The Unjustifiable Means
"Whenever something's bothering you, I can always find you here," her voice is like a chirping bird to the ears of one Noah "Puck" Puckerman. Puck's dark brown eyes do not betray a flicker of acknowledgement, just contempt and morbidity. They remain fixated on the fog overtaking the school perimeters and the damp grass swooshing ever so slightly as strong gusts of wind come across the field. He shuffles on the ground, rough hands tucked into his pockets and his right leg resting over his left leg.
The day is a constant back-and-forth; the rain would come and go almost as quickly as his attention in every single one of his classes. It's bothersome, and although Puck opts to spend his time sprawled across the field, he settles for the filthy bleachers. Or rather, beneath them.
He can't recall when the Football field became a place of solace for him, but then again, he can't even recall when was the last time he brushed his teeth.
Stupid stud problems, Puck thinks sarcastically to himself.
From the corner of his eye, he spots an unmistakable shade of sunflower hair. Maybe it's the twinge of gold or the abundant curls that separate it from the locks of his other blonde-haired best friend, Sam Evans. Or maybe it's based on the pure fact that her presence is so distinct, he could never mistake her for anyone else.
"Her" being Quinn Fabray.
Three-fourths of the quayhem may be wild in their own rite, but sufficient to say they can be thoroughly predictable. In any situation regarding him and whatever brooding mood he falls under, they come in phases. The first is Sam, who approaches him with comforting silence and an invitation to hurl a Football around from dawn until dusk until the sorrow fades. The next is Santana, who would catch him by surprise and rant in Spanish. She would say things of vibrant language until eventually he yells in response. She knows his triggers almost as well as he knows hers.
But when push comes to shove, when neither Sam's wordless comfort or Santana's wordy triggers get under his skin, they pull in the big guns: Quinn.
He has known her for three years, and within those three years, she never seizes to amaze him with her capability to outwit those who cross her path. Her words are so precise and on the ball that he's shaken by them.
Puck could hear the signature squeak of the regulation, Cheerio pumas against the ground, signaling her approach. He shuffles slightly to his right, giving her room to sit down beside him. From the corner of his eye, he can spot her tight, red shorts underneath her Cheerio skirt, sending his dark eyes ablaze with undeniable interest.
"That's tight." Puck comments roughly, resting his large hands against the back of her knee and allowing it to slide up her skirt. He pinches the curve of her ass. Puck's eyes mischievously glance up at Quinn's face, anticipating some sort of reaction. Some look of anger or pleasure or anything in between.
It doesn't come.
Throughout Puck's eighteen years of existence, only five people have ever come to truly matter. Of those five, two were members of his own, broken family. The remaining three consists of the three other members of their infamous group. And out of those three, none have ever come closer to his own heart than Quinn herself.
He has a battered heart, of that he is confident. It is neither functional nor competent. It beats blood and takes it in and does nothing for him emotionally. But his heart, in all of is uselessness, has been in the palm of the blonde's hands since the moment they found each other.
It's a common occurrence in the damned walls of McKinley. He wants Quinn, Quinn wants Mike and from what Puck knows of the Asian boy, he wants Rachel. Just as every guy in McKinley wants Santana, who wants Brittany who in turn, wants to be free from hiding her affection for, well, Santana. It makes the mind reel, really.
"Mhm." Quinn agrees thoughtlessly, finding her way down on the ground with him. He hates her apathy more than he hates this day, and that's truly saying something. She's always been like this, as if she has long cast him off as a brother or a friend and no longer finds malice in his touches. Puck could easily sprawl her down against the grass and fuck her senseless until she loses her voice. Puck could drown her with whatever half-assed words of love and affection he can think of. Puck could do it all and more, a far cry from the apple of her eye who does nothing but shove her away, and still she would think of him as a friend.
"Whenever it rains, I always like to think the clouds are crying." Quinn admits without a hint of hesitation. This is the basis of their fourway friendship; comfort. There's no hesitation or fear of judgment, just plain honesty.
"Why would clouds be crying, B?" asks Puck dubiously. "They get to be up there and we have to be down here,"
"Exactly," she muses. "They're up there, away from where everything truly happens! They have to watch as people go on crazy adventures or learn new things or fall in love," she continues, a look of pure bliss sparkling from her expressive hazel eyes.
"Or maybe it's because they watch people get mugged or fucked over." Puck replies harshly.
