Chapter Twenty-Six

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Rachel

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be softer with you.
you are a breathing thing.
a memory to someone.
a home to a life.

.

When Quinn falls asleep, I stay for a while. I love watching her sleep, all gentle features and peaceful lines. There's no tension in her body when she sleeps like this, pure and trusting in my presence. I don't even know if she locked the bedroom door, but I fantasise about her trusting me enough to protect her. Still, I know I should go, but just looking at her is making that difficult. This moment, whatever it is, is important for us... in our relationship, but also in our lives. She loves me. I know it, but I can't shake the need for her to tell me.

I duck my head and kiss the corner of her mouth, unable to resist. I kiss her cheek and then her eyelid, and I trail my lips over her sculpted eyebrow. She doesn't stir, and she's perfect. Everything about her is perfect, even the things that aren't. I run a hand over her mussed hair, loving how smooth it feels under my fingers.

"Quinn," I whisper, but she says nothing. She's asleep. She's definitely asleep. "I love you. I love you so much. Please, just, love me back."

I slide out of bed, search for my clothes and get dressed. I find a Post-It and scribble a short note to her, telling her I've taken the first eight notebooks, she's distractingly beautiful and I love her. I place it on the pillow I just vacated, collect said notebooks, and then leave her bedroom. I hear sounds coming from further down the corridor. Voices. A man's and a woman's. I tense immediately, and panic, rushing back into Quinn's bedroom to shake her awake.

"Baby, you have to get up and lock the door," I tell her, and she grumbles. "Quinn, get up and lock the door." It takes me a few tries but she eventually rolls out of bed and groggily follows me to her bedroom door.

"Don't leave," she whispers, her hands reaching out for me.

"I have to," I whisper back, thwarting her attempts to grab hold of me. "It's getting late. My dads will send a search party."

She nods in agreement with my assessment, kisses my cheek and then lets me leave. I move quickly and quietly through the house, intent on getting out without bumping into either of the Fabray parents. If they happened to arrive after me, then they must know I'm here because of my car. Though, at this point, I'm just assuming the man with Quinn's mother is her father. It could be anyone, for all I know. Still, I'd sleep far better knowing Quinn was safely locked away in her bedroom. I contemplate just taking her with me, but she's half-naked and half-asleep.

When I get home, my dads are still in the living room, one watching TV and the other doing paperwork. I greet them with quick kisses to their cheeks and, if they notice how disheveled I look, they say nothing. I get the feeling they would know if I was having sex, so I don't feel too embarrassed about the idea I was doing something with my girlfriend, alone, in her bedroom. They really give me too much freedom.

Once I'm in my room, I contemplate what to do. After my tryst with Quinn, I think a nice, long shower is in order but I'm hesitant to wash her off me. I still want to smell like her and feel her on my skin. In my veins. I sigh at how absurd that sounds. I go for a shower anyway, just to feel fresh and clean. To surround myself in Quinn's smell, I pull on one of her t-shirts - my closet is her closet, really - and breathe it in. Breathe her in. I brush my teeth and complete my nighttime routine as quickly and calmly as I can. The entire time, I am distinctly aware of certain notebooks perched on my nightstand, just waiting for me.

Admittedly, I feel rather nervous. Quinn and I, we're serious. I mean, we're talking in forevers here and, as frightening as it should be, the fact that I've already accepted it is a little more terrifying. It's just what it is. It's not even profound. It's just a truth that has been spoken, and it scares me far less than whatever I'm about to read in Quinn's notebooks. I'm about to lay eyes on my gorgeous, wonderful, talented girlfriend's words. I take my time getting settled in bed with my lampshade on and my heart pounding. My hands are trembling as I reach for the first notebook and open to the first page.

Quinn's handwriting is different. I mean, of course it's evolved from when she was eleven or twelve, but I can barely recognise it. This is Lucy's handwriting, and it's as if she's an entirely different person. I believed it when Quinn told me about the two people she's been in her life, but this is a strange kind of proof that makes me slightly uncomfortable. An entire other person existed before Quinn.

The notebook, predictably, starts with limericks. Short ones about the strangest things. Toasters and clouds, and puppies and candy floss. The words are... innocent. Fantasy almost, and I recognise a child's attempt to find happiness and positivity in the little things. As innocent as her words are, I can feel the pain of them; the hurt of young Lucy: a girl subjected to the weight of collective and perceived expectations... and eventual disappointments. I just want to reach into the pages and put my arms around her, protect her and love her. Somebody had to.

