Chapter Twenty-Five

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Quinn

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be insecure in peace.
allow yourself lowness.
know that it is only a country on the way to who you are.

.

"I bet, if Britney Spears knew you, 2008 would have definitely gone very differently for her."

Rachel lets out a belly laugh as she turns away from her locker to face me, a bright smile on her face. "Wow," she says, playfully poking me in the ribs. "How long did it take you to come up with that one?"

"Normal people just say thank you when they've been complimented," I grumble.

"Well, I think it's been widely established that I'm decidedly not normal," she says, shrugging slightly. Her smile is so wide, it's blinding. "Honestly, I don't know why you're choosing to date me. I'm neurotic on my best days. What does that say about you?"

I just shake my head. "Good morning to you too, Berry."

She bounces once, and then I get a hug without warning. I automatically wrap my arms around her waist, and we hold each other for a beat too long. She releases me first, and we stare at each other for another one of those beats. "Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"We have to stop looking at each other like this," she says.

"We really do."

"Someone's going to figure it out if we don't."

I nod in agreement, unable to look away. "They probably will."

"And then what?"

"Who knows?" I say with a shrug.

"You are dangerous."

"And you are the epitome of everything I want in this world."

She gasps at the sound of my words, which is rich coming from the girl who was talking about marriage just yesterday. I did mean what I said. I think I've learned what not to do in a marriage, even though I'm still apprehensive about the entire thing. And plus, aren't the rates of divorce lower in same-sex marriages?

I raise my eyebrows. "Something wrong?"

"No."

"Good."

Her fingers twitch at her sides, and I grin mischievously. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"Nothing," I say, all innocence.

"Why are you like this?"

My smile widens. "I haven't stopped with my compliments, Berry," I tell her. "Really, I'm just getting started."

"It's going to be a long day, isn't it?"

I take a baby step towards her. "One day, I'm going to kiss you in this corridor," I tell her, as if she doesn't already know. I have a bit of a fantasy about it; just sidling up to her, teasing her and making her laugh as we stand at her locker. She'd give me a look, almost daring me, and I would return the look, accepting. I'd slide my hand over the skin of her cheek until it comes to rest at the back of neck. We'd breathe each other in. I'd lean in, uncaring and happy, and we'd kiss. Right here. For everyone to see. They'd all know that Rachel Berry was mine, and I was hers. For forever.

"I'd like to see that happen," she taunts, a steady smile on her face.

"Just you wait."

She swallows audibly, and my eyes are drawn to her throat. "You should go to homeroom now."

"I should," I agree, but I don't move.

"Quinn."

"Rachel."

"I love you."

And that gets me moving. I practically scramble away, darting down the corridor without looking back at her, absently wondering what her facial expression must be. I suspect she's irritated with my avoidance of the words, and I'm trying to do all I can to make sure she knows how I feel about her without actually having to say the words. There's - there's just this mental block associated with those three words leaving my mouth. They're too dangerous, and I will never survive having her leave me after I've given them to her.

During a lull in English Lit., I take out my phone and send a secret text to Rachel from under the desk, knowing she's probably holed up in the library enjoying her free period. One of these days, I'll bunk this lesson just to be able to kiss her between the Stacks. It's another little fantasy of mine, you see.

Quinn: I just texted to let you know that I, Quinn Fabray, would trust you with my passwords.

She replies almost immediately.

Berry: Pay attention.

Berry: And I would trust you with mine. Why are you so stinking cute?

I want to start an entire conversation with her but I resist the temptation. She'll probably just scold me or something, and I'm supposed to be a diligent student. I definitely should be paying attention.

At lunch, we have an impromptu Cheerios practice, during which Brittany, Santana and I run through the final Regional routine with each one of the cheerleaders in painful detail, forward and in reverse. We can't afford to make any mistakes - mainly because we don't want to be murdered by Coach Sylvester, but also because we want to win. And, well, things have to be perfect. We'll be missing school on Thursday to drive out to the middle of nowhere, where the Regional competition is going to be held, and hopefully return to Lima as a Nationals-bound cheer squad.