"I like to think they believe it's worth it," Quinn answers.
"It's worth it? Getting screwed over by bullshit and for what? To 'fall in love?'" he challenges her angrily.
"Exactly."
"It's unhealthy."
"What is?" she asks, eyebrows fussed together in mild bewilderment.
"Thinking the way you think. You'll get heartbroken." Puck reasons. She's too fragile. She's a little girl with dreams of grandeur, that may be, but she is nowhere near equipped enough to have her heart broken. Imagining her vulnerable heart in pieces makes his blood boil. It's a cross of protectiveness and love that he feels for her, and he is never too use if it's truly he feels, which has been confused for love. He's never been too good at figuring out his own heart's desires.
"I highly doubt that. You never really get your heartbroken, you just misplace it, that's all." Quinn says quietly.
"That's a shitty way to look at things." He points out.
"Says the guy who thinks life is nothing but sadness." Quinn quips, staring at him pointedly.
"It's realistic." Puck grumbles.
"It's just you being pessimistic," she reasons bluntly.
"Isn't that what bright and shiny people say so they don't think they're idiots?"
"Well, isn't believing you're realistic all a ruse to make yourself think you aren't a pessimist?" her words are curt and nonchalant, but her eyes betray her and she can see the worry behind them.
"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't; at least I'm closer to reality than you are." Puck isn't typically this cruel towards Quinn. He doesn't lash out or express his anger towards her, or even towards Sam or Santana really. There's no room for anger in such a tight knit group as theirs. But for some reason, he finds his temper betraying his reason and his words of realism crushing those of Quinn's idealism.
She remains silent, undoubtedly replaying his words in her mind and trying to make sense of what is truly reality and when one crosses the lines to either pessimism or optimism.
"I mean, you can't even accept that you're too good for Chang…" he adds softly, his consciousness sneaking up on him. He can only handle mistreating the Barbie doll of his mind and heart for so long before he caves. He touches her back with his hand comfortingly, running it up and down slowly but surely.
"And you can't accept the fact that all hope isn't lost," she retorts, eyes boring into his meaningfully. "You can graduate."
"Balls told you, didn't he?" Puck grumbles irritably. The image of Sam yanking Quinn and Santana away from their Mike Chang hunt and spreading the news of his inevitable fifth yer of high school comes into his mind. Just thinking about it sends a humiliated shiver down his spine.
"He may have mentioned it," she replies warily, not glancing away.
"And?" he pushes on.
"And I think you're an idiot." Quinn states flatly.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Puck reasons. Quinn may see what the rest of McKinley could only dream of, but she still views him as an idiot.
Perhaps he is.
"Pukey." Quinn snaps sternly.
"What?"
"There are seven months left until the end of the year, are you seriously telling me you can't pull shit together and graduate along with the rest of us?" she's preaching from the high horse of her straight-A average and whiz girl persona, and it takes all of Puck's self-control not to chide her for her words. Or better yet, bring up the fact that for a girl so dedicated to trigonometry and chemical reactions, she has long committed herself to a career in modeling instead of opening herself up to her full potential. That would surely earn him a good, long enough rant to run for his truck.
"I'm a lost cause." Puck finally says.
"Rachel Berry's fashion sense is a lost cause. Your grades aren't."
"B-"
"You can't not graduate!"
"That's a double negative."
"You know what a double negative is and yet you insist you're an idiot incapable of passing?" she asks angrily, face now etched with irritation. She turns her body towards him, staring desperately into his eyes.
"There's no hope!"
"We'll help you, damn it! We'll pull up your GPA, we'll talk to Miss Pillsbury about your grades, we can even get Mister Schuester to budge and give you extra time on your papers!" he bites down his bottom lip thoughtfully. He isn't an expert at probability, but he knows that repeating his senior year over graduation is more likely than it being the other way around.
"Hey, hey" she captures his attention (as if that's truly difficult) by grasping her tiny fingers around his face. She tilts his head towards hers, and he meets the B he knows. The B that very few know. The B whose B doesn't stand for Queen Bee or Bitch, but best friend.
She doesn't let anything slip through her fingers. She suffocates people with love and adoration and hopes it compensates for truly earning it herself. It's this impeccable feeling of being wanted without condition. He can't help but envy how good Mike has it. He has this and more.
She is a dreamer and a lover, and for a boy whose only ever dreamed of a peak at a hot MILF's goods and has only ever loved waffles, it's something absolutely beautiful.