The limericks eventually give way to childish poems about rain and ice hockey. There's still Lucy in the words, strung together in a way that showed immense talent but still required growth. When that all stops, there's a single page of black, vicious lines, haphazardly drawn all over the previously-white canvas. There's no pattern to it and it makes no sense. They're random, and it feels as if they signify the moment Lucy decided to become Quinn. To accept Quinn. Because, the words that follow are equal parts breathtaking and heartbreaking.

Quinn writes about pain in a way that makes me feel it. Even then, so young and raw in her talent, I can feel it. I read her first foray into more mature poetry and I bear witness to how she improves; how practice makes her learn. She explores words and rhyme and colours and rhythm. She attempts to write a sonnet - we're approaching Finn territory, I believe - and I can't help my smile when she declares it a futile endeavour. The structure is too confining, and she likes the freedom to write what's in her heart.

I go through the notebooks at a dangerous speed, reading through her words in an attempt to learn all I can about the girl I've fallen in love with in such a deep and profound way. I cry when I read her thoughts about her pregnancy; about how alone she felt. The tears fall, blinding me slightly, and I'm tempted to get back into my car, drive back to her house and crawl right back into bed with her. Just to hold her. I reckon I need it more than she does at this point in time. I should have seen it. I should have tried to help.

Her words about her loss of faith resonate something deep within me. Even though I consider myself half-Jewish - it's a banner to wear, whether you practice the religion or not - I haven't always been particularly religious. I've been curious, yes, and I've learned about several religions in their entireties, possibly in search of what works for me, but I've never carried any sort of faith. Higher powers and all that are something foreign to me, but I do still believe - in something. It's difficult not to, because I'm convinced that someone like Quinn Fabray can't be an accident. Her perfection is a masterpiece, and I'm convinced that God - or whoever - spent just a little extra time making her.

Being privy to her eventual acceptance of the life growing inside of her is eye-opening and enlightening, and it amazes me that a single person - a teenager - could go through so much and not spontaneously combust. I reason the writing must have helped, acting as a way for her to work through all her emotions and feelings, like some form of catharsis. And what's worse is that nobody even knew any of this was happening. She was suffering in a profound way, in complete silence. Always alone.

My heart is aching by the time I read the last word of the eighth notebook. It's already past three o'clock in the morning and I'm still crying. I reach for my phone, knowing Quinn is asleep, and still send a message.

Berry: My heart, Quinn. You are my very heart, and it aches for you. You are so strong and you are so talented, and thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for sharing these parts of you, and allowing me inside. Thank you for trusting me... Will you bring more notebooks for me? I find that I crave more. Of you, and of your words. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I sigh tiredly, close my eyes and dream of a broken girl with tears in her perfect hazel eyes.

My yawn catches me off guard, and I almost dislocate my jaw. I hear a small giggle behind me, and I whip around to look at the object of my affection and person constantly on my mind.

"Tired?" Quinn asks, arching an eyebrow. "You probably shouldn't stay up so late on a school night."

I rub my right eye of sleep. "Shut up."

She smiles faintly, and I feel my misplaced ire melt into I'm so happy to see you right now. "I didn't think you would get through them as quickly as you have," she says.

"Me either," I confess. "But I couldn't stop. And, if I'd taken more than the first eight, I'm pretty sure I would be sleeping against my locker right now."

"When we both know you'd much rather be sleeping against me."

"Exactly."

There's a faint blush on her cheeks, and I step forward to hug her hello, I love you. "So, I've got the next few in my locker," she tells me as we release each other. "I can give them to you now, if you'd like, because I doubt I'm going to see you until tomorrow."

"Oh?" I ask, pouting slightly.

She looks sorry about it. "We're running through the routine at lunch, and then practice after school is probably going to go on for hours... until Sylvester is happy with it, at least... which will probably never happen, so we'll all just end up dying of exhaustion."

I shake my head. "Sounds lovely."

"Just bear with me, today, tomorrow and Thursday, and then you and Glee will have my full attention."

"Don't burn yourself out," I tell her. "Make sure to consume all your calories and stay hydrated."

"I get hourly texts from LeRoy," she informs me, and I can't help my laugh.

"He worries about you."

"And I love him for it."

I blink. Did she just say she loves my Daddy? Out loud?

