A/N: I could list a million reasons why this chapter didn't come out earlier, but I hat it when author's make excuses so I'll just leave you with my most heartfelt apology and awe towards those of you who are sticking with this story even as updates slow down :) I promise, the next one will be up faster. You have my word.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee
If he could remember how to breathe, Finn swears he would be taking in air by the lungful right now, but as it is, he's focusing enough on not dying that everything else seems irrelevant. Rachel –she's Eva now, that's not Rachel-, is standing on stage with the presence of an actress in a silent movie, shoulders squared behind her imperiously, and watching her, he swears she could be a queen or a princess; royalty always suited Rachel. The theater is half-full - a decent enough crowd for a small town, low budget, hole-in-the-wall production - and Finn's in the center of it all, video camera recording and emitting a small red light that contains his heart, the swelling matching the lilt of her voice; he could get used to this, to watching the girl he loves doing the things she loves. His eyes widen when she spins the last note of the musical's most famous song into gold, vibrant vibrato filling the room and catching the audience in a moment of strange synchronicity: not one sound can be heard, no whisper, no laugh, no babies crying in the wings or frantic mothers trying to hush them.
She did that, he thinks, that was Rachel, and all at once he's reminded of why he loves her.
…
There's a gift for her shaking in his hand: not roses, but a dozen sunflowers, and maybe it's foolish but when he saw the bouquet sitting in the display everything else had seemed pointless; he could hear her approving in his head, hear her talking about individuality and its importance though he can't for the life of him remember what words were used. He'd wanted to throw them on the stage the second she'd finished, enthusiasm arcing up over all of his other emotions that had lain at rest, but she and the cast have got meetings and changing and washing to do; who's he to interrupt their perfect theater aesthetic?
Actors and actresses are of a different class from people like Finn, people who trip over their own feet, people who catch hearts without meaning to and then fumble them in inept hands. Sometimes he wonders what it'd be like, to have the confidence of people like Kurt and Rachel, to light up a room with simply his presence. He wonders what it would feel like to absolutely live for the drama of things.
It's the drama that matters, she'd told him. Could he ever learn to agree with her?
Would it be so different? Could he really live that way?
Some days he swears he could, he swears he knows the answers to the millions of questions plaguing him.
Some days, he doesn't.
…
You were amazing, amazing, amazing he thinks the second he sees her, random thoughts popping up unbidden until he feels like he's drowning, he can't breathe. She walks towards him, smiling delicately gracing her features, and her skirt swishes behind her like a pendulum.
"You were amazing," he finally manages to spit out after staring at her for just a moment too long, gaze flowing like liquid from his veins. She steals a glance at his hands and he thrusts the flowers out in front of him.
"These are for you," and he always wished he could be more articulate, because Finn's never been good with words and he never will be. The bouquet stands between them, solid in its unwavering optimism, and she takes the blooms gently, carefully, cradling them against her chest.
"They're beautiful," she says, "Thank you," and that's all.
…
This is Finn and Rachel, curled up on that tattered, navy couch that sinks where they sit; they're watching the screen rapturously, as if looking away for just one second would cause the beauty in front of them to disappear. This is Rachel's head perched delicately on his shoulder, hair spilling over his arm like molten chocolate. She smells like strawberries, he thinks, and nearly misses how ironic this entire situation is.
"You sound like a pro," he tells her, and she giggles a little bit as her on-screen self sings a note so softly and sweetly it could be a whisper.
"For a couple of hours up there, I was."
And it's so easy to see his future laid out in front of him, it's so easy to want whatever is in the far-out look in her eyes for the rest of his life. It's easy to want these things because they're right there, he just needs to reach out and grab them.
"I love you," he says quietly, "And I know I don't say it enough, but you're incredible, Rachel."
"I love you, too," she smiles into his collarbone, "but let's save the heartfelt confessions until after the closing scene. This is my favorite part."
…
He wakes up at 6:45, and rolls his eyes angrily at the alarm clock. It isn't due to ring for another fifteen minutes, but he always manages to beat it, every day; he's always awake when it's still dark outside, when all he can see are faint lights, whipping wind, the very feet he stumbles over all the time are just dim shadows beneath him now.
He trudges downstairs, rubbing his eyes. "Morning," he says randomly, hearing someone bustling in the kitchen.
A yawn. "Good morning. I was just about to leave for work. Today we'll be short-staffed."
He yawns back. "I'm about to eat breakfast." He's never been articulate, really, even on the best of days.
