glee and nor do I own the song that inspired this, Maybe We're Not Meant To Be by Papa Roach. This is sort of AU because I started writing this before 'On My Way'.
Maybe We're Not Meant To Be
You stifle a snort as Finn splashes his face with cold water for the hundredth time or something. He's been completely freaking out over getting married all morning and now, with almost an hour to go, he's practically having a breakdown.
"Seriously, dude. Calm the fuck down already! It's just Rachel, there's nothing to be nervous about," you say scathingly, throwing the already soaking towel at Finn before getting up and walking towards him. Finn stops rubbing his face raw and looks at him like he's growing a second head.
"What, so you wouldn't be nervous if you were marrying Rachel? Puck, it's Rachel!"
"Exactly," you answer without thinking, and Finn quirks an eyebrow at you. "I mean, hell no, not if I was in love with her, and, like, knew everything about her. You know, like you." Finn's face stays fixed in its almost-permanent look of complete confusion. "What's there to be scared about, dude?"
"Like – everything!" You immediately regret asking. "This is marriage, like, for real! She's gonna want babies, and we're gonna have to live on our own, and, hell, she won't even let me pee when she's there … and seriously, dude, I keep forgetting she's vegan!"
You blink at Finn for several moments before sitting him down on the chair in the corner and forcing his head between his knees roughly. What? You're not an expert, and anyways, you're pretty sure he's gonna vomit soon.
"Finn." You say firmly. "Rachel won't want babies, like, now. It'll be in her ten year plan somewhere after 'Win a Tony'."
"Oh my God, oh my God … I'm gonna have to walk down a red carpet someday … what if I trip?"
You decide that you're not helping and go to find Burt, who you find having a go at Kurt for not being more supportive, who's having a go at Burt for being too supportive. After sending a frazzled Burt to deal with Finn, you glance at your watch and realise that there's only three quarters of an hour till the wedding. You feel in your inside pocket for the small velvet box and sigh in relief that it's still there (you were worried it might have fallen out when Finn half-collapsed on you about half an hour ago).
You head off down to the other side of the building looking for where Rachel might be. This is the first wedding you've ever been to, so you have no idea where the bride might be, but you know she's gotta be here somewhere 'cause, you know, it's her wedding.
You're just wondering whether this is the fourth or the fifth time you've been down this hall when you see Mercedes leave a room at the end of the hall and walk in the other direction. Not having much time to waste, you jog to the room and knock twice, entering when you hear Rachel's overly-polite voice: "Enter."
She's standing at the window looking out, and she's wearing a white dress. But when she turns around, you feel like you stop breathing for a moment – she looks gorgeous. Her hair's all natural and flowing round her shoulders, and her dress is long and strapless and simple.
"Hello, Noah," she says, breaking your train of thought, and you grin at her.
"You look beautiful, Rach," you say, and she smiles a small smile, not the beaming, face-splitting one you expected. She walks to the dresser and scoops up her hair, twisting it.
"What ya doin'?"
She looks at you weirdly through the mirror. "I'm doing my hair."
"Don't," you say. She frowns, pausing. "It looks better loose. Makes you look like a princess."
She chuckles lightly and lets it go, curling around her shoulders. It's not weird 'cause you've always been able to say stuff to Rachel that would make you feel like a pussy if you said it to anyone else. She looks down and fingers the tidy bunch of white roses on the dresser. Her face is hidden, but her shoulders are tense.
"S'up?" you ask, because she's being all weird, and you're a bit worried.
"I – I …" she stumbles, and you realise with a jolt that she's crying. You hate crying girls 'cause you don't know what to say, and seeing Rachel cry is, like, awful, 'cause you've always had a soft spot for her.
"Oh, fuck," you whisper, running your hand through your Mohawk. "Don't … don't cry, Rach."
"I'm not," she lies, sniffling.
"Look, it's … it's natural to be a little nervous. Finn's, like, half passing out."
Rachel's head snaps up and she glares at him through the mirror as if it's his fucking fault or something. "What?"
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger, God," you say. She glares harder. "I – I was just joking, okay? He's fine."
He's not, of course, and you both know it. And by the looks of things, Rachel isn't either. Though she looks beautiful, she looks completely out of her element in her wedding dress; like she's dressed up for a role. Cinderella, or something. And you're pretty sure that a bride isn't supposed to have that look of complete loss on her face a half hour before she walks down the aisle.