Rachel wants to come and support us - me, really - and I do want her to... I just don't know how we're supposed to spin that. Unless. I mean, she has plans to recruit other Glee Club members to join her, but I'm not holding my breath. I love her enthusiasm though. Just, her. The practice itself goes well, but I haven't eaten lunch and being asked the origin of 'jazz hands' twelve times has put me in a relatively foul mood.

By the time we're supposed to be meeting for Glee, my head is swimming. I'm a little bit exhausted, really, and I'm sporting a pretty nasty headache. The pop quiz that was sprung on us in Chemistry definitely didn't help either. But then, walking into the choir room, there Rachel is, and I just about manage to forget the great big world.

"Hello, you," she says as soon as she spots me. She's standing at the piano, absently shuffling through sheet music, and it's how I've always seen her: perfect and happy with her music. She's simple in that regard, really, which is something I desperately love about her.

"Hi," I say, walking towards her. "What are you doing?"

She shrugs slightly. "I put together three separate, potential setlists," she says; "all of which will probably get shot down by Kurt, Mercedes or Mr Schue. Or all of them."

I smile in sympathy. "They might surprise you."

She rolls her eyes.

"I'm serious," I press, standing unnaturally close to her. "Your ideas matter."

She looks at me as if she's never seen me before. "Quinn," she breathes.

"And, we all know you have great taste in - " I continue, but she interrupts me.

"Girls."

I grin stupidly. "That too, yes, but I meant to say music. I'm sure there's something to be found in those setlists and I, for one, can't wait to get started."

"At least someone is on board with my urgency," she mutters. "I mean, we're performing on Saturday, Quinn. Saturday. Why is nobody else freaking out about this? As Captain - "

"Co-Captain," I remind her.

"Oh, please," she says with a wave of her hand. "Finn is an opportunist. I am a builder, specialist and innovator."

Really, she makes it so difficult not to kiss her after every sentence she says. "Indeed, you are the very backbone of this here establishment," I tell her.

"As long as you know," she says with an air of finality. "But, seriously, Finn and I haven't really been seeing eye-to-eye lately."

I blink. "Oh?"

"Ever since we found you two in the sick bay after you fainted," she confesses. "It's not as if we're actually fighting. We're just not talking. I don't know what it is, or even how to explain it."

I take a breath. "Maybe he knows what's going on between us, without actually knowing," I offer. "Like, in the very back of his mind, he knows - "

"He's been replaced by me," she finishes.

"No," I immediately say. "There are no replacements here, okay? Finn will always be important to me," I tell her. "I mean, he's Beth's father, but his and my relationship was nothing like ours is."

"Because I'm a girl?"

"On the surface, no," I say. "But, deep down, maybe it does make all the difference, because I've never felt this way about anyone before. I've never been so open and true and real, and I've never felt so safe and taken care of. All of that is to do with you, Rachel, and who you are."

She regards me for a moment. "Why do you keep saying things that make me want to kiss you?"

"Because I like being kissed," I offer, smiling mischievously and taking a much-needed step back. She's dangerously intoxicating up close. "So, I have something for you," I start, removing a strip of paper from the inside pocket of my Cheerios skirt. "At first, I actually considered writing you something, but then decided against it."

"Why?" she asks, pouting. "I love reading your words."

"I didn't want to embarrass myself," I confess, which is partly a lie. I could probably write something she would appreciate.

"We both know I would have loved it regardless," she assures me, and I smile knowingly.

"But I found something for you," I say. "It's a poem called the guest by Robert Berold, and I found it when Flo and I were going through her poetry book on Saturday." I don't know why, but I feel a little embarrassed as I slide the piece of paper towards her. I rewrote it, because she's a sucker for my handwriting, I've learnt.

.

the guest
Robert Berold (1948 - )

I invited you to my house
you came in and you opened
a door into a room I never knew

you were a perfect guest
bringing only - your self
leaving only - your radiance

now I awake in bird dawn
bright with dew and spiderwebs
to write to you

.