"B, I don't know…" Puck trails off hesitantly. What's the point in struggling to the finish line all so you can fall flat on your face in dismay?
"But I do, and I know everything, remember?" her arrogance makes him more aware who he's dealing with, and that gives her words have more weight.
"Quinn, I-"
"Gimme." Quinn demands before reaching into the pockets of his military coat and fishing out a crumpled piece of paper. Inscribed on it is each one of his shameful, first semester marks. He can see Quinn's eyes gleam with distaste, but he doesn't feel the least bit criticized. Yet again, her habit for overlooking the obvious for the sake of bliss comes into play.
"I can work with it. We can work with it. A couple of tutoring session, some credit recovery and we'll have you boasting about your diploma before you even know it." Quinn says brightly, her sparkling white teeth practically blinding the Mohawk-haired boy.
"What would I do without you?" Puck asks softly, grasping her chin in what he hopes initiates some sort of romantic vibes from Quinn.
"Die."
"That would actually be very likely," he presses his forehead against hers, and she doesn't hesitate to make herself comfortable in his grasp.
It stings even more.
He wants there to be malice behind such gestures. Puck wants to feel Quinn's large, romantic comedy inspired heart beating against his chest. He wants to see her cheeks turn blood red and her hazel eyes to flicker with so much damn love he'll run for the hills, just as the undeserving Mike does. Puck wants something as fucking inappropriate as his hands on her ass to be inappropriate, not something so completely natural because he's Puck and she's Quinn.
And he knows Quinn, and knows that princesses always end up with prince charming.
Even if prince charming is a douche who couldn't deadlift half what he can.
"Promise you'll try?" asks Quinn hopefully, eyes vulnerable and wide. He bites down on his lip, cussing to himself. The child-like wonder and expectation in her eyes makes it difficult for him to do anything but what she says.
"Promise?" she pushes on, an overlay of force in her otherwise sweet, gentle voice.
"I…" sighing, he pushes a curly strand away from her porcelain doll face instinctively. He takes in a long breathe, contemplating the next few words that he shall allow to slip out from his tongue.
"I promise." Puck is a man of his word. He and Quinn are identical pair in that sense. When they love, they don't love half-speed, they overcompensate. It's been that way with everything in their lives. Perhaps the only difference is that he channels his passion and drive towards shenanigans whereas she channels hers towards Mike.
Puck has yet to figure out which one is more psychologically damaging.
She's beaming now, and he feels a rush knowing that he has provided her with everything she wants. If Puck is to die tomorrow, he'll be able to guarantee he has made three accomplishments in his life; became a state-wide expert in the field of women's genitalia of the sexual sort, been the best 'bro' and 'lesbro' to Sam and Santana respectively and gave Quinn everything he can.
"Thank you, Pukey." Quinn gushes.
"Thank you, B" he responds meaningfully. She begins biting down on her lip, as if she's just about to speak up again, when the bleachers above them begin vibrating. It's footsteps, he quickly realizes. Puck almost forgot that his place of solace is also a popular lunchtime location for a number of McKinley's losers.
She untangles her limbs from his grasp gently, retracting her arms and placing them around her waist. Accordingly, he shuffles to his right to create a companionable distance. Maybe she is the girl of his dreams, but for right now, she is his best friend. And for right now? He can settle.
"Papa?" a voice breaks the comfortable silence between him and Quinn. It's familiar. Not like the mirthful if not slightly dull voice of Sam or the snappy and raspy voice of Santana's, but familiar enough for Puck to know it's, well, familiar. From the look of realization taking over Quinn's face, she does as well.
"Papa! I got it!" the squeak in her voice and the 'thud' against the metal bleachers make Puck's face scrunch together in realization. Rachel Berry. Unlike the intentional blonde sitting beside him, he doesn't imagine Rachel's untimely demise. He doesn't envision her falling into mud puddles or losing her voice like Santana either. He doesn't think of her. Period. But every other chance he gets, he can't resist the temptation to throw a slushie (that's perhaps the kindest beverage he can throw her, all things considered) towards her.
He doesn't know if its driven by loyalty to the quayhem, who are basically the dictators of every decision he makes, or because she continues to be everything he can only dream of.
"Get daddy on the phone, papa!" they can hear her unsteady, hyperventilating breathes from where they sit. He looks over at Quinn yet again, chuckling at the deep scowl on her face.