Quinn reaches behind me to close my locker, and then she links her arm with mine, intent on leading me to her locker to retrieve the next set of notebooks. There are ten of them this time, and I feel a little exhilarated just at the sight of them. I'll have reading material to tide me over while I wait for my cheerleader girlfriend to perfect her already perfect cheer routine.

That I'm going to watch.

I still haven't revealed to her just what I have planned for Thursday, mainly because there's a strong chance all my plans are going to fall through. I intend to bring it up during Glee tomorrow anyway. We should be supporting each other. I mean, we (sometimes) support the boys when they play football or basketball. And, I mean, the cheerleaders support them all the time, so they should be willing to support them back, right?

I spend the day itching to read Quinn's words, but I refrain from doing so at school. I just keep the notebooks securely locked away in my locker, and patiently wait for the final bell to ring, so I can tuck into the soft core of Quinn Fabray. I head straight home, set the notebooks on my nightstand, and then go for my vocal lesson and my dance classes: ballet and modern. I let the music distract me from other thoughts and worries, and instead focus on the rhythm of my steps and the count of the beats. I end up staying later than usual, and get home just as my Daddy is finishing with cooking dinner. I kiss his cheek and rush upstairs to shower, change and check my phone.

Quinn: I sincerely hope you're having a far superior afternoon than I am. We've done this routine fourteen times today, and I think I'll be asleep later and my limbs will still be doing the steps.

Quinn: I think I'm seeing sounds, Berry. Something's wrong with me.

Quinn: B says to tell you she misses you. S is rolling her eyes, and I'd just like to let you know that all our lives are better because of you and everything you are.

Quinn: Also, Q misses you too ;) X

I smile like the idiot I am.

Berry: I hope you're all drinking enough water. I miss B, too! And Santana, sometimes, really. Quinn, baby, I love you and I miss you and I'll call you when you get home. Try not to pass out, PLEASE! You're too pretty to be unconscious.

I set my phone down and hurry downstairs to eat. I tell my dads about my day and about Quinn and I absently discuss the trip to New York. Even though Quinn hasn't explicitly said 'yes' to coming with us, it's widely accepted that she is, whether she feels she's imposing or not. Which she isn't. I'm excited about it, because I really want to be able to hold her hand in the street and walk around without looking over my shoulder or tempering my reactions to the fact she's alive and right beside me. Spring break can't get here fast enough, really.

By the time I make it to bed, it's both early and late, and there's no reply from Quinn. Based on my limited sleep from the previous night, I should be tired, but all I want to do is read, which is what I do. I tell myself I can finish my homework in the morning or during my free period. Right now, I'm sitting in Quinn's brain and feeling the way she dealt with learning to love Beth, and then choosing to give her to someone else to take care of. There are tear stains on the pages, which just makes me cry. It can't have been easy for her to decide, particularly with the prospect of Finn's support and the support of his family but, ultimately, she made the correct decision for all of them at the time.

She's written the words almost a hundred times: I did the right thing. I imagine she carries regrets, but the adoption was open and she gets pictures and phone calls on occasion. Quinn and Finn will always be involved in Beth's life, which means that Finn will always be in Quinn's life, which means that he will always be in mine, because I will always be in Quinn's. Jesus. Isn't that a match made in heaven?

There's a poem, entitled miss you that I know is about Beth, and I read it twice because I wonder where Quinn has hidden all of this emotion; all of this feeling. All that time, I remember her being nothing but completely stoic, terribly put together and painfully passive. It's so difficult to think that she was holding this all inside; that she thought she had to. She's alluded to thinking nobody would understand; that nobody truly cared, and it breaks my heart every time because I did. I just didn't show it.

.

miss you

in my free time, i do the unthinkable.
i do what I know i shouldn't.
it's just too easy, and yet it still hurts
yes, it hurts to miss you.

i think about the gentleness of your presence,
and the ease with which you make life worth it.
for you; i am living to be better.
i miss that feeling of being home, with you.

i remember your stillness and your movement.
your eyes glinted with quiet joy and happiness -
all of which will, now and forever, have
nothing to do with me.

i feel the need to right myself in your eyes,
again, I'm at a loss for words to say to you.
i've made mistakes and wrong choices, but
i am comforted by your pure heart.

they say a very small degree of hope is
sufficient to cause the birth of love. i still wonder
about it. All this hope in my heart – everything i've known.
it's all self-inflicted; all the pain of your forgetting.

even if you're gone now, pushed away for your own
protection; i still know we've always got tomorrow.
now, all i can do is the unthinkable; what i shouldn't:
it still hurts to miss you.