Rachel is smiling widely when she looks at me again, her eyes shining. "Baby, this is wonderful," she says. "Am I to assume the house is a metaphor for your heart?"

I nod. "Yes, you are."

"Well, you know how much I love metaphors." She kisses me gently, after a quick look around to make sure nobody is approaching the still-empty choir room. "Thank you."

I notice the way she traps her bottom lip between her teeth. "What?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she says. "I just... well, would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Write something for me."

I blink, frowning slightly. "Like, a poem?"

"Anything."

"Wait. You want me to write something for you?"

She nods.

I suppose, this is my moment. Rachel says she wants to know me - all of me - and this is my opportunity to let her. I nervously run a hand over my hair, smoothing it down unnecessarily. There isn't a single strand out of place. "Do you think you can come over to my house tonight?"

She looks surprised by my request. "Okay...?"

"I just - I have something I'd like to show you."

"A surprise?"

I swallow nervously. "Uh, yeah, you could say that."

She frowns. "Quinn?"

"Are you sure you want to know all of me?" I ask, needing us both to be sure, because this'll be one Pandora's Box we won't be able to close once it's opened.

"I'm in this," she assures me. "Two feet and whole-body. I want all of you."

"And I want to give it to you."

"This is turning sexual."

"That, too."

She rises up as if to kiss me again, but the choir room door suddenly opens and Puck rolls Artie into the room, followed by everybody else. I take a step back from Rachel. It'd draw too much attention to spring apart or even look guilty about how close we were standing. Santana does throw us a knowing look when she sees us, though, and I roll my eyes as Rachel blushes.

"Does she know?" Rachel whispers to me.

"Hmm?"

"Santana? Does she know that we..." she trails off.

I drop the volume of my voice to barely a whisper. "Brought each other to orgasm. Four times."

Her face is flaming red now. "Quinn!"

I laugh because I can't help it. "And, no, she doesn't know," I assure her. "Though, she does think we're already having sex, so it probably doesn't matter what I do and don't tell her." I tilt my head to the side. "If there are things you don't want me to tell her; just let me know, okay? This is our relationship, and I'll respect your body just as I expect you to respect mine."

She blinks. "There you go again, saying things that make me what to kiss you," she mutters under her breath.

I shake my head, absently wondering how I ended up this lucky in life and love. Just a few months ago, everything felt hopeless, but now the world is brighter, and I have so much to look forward to. "I wish there was some way for me to explain to you just how happy you make me."

"Well, you could sing a duet with me," she grumbles, and I poke her in the ribs. She squeaks and shoots me a playfully indignant look. "Why are you so mean to me?"

"I told you all you have to do is ask," I remind her. "But you're almost as stubborn as I am, which means you're going to have to find a way to beat me at Scrabble, or we're going to graduate from this hellhole without our voices having beautifully meshed together for all to see."

She sighs. "Sometimes, you know, you catch me off guard with the number of words you actually can say."

"And rather choose not to," I add. "You could learn a thing or two from me."

This time, she pokes me in the ribs, and I shrink back. "Go and sit down," she says, indignant. "Timeout for Quinn Fabray."

I wink at her but, ultimately, do move to sit down in my usual seat, leaving Rachel's open. Santana and Brittany are engrossed in each other as we all sit and wait for Mr Schuester to grace us with his presence. He's habitually late and, if Rachel wasn't so cute when she quietly fumes, I'd be more irritated by it. But, alas, my girlfriend is stupidly adorable as she huffs and stomps her foot while glancing at the clock on the wall every few minutes.

Mr Schuester arrives twenty minutes after the scheduled time and immediately apologises. I don't hear his excuse, because my eyes are on Rachel. It looks as if it physically hurts her to show restraint and refrain from breaking into Mr Schuester's unnecessary monologue about the theme for Regionals. We've known it's Inspiration for weeks now.