"Daddy?"
"Daddy?"
"The speaker goes into your ear!" chides Rachel before finally letting out another yelp of pure joy.
"I-I got it," her voice trembles through the silence, much to Puck's interest.
"An audition! D-Daddy, I got an audition!" Puck's anticipating Quinn's irritated remark. Turning towards her, thoughts of spoiling whatever gleeful moment Rachel is having plaguing his thoughts, when the sight of Quinn's face drained of color. Even with the light blush against her cheeks and the pinkness of her Mac raspberry liplgoss, she looks almost like a ghost. He wonders why that is, and right when he's about to reach over and grasp her shoulders, she sprints away, a determined, aggravated glimmer in her eyes.
The speed in which Quinn Fabray's long, pale arms reach for her is so undecipherable that Rachel Berry needs to think back to it for the sake of recalling it. It isn't until her small, frail body awkwardly falls back against the ice-cold bleachers that she even realizes such a thing occurred. Perhaps it's a mechanism for denial. By denying the fragment in time, she can escape the knowing scowl occupying Quinn's face.
Moreover, she can escape this unmistakable feeling of being caught. There was this one instance in the Berry household regarding the case of the stolen Barbra Streisand bobblehead from their trip to New York City a good two years ago. Thievery did not leave a sting in her chest, but facing the disapproving looks of daddy Leroy and papa Hiram definitely did. She didn't do guilt—she did petrified. She did humiliated. But guilt? Never guilt.
Guilt would insinuate that her actions are wrong. But Rachel never makes mistakes, especially towards other people, because when she rests her Tony award against the podium and delivers her speech, they won't be mistakes. They will just be her means to her fairytale ending. Somehow, someway, it justifies almost everything.
If only others could see it that way.
"What the-" Rachel's protesting voice is interrupted by Quinn's own, stone cold voice.
"How could you?" she's glowering now, much like the wolf in little red riding hood. And considering the amount of food Quinn consumes in one gulp, she wouldn't be too surprised if she tried to eat her herself.
"How could I what?" Rachel asks slowly.
"Wow!" Quinn exasperates. From the looks of it, the only thing preventing her from causing further damage is Puck coming between them, apathetically staring Rachel down.
"What?" hisses Rachel.
"You nasty little cunt." Rachel swallows the heavy lump in her throat. Hearing such vial words flowing from Quinn's mouth of all people couldn't be more unfitting if she tries.
"Excuse you," says Rachel, feigning ambivalence. The less Quinn sees the fear in her eyes, the better.
"Excuse you! How could you?" demands Quinn, hazel eyes turning darker with each passing second.
"I didn't do anything!"
"I heard you over the phone."
"Stalk me much? I didn't know you were into girls now," Rachel fidgets under both Puck's domineering stare and Quinn's bordering on psychotic rage. But she refuses to admit to her actions. Not if it means losing him.
The sight of Mike and Quinn's exchange in the auditorium comes to mind. She saw what neither Mike nor the all-knowing Quinn wouldn't dare acknowledge. She saw the boy whom many of her songs are dedicated to slowly and unknowingly falling into her trap. She saw her heart be stolen, only to be crushed by the sight of Mike's application glaring right at her moments later.
And just like that, Rachel is renewed. Lying to Quinn, lying to herself; it will just be her means to her fairytale ending. Somehow, someway, it justifies almost everything.
"You bitch! How could you do that to him?" explodes Quinn angrily.
"I know your petty intellect-"
"I have the highest GPA in the school," the blonde's anger subsides long enough to state that sentence, rather arrogantly, really.
"… Is incapable of properly using syntax, but if you expect me to take your accusations the least you can do is properly inform me of what those accusations are," the brunette continues, barely blinking when Quinn relaxes her body and stares at her coldly yet harshly.
"Mike's Julliard audition." Quinn seethes.
"His what?" inquires Rachel, piquing her eyebrows up questioningly.
"What did you do to it?"
"Again, his what? Last time I checked, there's only one Mike Chang in this school and all his applications are Ivy League bound," and it's true. God, is it true. But apparently, as Mike's best friend, being privy to the fact that he was trying to steal Julliard from her is a privilege she doesn't deserve.
"Don't play dumb."
"I'm not playing anything!" argues Rachel.
"You knew he applied to Julliard, didn't you?" asks Quinn, barely relenting when Rachel's lips form into a bemused smirk, if only out of anxiety.