"You do want to marry Finn, don't ya?" you ask her bluntly. What? You never pretended to be tactful.
"Of course I do, Noah! What are you doing here anyway, asking stupid questions?"
"Stop changing the subject, Rachel!" you tell her, and her bottom lip quivers. At this point, you think that anything could push her over the edge. In about ten seconds, you could have a sobbing girl slobbering all over you, and you know you should be more sensitive. But screw that – you're now wondering why the hell Rachel is marrying Finn when she's clearly not happy about it. "Like … what are you marrying Finn for? You don't even match!"
"Finn and I are not a pair of shoes and a handbag, Noah. We don't have to match."
"Yeah, but … why are you so scared then? Why do you look like you're on death row or somethin'?" Rachel looks at him blankly. You've never seen her like this; whatever emotion she's feeling, she's always fierce, loud, dramatic. You don't like this new shell. "Do you love him?"
"Yes!"
"Do you?" she's still staring that weird stare. "Do want to spend the rest of your life with him? Do you, like, wanna wake up next to him every day and just look at him for hours? Do you feel like there would be no point to life without him? Do you love him because he's an idiot, dopey, a bit dim – or in spite of it? Would you do anything for him – like, die for him?" you stop for a moment. Rachel's looking at you like she's never seen you before. "Are you prepared to give up all your dreams for him?" you add, because you know that, for Rachel, that's like dying.
She's sitting there in silence, staring, blinking away tears. You can see that's she's trying really hard to keep them in, but they overflow and stream down her cheeks. You walk over to her, where she's sitting on the little dresser stool, and kneel in front of her; she dabs at her cheeks with the inside of her wrist, and you know she's trying not to disturb her makeup 'cause your ma does it all the time.
"'Cause that's what real love is, Rach," you tell her, and she stares right into your face. Her eyes look lighter than usual 'cause of her tears. "I mean, I don't have experience with, like, romantic love or anything, but I know what I feel for Beth, and it's all o' what I just said. I'm pretty sure, that … if you're gonna marry someone, you should be feelin' somethin' similar."
You stay like that for a while; she on her stool crying quietly, and you squatted down in front of her. You feel sort of like crap right now; you didn't come here to upset her, you came here to regain your sanity after spending half a day with Finn and to wish her luck for her wedding. You didn't plan on saying any of that stuff, and now you're wondering if there's gonna be anyone actually able to walk down the aisle without fainting.
Rachel sniffles and twists around on her chair, sighing heavy-heartedly when she sees her wet reflection in the mirror. "I never was a pretty crier," she chuckles humourlessly, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"Nah," you say, smiling softly at her, "you still look beautiful."
She catches your eye in the mirror and you stare at each other for a moment, before she gets up and walks towards you. You hold out your arms and she melts into your embrace, her damp cheek resting on your shoulder, and you rest your head on hers, breathing in the faint scent of vanilla. It doesn't feel awkward, so you stand there like that for a while, swaying slightly.
The door opens behind you and Quinn enters, frowning slightly when she sees the two of you. You let Rachel go and she smiles at Quinn brightly, falsely.
"You okay Rachel?" she asks warily, taking in Rachel's red eyes and your wet shoulder.
"Yes! Yes, of course," says Rachel, brushing her hands down the front of her dress as if to remove invisible creases. "Quinn, could you just – could you go and check on Mercedes please? She left a while ago to get the veil from the honeymoon suite. Tell her that it – it doesn't matter anymore."
Quinn looks at Rachel a second longer before nodding and leaving. Rachel looks back at you again and smiles thinly.
"I guess I – I have to go and speak with Finn."
You feel bad for a second, because you know that Rachel and Finn aren't getting married today. But the feeling disappears slightly when you think of what Rachel might have become if she went through with this; a housewife, maybe, or teaching kids how to sing and act. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but you know that it could never make Rachel happy. And for some reason, it's really important to you that she's happy.
"Guess you do," you reply, and you reach forward and hook her hair behind her ear gently. You're about to let your hand drop when she catches it and holds it tightly for a second; she laces your fingers together and strokes her thumb over the back of your hand, leaving a scorching hot trail.
"Thank you, Noah," she says quietly, before brushing past you and leaving the room.
You stand, staring at her forgotten white roses, your stomach squirming. You're not sure if it's because you just effectively hijacked your best friend's wedding or the sweet scent of vanilla you can still sense in the air around you.
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