I'd probably just sing songs about Rachel Berry. Ha.

"So, any ideas, guys?" Mr Schuester asks, and one two three: commence with the bloodshed.

I'm fully aware of Rachel's ability to defend herself and her ideas, but I always think about the time she told me she considered giving up on her dream of New York and Broadway... in this very room. She stands by her convictions, and I've always admired the fight in her. But, I suppose, it can be tiring - even to watch.

Santana leans towards me. "Hey, girlfriend-of-the-year, are you planning on doing something to end this fucking bloodbath?"

I swallow, contemplating what I can do. The point is Rachel's song choices work. Each setlist is sonically cohesive, and the arrangements work well to show off the strongest voices in our little club. What is the problem, apparently, is that the club believes her arrangement is solely to show off her voice, which, admittedly, it probably is. I mean, she has the best voice - it'd be stupid not to show it off. Even as Kurt, Mercedes and Tina shoot arguments at Rachel, Mr Schuester says nothing. I glance at Finn, who looks apathetic at best.

So, well, I suppose I have to do something... if nobody else will. "Okay," I say, rising to my feet. I slip some commanding HBIC into my tone, and they all fall silent. "Let's just take a moment," I say, refusing to look at Rachel. "In exactly five days, we have to get on a stage and perform three songs. Three songs. A solo. An accompanied duet, and a group number. Taking the initiative, Rachel found us doable songs and, while arrangements might be questionable right now, can we at least decide on the songs? Who sings what can be discussed when we know what we're singing because, really, this is all a little ridiculous. Five days, people. As Cheerios, we've known our routine for Regionals for weeks now."

Every eye is on me, but I don't shrink away from them. By now, I'm used to being stared at for whatever reason.

"I agree with Quinn," Finn suddenly says, and I bristle at the nerve of him.

"Way to take the initiative, Finnept," Santana comments. "Where were you five minutes ago?"

Finn just scowls at her.

I clear my throat. "Can we do that?" I ask, but it sure as hell isn't a question. "Let's first decide on songs, and then we can fight it out for parts." I look at Rachel. "Or maybe our teacher might decide to be a little authoritarian, instead of allowing teenagers to make such big decisions based on their egos and raging hormones?" It's a jab at Mr Schuester, enough to jerk him into motion.

"Let's pick songs then," he says, and I resume my seat.

Santana looks at me. "Just when I thought you were growing soft."

"Shut up," I murmur, but I can't help the slight upturn of the sides of my mouth. When I look at Rachel, she's got a look on her face that I've never seen before. It makes me a little uneasy, but there's nothing I can say or do about it right now.

Somehow, by some miracle, we manage to decide on two songs. Rachel is singing the solo - as if it were ever in question - and she does her best not to do a happy dance in front of everyone. We're still looking for a a group number that will showcase everyone's talents, but the accompanied duet has been altered to shine a spotlight on the other females in the group. Santana lets out a finally, and Mercedes just huffs. I really don't understand what her problem is. Nobody sees me complaining.

By the time Mr Schuester dismisses us, we have the necessary sheet music, and a lot to think about. Santana, Brittany and I have another Cheerios practice, but I hang back to talk to Rachel, mainly to address that unrecognisable look I saw in her eyes just after I sat down from my little monologue in her disguised honour. Truthfully, I'm a little nervous about it. I mean, I don't think I did a bad thing, but what if she didn't want me to stand up for her? Even though, technically, to everyone else, I didn't. Only three other people even know that I would.

So, yes, I'm nervous as I approach her at the piano, her back to me. The choir room is empty of the two of us, and the great big world has shrunk down to this moment right here. "Rachel," I breathe.

She doesn't turn to look at me. "Quinn," she says, and she sounds serious and unassuming. "As much as I appreciate what you did today, I don't need you to defend me," she says, and I hold my breath. "I need you to understand that I don't need it."

"Okay," I murmur.

She turns to face me, and we're standing much too close to each other. "I don't need it, but, God, thank you. Thank you for believing in me enough and choosing to say something because - " she stops, sounding defeated. "It's exhausting."