"No, I didn't." Rachel denies yet again.
"That's a lie."
"And why is it a lie, miss Quinn Fabray?" the sarcasm drips off Rachel's voice, and Puck has to grasp Quinn's annoyingly tiny waist to keep her from lunging at the fellow Jew.
"Because if he actually got a fair chance, you could only dream of getting an audition to Julliard," Rachel doesn't know what hurts more: the truth in her words or the fact that Quinn believes it. Quinn's love may be far from pure, it may be far from actual love, but she has this unwavering belief in Mike. The kind of belief Mike could only wish for and Rachel could only aspire for.
When did the shallow pit that is miss head Cheerio herself become a bigger dreamer and believer than Rachel Berry herself?
"I am confident that my exemplary talents-" her voice is strained as she says this, because she isn't exemplary. She just isn't. If she were confident, she wouldn't have placed Mike's Julliard application in the shredder. If she were confident, she wouldn't have let the typical sight of Quinn chasing after Mike change her feelings towards him. If she were confident, she wouldn't be lying through gritted teeth just to salvage the remains of the only friendly relationship she will ever have.
"Julliard lets in one student per school!" Quinn points out, surprising both Rachel and Puck with her knowledge of the Julliard administration.
"They do, don't they?" muses Rachel.
"Which means, that it was between you and Mike."
"Was it?" asks Rachel tiredly.
"Which means… That you sabotaged him!"
"Did I, now?" her voice oozes of coyness. She sounds confident and sure, despite her perspiring armpits and her itching hand telling her otherwise.
"Quit playing coy."
"What is it with you and games, Quinn? Puckhead and your little Ken doll don't run around like headless spinach aren't good enough players?" Puck and Sam, Sam and Puck; Quinn's two, not-so-dynamic bodyguards. Quinn may buzz like a bee, but her sting is based on how far Sam and Puck will go to appease her. And then toss in her partner-in-crime, and Quinn has her entire motley crew to wreak havoc while she enjoys the awards.
"Headless spinach?" Quinn's eyebrows shoot up in absolute confusion.
"I refuse to make insults of the animal slaughtering nature."
"Wait, what?" both Puck and Quinn say simultaneously, much to Rachel's irritation.
"I didn't sabotage Mike." Rachel states bluntly.
"You're lying," says Quinn, barely missing the window of opportunity to say just that.
"And you're paranoid," she reasons.
"You just can't handle it, can you? You just can't deal with the fact that you aren't the only one with dreams." Quinn accuses. This girl really could go on forever with her insults. If it were a profession, she's sure Quinn would already be monopolizing the entire industry.
"What would you know about dreams? All you ever dream about is getting in Mike's pants." Quinn's face drains of color before firing up again, cheeks burning red and blonde hair displaced in all direction.
"And all you ever dream about is having him act like your little bitch so that you can feel better about yourself," Rachel wills herself not to find any truth behind her words. Scrambling for a response, she decides to go with the safe route; fight fire with fire.
"What I think is that you're the one doing the sabotaging." Rachel says matter of-factly, earning a reprimanding glare from an all too silent Noah Puckerman.
"Excuse me?"
"What, you think making me out to be anything less than the most important person in his life will make him fall into your lap? Just get over yourself, Quinn. You and Mike? That's about as likely as you ever growing a brain." Rachel scoffs at the idea, sneers at the idea and cackles for good measure. She has to believe it. Quinn has to believe it all; that Rachel would never hurt Mike, that her words are mediums to get mike all to herself and that if Quinn wasn't so stuck up and Mike wasn't so hung up on disliking her, they may stand a chance. Maybe if she buys the entire charade, there's a chance Rachel may make it out of this alive.
"I'm class valedictorian!"
There's more to her words, Rachel knows, but Quinn is immediately put to rest by Mike trotting up the bleachers, a determined, irate glare catching them both by surprise. Instinctively, Rachel grasps her nose with her index finger and thumb and squeezes it. The pressure allows her nose to flatten, even just for a split second. Boys don't date beak nosed girls.
"What the-" Mike begins, stopping at the very row all three are standing in. He glowers protectively, grasping Rachel's arm lightly and pulling her aside.