Half of a smile graces her face, laugh lines crinkling around her eyes. Every bit of her is familiar. "I'll talk to you later when you're actually awake, all right? Study hard. Love you," she reminds him with a kiss to his cheek as she bustles towards the entryway.
"Love you, too," he tells her, but the door is already swinging shut.
…
When he walks into Glee, he sees a word on the board, painted across in sharp angles that seem to tear through him. He can't honestly tell if he's feeling fear or excitement or just plain adrenaline, but his heart is beating rabbit-quick and Rachel's beam is almost too much right now. SECTIONALS, read the pink-red letters: the S is smeared and the L is patchy, but the meaning gets across all the same.
Mr. Schue steps out from his usual place behind the piano and claps his hands together enthusiastically. "Guys, we have two weeks until our first competition of the year. Our set-list is planned, we have a rough idea of choreography, and I've never been more proud of you guys for pulling together the way you have been lately."
Rachel smiles to herself next to him, and he can't help but smile back. Mr. Schue begins to review the set-list and what needs improvement, and he settles back into his seat.
He gave up his solo this year to Artie, and when Rachel tells him he needs to be a leader he tells her he's finally starting to figure out what that means.
…
"Let's rehearse," decides Mr. Schue, and Finn steps quietly to the back, harmonizes, and stumbles through choreography that really shouldn't be so difficult.
Finn, he hears, Finn. It takes him a moment to figure out where the urgent whisper is coming from. It's easier if you pretend the ground is a trampoline. You have to bounce. Brittany's nodding seriously, ponytail bobbing behind her in time to music only she can hear, and he follows her advice for once. By then end of the day even Kurt is commenting on his sudden development of a right foot.
It's strange, stepping back for once, and he feels a swell of pride (and a little bit of shame at how new this feeling is).
"I'm proud of you," Rachel tells him, and he doesn't say anything at all.
…
He races through the overcrowded grocery store as fast as he can, dumping item after item on Kurt's never-ending list into the defective shopping cart. He mutters when the wheel catches for the sixth time as he tries to turn and yanks a little too roughly.
This is why he isn't a girl.
The second he completes that thought he can practically hear Rachel berating him for being a sexist pig. This is for you, he thinks, and feels less guilty. I'm doing all of this for you.
Two more aisles and he's done, tossing the groceries into the trunk carelessly and driving off towards the noonday sun.
This is for you, he thinks, and smiles to himself.
…
That night, Kurt teaches him to cook, and Finn remembers why he was hesitant to try in the first place. It's a bit like drowning, he thinks, to attempt things he knows he's terrible at - like his lungs are filling with water every breath he takes, every pinch he drops, every exasperated sigh as Kurt says I'm trying to be patient, I really am, but shouldn't it be obvious that the shells stay out of the mix? Have you ever eaten eggshells before?
"No," he says reluctantly, and scraps the batter once again.
…
"I'm sure she'll love them, Finn, stop worrying. If she can find it in her heart to love you…" Finn has to stop the movement of his hand on the spatula then, freezing, because did Kurt really just go there?
"Hey! Not cool, man."
"I'm just stating the obvious. Take it how you will."
There's a pause as Finn does, in fact, take it as he wills. It's easy to imagine tomorrow, to imagine seeing her beam light up the room because of him. It's easy to see, but not so easy to hope. He's nervous. He isn't good with words. What if he screws this up, too?
"You think she will, though? She'll like them?"
Kurt's eyes soften uncharacteristically. "She'll love them."
…
In the end, she finds him first, and the surprise should be ruined but it isn't. "Happy anniversary!" she cries, and he winces when half the hallway turns to stare. He feels his neck start to burn but determinedly keeps his gaze steadily in her. "Or, well, sort of anniversary. If you ignore all of the drama with Quinn and Puck and everything, we'd have been dating for about three years today." She looks like a princess then, and he's thought it before but it's just hitting him fully. Her hair is curling softly like so many wisps of smoke and her eyes are so deep he swears he could drown in molten embers. Her chin is high and her shoulders are back, and royalty always suited Rachel. "I thought it was worth remembering, but if not it's fine, I just thought-"
"I know," he interrupts, mouth curving up, because princesses don't get self-conscious. It's now or never, he guesses, so he throws open his locker and takes out the plate of messily decorated cookies.
"Happy anniversary," he says, and her beam is bright enough to make him, illogically, want to shield his eyes.
"Thank you," she breathes, and takes the platter as if it's a newborn child.
"You're welcome," he replies, and she doesn't say anything at all. She doesn't have to.
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