"It is," I agree.

"So, Quinn Fabray, my hero, thank you."

I smile at her, relieved. "You're very welcome."

Her gaze meets mine, blazing. "And, you know, your standing up for me that way... it's really fucking sexy."

My eyes widen. "Rachel!"

"Yes, baby?"

I shake my head, and then she's kissing me and I'm kissing her and this is so dangerous. But her tongue is in my mouth, sliding over mine, and her hands are on my thighs, and I'm stepping forward to push her against the piano. Jesus. She's clutching at me. This kiss is desperate and raw, full of unbridled lust and, if I don't pull away now, we're going to end up doing things we really shouldn't be doing at school. She lets out a cute whimper when I manage to extricate myself from her grasp - those fingers were really digging into my skin.

I take an overly large step away from her. "And you say I'm the dangerous one," I mutter good-naturedly as I straighten out my uniform. She's managed to do quite some damage to my Head Cheerio perfection. My hair must be a mess, and I immediately start to fix it. I'm aware of Rachel stepping towards me, and I take another step back. "No," I say. "I have somewhere to be right now."

"But, baby," she pouts.

Jesus. She knows I can't resist her pout. "Later, okay?"

"In your house?"

I grin at her. "We'll definitely give my mother something to think about," I say.

She reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers. "Later, then," she says. "Just text me when you're done with practice, and I'll come over, okay?"

I just nod, kiss her cheek, and then leave. I feel a little flustered, and Santana's leering when I do finally make it to the gym doesn't help with the heat that's taken permanent residence in my body. Whatever. We have a routine to run through. The first time we perform, after proper stretching and a little pow wow, there are two stumbles. Adrienne trips over her feet and Marissa misses a cue, but it isn't a train smash. To us, at least. Coach Sylvester makes us watch it back twice, noting all the lazy moments. We have to be crisp and sharp and in perfect synchrony. We have to be perfect.

Coach Sylvester makes us to it until it is perfect. We have today, tomorrow and a light training session and final run-throughs on Wednesday before the main event and, admittedly, I'm a little nervous. We've made it to Nationals every year I've been a Cheerio - my sophomore year is the only year they didn't win, and Coach Sylvester knows it's because I was growing a human being - and I sure as hell don't want to graduate as the Head Cheerleader who failed to bring it home. That would just be heartbreaking and I don't think I'd ever live it down.

Well, way to put all that extra pressure on yourself, Quinn Fabray.

I'm tired, but not desperately exhausted, by the time I head to my house. I text Rachel as I pull into the driveway, and she returns that she's just finishing up with her homework, so she'll see me when I'm done with my shower. And she's bringing me dinner. Gosh, she's just so lovely.

I go up to my bedroom as soon as I enter the house, strip and step into the shower. I would have showered at school but I generally just hurry up the rest of the squad and clean up and pack away the equipment. It's better this way. There are - there are scars people aren't supposed to see, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm just lucky Rachel's mind was clouded with lust the last time I was stripped down to my panties to notice how deep and protruding some of the marks on my back actually are.

When I get out, Rachel still hasn't arrived, which gives me the opportunity to get dressed and prepare for what I have to tell her. It's not that I'm nervous - I doubt she'll be angry or mad or anything - but I am feeling some sense of anxiety. I haven't shown these to anyone, and I sure as hell haven't let anyone in far enough to interact with them. It's a big step for me. I spread them out on my desk, and then go downstairs.

I'm in the kitchen, nibbling on a cucumber stick, when Rachel Berry arrives. She doesn't even pause as she walks straight into my arms, wraps her own around my waist and presses her lips against my neck. She's warm and soft and solid and I don't know how my life ever had any meaning when she wasn't my number one. Well, number two, because I'm apparently my number one. Sure, I am.

"I missed you," Rachel breathes against my skin.

"I saw you a few hours ago," I point out.

"I still missed you."

I kiss her hair. "What did you bring for me?"