"She's a liar!" exclaims Quinn. Her eyes move from Rachel's tiny form up to Mike's frustrated dark eyes. She can see her staring at him pointedly, as if anticipating that he'll acknowledge her discovery and fall into her arms. Rachel watches as Quinn almost relishes the entire thing. It's absolutely sickening and pathetic…
Almost as pathetic as stabbing your best friend in the back, Rachel thinks solemnly. No. It would be all right. The ends justify the means.
"Stop," Mike doesn't say it with a hint of irritation. Nor does his anger seep through his voice. He says it with exhaustion. He holds his hand up, interrupting Quinn's tirade. This isn't a typical argument between Quinn and Mike, Rachel realizes. Those arguments are witty and amusing (at least to the eyes of an observer not head over heels for one of them). Those arguments have Mike subconsciously leading her on, and Quinn charming her way through it. It's this game of cat and mouse, honey and the bee.
But this argument?
It's the furthest thing from.
"Mike," says Quinn pointedly, eyes flickering from Mike to Rachel over and over again.
"Just stop, 'kay?" demands Mike.
"She fucked Julliard up for you," Quinn slips out of Puck's grasp, stepping up to meet Mike's own dark eyes with her desperate one.
"Fabr-" begins Mike.
"And she keeps lying about it, too!" she continues.
"Seriously? Sto-" Rachel can feel Mike's arms tense up against her own, stumbling back slightly at Quinn's voice interrupting him again.
"How can you defend her?" asks Quinn in utter disbelief, wringing her arm away from Puck's wary grasp.
"Because she didn't do it!" Mike clarifies.
"Mike, she did it!"
"Do you have proof?" he questions her, releasing Rachel's arm and crossing his left arm over his right arm.
"Are fucking kidding me?" asks Quinn breathlessly
"Do. You. Have. Proof?" Mike enunciates every word slowly, blinking his eyes rapidly to prevent his own temper from flaring up.
"Well…" she trails off.
"Well?" pushes Mike.
"She called her dads! Yeah! She told them about getting a Julliard audition!" exasperates Quinn, an all too cocky grin taking over her face. The seriousness of the situation doesn't settle in until Mike's own deadpan rings through her ears.
"And how does that somehow lead up to her "sabotaging" me?" he mocks.
"How long have you been listening?"
"Long enough."
"Then you would have heard her bragging to her dads about sabotaging you!" says Quinn, eyes casting away from Mike briefly to send the deathliest of glares towards Rachel. Stepping back again, Rachel wraps her dainty arms around her form, sucking in a breathe.
The ends justify the means.
"I was letting them in one of the greatest occurrences in my life, Quinn!" Rachel points out.
"All thanks to Mike!" snaps Quinn.
"How?" Mike intervenes, stepping right in Quinn's line of view to prevent Rachel from witnessing their argument.
"How what?" she asks.
"How is it all thanks to me?" Mike clarifies.
"Because this bitch wouldn't have gotten her foot in the door if she was up against you," she points directly towards Rachel spitefully.
"You're paranoid, Fabray" is all Mike says in response.
"I am not paranoid, I'm trying to look out for you!" her voice cracks as she says this, and Rachel doesn't need to see Quinn's face to know her typical composure has long been abandoned and she's given into pleading her case as opposed to arguing it.
"I don't need you looking out for me!" hisses Mike.
"Someone's got to and clearly this one isn't doing a very good job."
"She didn't do anything!" Mike says yet again. It's a never ending argument they're having, and either one would sooner fall down the bleachers ten times over than relent.
"Ask her." Quinn dares him, eyes gleaming with stubbornness.
"You're being ridiculous."
"Ask her."
"I won't ask her anything! I know she didn't do it," she doesn't know if it's the heartwarming sensation of being trusted or the soul crunching guilt of betraying that trust that makes Rachel's heart skip a beat.
"How are you sure?"
"How are you? Did you even consider that maybe… That maybe…" he's stuttering now, and any semblance of abrupt confidence he has is waning. Even from behind him, she could see his anger subsiding and the disappointment overtaking him. Rachel almost forgets that in order for her to have gotten this audition, he can't. She wonders how much he wants this. Would he ever want it as much as her? Probably not. Mike and desire never go hand-in-hand. It's always a matter of what he has to do, never what he wants to do.
But judging from the way Quinn's eyes cloud sympathetically, and the way her hand almost reaches for his cheek before he sways it away, she may know exactly how much she wants this.
And maybe that's why she was quick to attack Rachel. Not because she wanted to (even though she has jumped at the idea of attacking Rachel for no reason before) but because she was concerned. She worried about his reaction to losing Julliard and potentially losing Rachel as well. She thought of him, and barely thought twice about how it would effect her.