She chuckles, pulling away from me. "Oh, I see how it is. All you want is food."

I nod. "Food first, and then I'll eat you."

Her eyes widen, and I grin in mischief. Gosh, she's so easy sometimes. "Can I just say that licking the length of your body is all I've been thinking about all day?"

I swallow. "Oh?"

"Oh, Fabray."

"Well, we'd better feed me, so we can use our mouths for other things."

"I think that's the smartest thing you've said all day."

I shrug, and she busies herself with removing the food containers that LeRoy sent with her from a cooler. My mouth is already watering in anticipation, the smells filling my senses. I retrieve a plate from one of the kitchen cupboards and Rachel dishes out a generous amount for me. We sit in the living room while I eat, her side pressed to mine on the couch, and her hands doing all she can to distract me from the wonder that is LeRoy's vegetable lasagna and roasted peppers.

"Remember that thing I mentioned earlier," I say when I've swallowed my last bite of heaven.

She nods, her eyes darting about. "Is it something I should be worried about?"

"No," I assure her. "It's just something about me that not many people know."

"Who does?"

"Santana. Sort of," I tell her; "and some strangers I've never really met face-to-face." At her frown, I elaborate: "Online."

"Oh."

"It's good to get feedback sometimes."

She frowns in confusion.

"It'll all make sense in a little while," I tell her as I rise to my feet and go to the kitchen. I wash my few dishes and put them away before putting the now-cooled food into the fridge. I'll take some to school to eat at lunch. I might even have some for breakfast... though, Coach Sylvester would probably burst an aneurysm if she ever knew how much pasta I've just consumed.

Rachel is sitting perfectly still when I return to the living room. I lift the TV remote, press the power button and plunge us into silence. I take hold of her hand, pull her up and lead the way to my bedroom. She doesn't look as if she's going to be spending the night, so I figure we have only so much time to get through what I have to tell her, as well as the later. Though, for all I know, she could run out of here in the next few minutes, but hey.

My hands are shaking when we enter my bedroom. "So, I want to show you something," I say, leading the way across my carpet to my desk. On its top, I've laid out the piles of notebooks I've accumulated over the years. They're usually hidden and locked away in a small chest I have at the bottom of my closet. It's too dangerous to have them out in the open with my mother around. And now, with my father doing whatever he's doing with my mother; this house is less safe. For my belongings, and for my being.

Rachel grows quiet when she sees them, sticking out like a sore thumb in my otherwise pristine room.

"Quinn?" she whispers, suddenly unsure.

"Hmm?"

"What are these?" she asks.

I step closer to her, my hands still trembling. "They're notebooks, Rachel," I explain. "I - write." I place a hand on the small of her back. "I started writing limericks when I was in sixth grade, just because I was bored, and all that Brangelina stuff was going on. I will forever be Team Aniston, by the way."

She looks at me with the smallest of smiles.

"But, well, it kind of grew from there," I explain. "Limericks became poems, which turned into essays and then short stories. I started writing my first fictional story when I was fourteen, and it took forever. I was convinced I would never finish it."

She blinks. "But you did?"

"Barely," I say, smiling at the memory. "I more or less took what I'd already written and injected it into an entirely new story, which I did eventually finish the summer after I turned fifteen. It was... before Beth. It's the last thing I truly wrote that wasn't, well, mature."

"What do you mean?"

"I suppose, with the loss of my faith, I started to write about darker things. Pain and hurt and loss and death. It might have been a manifestation of what happened with my father, but then I started to feel hopeless and lost and it translated into my words. The romance of life was gone and, it turns out, people can relate to pain. It's a sad truth of our world."

"It is," she agrees.

"I write to help myself deal with... life. A lot of words have gone into dealing with Beth and the homelessness. I used it to help me come to terms with the end of my relationship with Finn, and the start of my relationship with you. It's seen me through the hefty realisation that I am, in fact, gay and that I will probably end up with a woman. With... you." I swallow. "Lately, I've written a lot about you and how I feel about you, and how the world suddenly makes so much more sense to me, now that you're the brightest shining star in mine." I don't know what more to say, and she looks stumped as well.

"Why have you never told me this before?" she asks, and she's more curious than anything.

I expected this question. "It's - it's such a personal thing to me," I confess. "These are my deepest and darkest thoughts, Rachel, and I've always kept them locked up and hidden, afraid that, if people knew, they would look at me differently. They would - they'd see the real me." I lick my lips. "But I want you to know me. I want you to be the one person in this world who gets to see me, and I realise how fucking terrifying that must sound for you, but this is my way of letting you into all of me the only way I know how."

She regards me for a moment, before she takes a step towards my desk. "Can I?"

I nod, even though all I want to do is grab all my notebooks and hide them away again. It's a struggle to see her reach out, her fingers hesitant as she runs them over the hardbacks. They're numbered and dated. I've kept every one and, knowing her, she'll want to start at the very beginning. I suppose that gives me some time before she gets to the Rachel-oriented ones. I've written a lot about the strength of her arms and her character, and the kindness of her hands and her soul. I've written about her physical beauty and the allure of her heart. I've scribbled lines and lines about the endlessness of her chestnut browns and the eternity of her dazzling smile. I have dedicated pages to the wit of her tongue and the purpose of her fingers. I have loved her on paper for much longer than I have acknowledged there is love.

She'll read it all, and then she'll know. I love her. I am so desperately in love with her that the very essence of myself doesn't exist without her. It's frightening and enlightening, and she does make me want to be better. Every day, without even having to say or do anything, she makes me strive to be better, and I love her even more for it.

Rachel picks up the notebook marked '1' in my little girl handwriting. I was still Lucy back then, a girl with dreams beyond the suffocating pain of my childhood home. Back then, I wrote to escape it all, in search of anything and everything, because it had to be better than a belt-buckle-yielding father and an uncaring, alcoholic mother. I watch her open to the first page, read a few lines, and then close it. She turns to me.

"I want to read them all," she says. "Just, not with you standing right there, watching me. I think we'll both be a little unnerved with the whole process."

I'm inclined to agree with her. "Would you like to take them home?" I offer.

"Maybe just a few at a time," she says with a nod. "I assume you're anxious just having them out in the open like this, so I can only imagine what it'll be like to have your precious words out of sight and out of mind."

I breathe out. "Thank you."

"No, Quinn, thank you," she murmurs, and pecks my cheek. "I didn't even know. I mean, you're obviously talented academically, but this is an entirely different side to you, and I find myself more in awe of you every single day."

"Rachel, you don't even know if I'm good at it or not."

"It barely matters to me," she dismisses. "They're your words, and that means the world to me. The fact that you're trusting me enough to share them with me is just amazing, and I promise to treasure them and look after them, and look after you in them."

I move to stand in front of her, suddenly overwhelmed with her kindness and affection. "I know I've been hesitant, and I know it's been like trying to get water out of a rock for you, but I'm ready and willing now. The biggest lesson I've learned this year is that no one is really your friend or truly loves you until they've seen every dark shadow inside of you and stayed," I say, and her eyes bore into me. "There's more to me - stuff I don't even know how to say - but you still choose me. Why?"

"Because I love you, Quinn," she says, and I drop my gaze. "No, look at me," she says, and I do. "Listen to me. I choose you, every single day, with all your perfections and all your flaws, because I can't imagine a life without you. Even when we were just tentative friends, and then best friends, just, a life without you already frightened me, and it's even worse now, because we are together, and I want all of you. I told you I want to build something with you. Build a life, of which to be proud and with which to be happy. I mean, choosing you right now, I'm choosing a parenting partner, my eating and travel companion, my primary leisure time and retirement friend, my career therapist, and someone whose day I'll always want to hear about."

I blink. "That sounds intense."

"It is, and I am," she says. "What I feel for you and our future, it is intense and, yes, I'm terrified of it, but I'm right here. I'm right here, and I want to know it all. I want you to be those things for me as much as I want to be those things for you."