This girl is either the best manipulator Rachel has ever seen or a tragic martyr.
"Maybe what?" she asks quietly.
"Maybe I just didn't get it." Mike's voice is void of emotion or pain, and that's when Rachel knows he's truly hurting.
"That's preposterous."
"Is it? Is it really? Did you even see what I submitted? Some pathetic excuse of an application barely worth reading! I recycled old admission essays and even used my old dance recital videos," he's scoffing and fidgeting, and Rachel doesn't know whether or not to spill the damn beans or to keep her mouth shut. There's so much self loathing in him that all he can do now is turn to Quinn and narrows his eyes.
"They didn't want me, Fabray. And you don't get to use it as ammo so you can hurt her again!" he turns it around. Wallowing in self pity can only be tolerable for so long.
"I wasn't-"
"But you were, because you're you. That's all you ever do, try and find excuses to hurt her and make it about 'us'" Mike's pulling out all the stops, and Rachel flinches at the sight of Puck already tightening his fist. He has never said such words of harshness to Quinn, nor has Quinn ever allowed him to without turning it into another flirtatious banner. It's as if she's finally listening for the first time, and it just so happens that what she hears is the gravest words Mike can ever spew.
"I cannot believe you! I was just trying to stick up for you!" she snaps stubbornly.
"Punch out! I am not your boyfriend, I am not your friend and, fuck, I'm not even someone who wants you in their life!" he's moving his hands as he talks, body shaking. It's coming at him fast; the feeling of having your largest, unspoken desires taken from you. And he's doing exactly what Rachel would be; lashing out.
"You're being mean." Quinn's lower lips trembles as she says this. Her eyes are wide like saucers, at least that's what Rachel can tell, and she resembles a little girl whose greatest dreams have been dashed by the cruelty of reality.
"Because I am mean! Because I don't like you! Because we aren't going to happen!" he snaps.
"This isn't…" she trails off carefully.
"What? This isn't about us? Wow, for once in my entire life, I don't have to get into the 'us' you came up with in your head." Mike chides sarcastically, his finger pointing directly at Quinn's forehead.
"Just stop, okay? I get it. You're upset." Quinn says in defeat.
"Because of you! You upset me! You screw me up! You sabotage me! You just don't know when to fuck off, do you? Rachel's my friend, she's my goddamn friend, and for someone who claims to like me, you sure as hell don't know how to treat me and her with some respect," he grasps her shoulders now, barely containing his aggravation.
"I-I do!"
"Bitching at Rachel for getting something she deserves is respectful? Filling my head with this illusion that I'm actually the kind of guy that goes to Julliard? That's respectful?" Mike demands, voice a deathly whisper as he stares at her with absolute anger.
"Mike-"
"You don't get to treat the people I love like they're nothing. You don't get to sneak under my skin and manipulate me all so you can feel good. I may have put up with it before, but I sure as hell am not putting up with it again… Just go to hell," he releases her, and she stumbles into the expecting arms of Sam and Santana, who have appeared as if on cue.
Sam's eyes are filled with compassion, quickly ushering her away before the rare sight of the queen bitch herself breaking down comes into view. He runs his fingers through her blonde tresses soothingly, practically carrying her away like an infant.
Santana's eyes are filled with vengeance. Without much effort, she moves past Mike's now awestruck form and makes her way towards Rachel. It doesn't take long before Rachel's ears are filled with Spanish rants and Santana's hot breathe lingers threateningly over her forehead.
And Puck's?
Rachel wouldn't know, for immediately, Puck already has Mike to the ground, three strong punches already thrown in and the promise of more evident from where she stands.
Author's Note: Yet another long, mediocre chapter. This took a bit longer because school has been getting in the way of me writing. And yes, I introduced the Quick dynamics (more foreshadowing) and how Puck's feelings will reach its climax later on in the story. Along with that, yes Mike was incredibly harsh here, but keep in mind that he always like to play it safe. The one time he decides to go off the rails and do something off beat, he ends up getting rejected. I needed the argument to stimulate the plot and open things up for them in the next chapter. And don't worry, I won't drag on this whole Rachel lying to Mike thing, it'll come out very soon.
Next chapter: Some (angsty?) Mike and Rachel, quayhem bonding and a Fabang scene!
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