We stare at each other for the longest moment, the weight of this moment settling in the air between us, before we're kissing. It's slower than earlier in the choir room. This kiss is deep and meaningful, and it feels as if she's reaching further and further into the depths of my soul with every stroke of her truly talented tongue. Her fingers trace the back of my neck, gentle and possessive, and my hands slide under her top to caress the smooth skin of her back. It's a kiss of promise; a kiss of a mutual future, and a kiss of forever.

Until it just isn't.

Maybe it's the moan she lets out, but a switch flips and we're suddenly - and ineffectively - grabbing for each other. We tug at clothes, and then scrape at skin. Somehow, by some miracle, we manage not to injure ourselves as we move to my bed and I get her underneath me. Her hands are doing things. All sorts of things, touching skin and unclasping my bra. She kisses my collarbone, and then trails her lips further down until they're on my breasts, forcing sounds out of me that I didn't even know I could make. God, I hope my mother isn't home. Did I even lock my bedroom door?

My mouth attacks her neck, and I'm marking her today. I don't even care. I want my teeth on and around her skin, sucking it into my mouth and making sure she knows she's mine. All of her is mine. When we're both sufficiently stripped to just our panties, my thigh slides into position between her legs and she gasps at the contact. I let out a guttural moan at the slick heat of her that coats my leg as we slide together in search of total oblivion. My muscles tense, and then her leg is there too, and I wonder how I've gone as long as I have without sex. No, we're waiting. We are waiting.

This helps, and it feels so good.

I tell her, breathing the words against her neck, and she rocks her hips harder, driving into me with each and every thrust. Harder and faster and harder and faster. There are strangled moans deep in her throat, and my tongue goes searching for them. It feels as if it's all happening at once, and my heart is pounding in my chest. It's like she's everywhere; her hands on my hips, in my hair, on my breasts, on my back, thighs and ass. Just, everywhere.

It's when she slides her hands into my panties and squeezes my ass in encouragement that I start to see stars. "God, yes," I hiss, and Rachel presses even harder against me. I'm scrambling to hold on... to something, anything. Everything is out of focus, save for Rachel Berry and her hands and her body moving beneath mine, meeting mine in a panicked rhythm. It's everything. She's everything.

"Oh, Quinn," she breathes into my ear, and I can feel myself losing it. There's just so much heat and so much wet and so many words and sounds and breaths and my mind is screaming at me to let go. I push harder because I want her with me when I fall over the edge. I want her with me always.

Rachel goes first, and she carries me with her, our bodies tensing and arching and shuddering as we fall apart all around each other. It's everything and nothing and I'm trembling, my muscles protesting. I just manage not to collapse on her, as I roll to the side and just breathe.

It's when my breathing has settled and she's drawing simple patterns on my stomach that I realise what this moment is. It's so much bigger than me, and so much bigger than her. Hell, it's bigger than us. She's just accepted everything I've ever told her. Still, after everything, she wants me. Still.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, her voice a whisper in the dark.

I breathe out, spent and so happy. But. "Sometimes, I just go to dark places," I tell her, just as quietly. "It happens, and I'm powerless to it at times. But, I just want to say that I appreciate how you don't try to change me. I appreciate how you just sit beside me, and hold my hand in the dark."

"Waiting for the sun to rise."

I turn my head to look at her perfect face, still flushed, with her hair fanned out over one of my pillows. She's so beautiful; it actually hurts my eyes sometimes. "Because that's an absolute, isn't it?"

She hums.

"It doesn't matter what happens in our lives, or the lives of our friends and family... the sun will rise, with or without us."

She presses a kiss to my bare shoulder. "All I know is my world will be eternally dark if I'm ever without you," she murmurs, and my heart jolts in both excitement and fear.

I swallow nervously, anticipating her next words. Which is why, before she can speak, I roll onto her and swallow the words right from her mouth.

This is how I tell her I love her.