.

Quinn misses Beth in a way that makes me think about my own mother. Sure, we talk at least once a month, but I've never really spoken to Quinn about it, the same way she's never truly discussed Beth with me. It's just never come up for me because Shelby doesn't sit on my brain the same way Beth sits on Quinn's. It makes me wonder what Shelby went through in the beginning; how she dealt with my adoption. I wonder if she struggled as much as Quinn continually does, with guilt and sorrow and regret. I wonder if she questions her decisions as much as Quinn does.

Quinn makes it seem as if she would jump at the opportunity to know Beth, which is something Shelby clearly and vehemently resisted. For years. And to my face. I imagine she has valid reasons and, though I don't understand them, I accept that there are reasons... which is also something I've learned from Quinn. She just carries this faith and this worldly understanding with her that almost makes it seem impossible not to believe in something. In her, mostly, but she'd probably just blush and call me ridiculous if I were ever to tell her that she inspires me.

There's an endless number of pieces about Beth and about trying to get back to her old life... and then realising she doesn't want it anymore. There are poems about her parents and the end of their marriage. There are paragraphs and paragraphs about rediscovering herself after her fall from grace. It's what she calls it at first, before she accepts that the person she was before Beth had no grace. And she called herself a good Christian. Good Christians didn't hurt other people... which was how she returned to her faith and found a sense of peace that encapsulates her every Sunday, to carry with her through the entire week.

There are words, and then there are words. These are Quinn's words. Her soul is damaged but so pure, and I love everything about her. I won't ever stop. When I finally fall asleep, I dream of Quinn. I dream of her gentleness and her cruelty, and I dream of pained sobs and shining eyes.

I dream of a girl who has stars in her eyes, but seems to be lost in space, searching for the light in the darkness.

"Come here."

Quinn crosses the living room in slow motion, her facial expression twisted into a grimace that tells me her body is hurting. She was all types of tense in Glee today, and she looks even more tense now. Her shower clearly didn't help that much, though she does look and smell fresh and clean and good enough to taste.

"How many times did you run through the routine today?" I ask.

"Twelve," she grumbles, as she collapses on the couch beside me, cringing at the impact on her sore muscles. I immediately crawl towards her, push her onto her back and lie on top of her, revelling in the sound of her measured groan. She's so warm and soft, and I just want to be near her. Or, on top of her.

"Only twelve?" I ask, grinning at her.

"Shut up."

"Do you want me to give you a massage?"

Her eyebrows rise. "Would you?" I start to move my hands, but she stills them. "And, I mean, an actual massage, Berry," she says. "Don't get frisky."

I pout. "Can I at least get a kiss?"

"Little star, you know you can kiss me whenever you want," she murmurs, so I do. Kiss her, I mean. I settle properly on top of her, feeling her body relax into the couch cushions, and kiss her slowly, purposefully. She has to know what her written words have done to me; what she has done to me. My hands absently massage her biceps, and then her tight shoulders, hearing her moan with every stroke of my tongue and knead of my hands. I feel as if I haven't spent time with her in forever.

Time passes slowly, and we lose each other in touches and sounds, which is probably why we barely hear the front door open. It's the voices that alert us, and we spring apart, and then come back together to sit side-by-side to make it look like we haven't been doing anything worth taking note of. I spot my Dad first, and he looks solemn.

"Dad?" I question, sitting up in concern.

"Hi, Sweetheart," he says quietly. "Look who we found loitering outside."

I blink in confusion, and then spy my Daddy walking in with Kurt. Kurt, who looks -

"Kurt?" I suddenly ask, taking in the devastation on his face. "What's wrong? Oh, my God. What happened?" At the sound of my questions, he bursts out crying, and I automatically spring to my feet and move towards him. "Kurt?" I question, wrapping my arms around him. "What's wrong? Is it Blaine? Your father? Gosh, what happened?"

Kurt blubbers in my arms, and I look over my shoulder at Quinn. She looks as lost as I feel, and I'm sufficiently unnerved. I mean, he didn't even raise his eyebrows at the fact that Quinn and I were practically cuddling on my couch.

"Kurt?" I try again. "Honey, what's wrong?"

He pulls back slightly, and I wipe at his cheeks, meeting his gaze. "It's - it's Dave," he whispers, and I frown. Quinn's expression matches mine. Who is Dave?

"Dave?" I question, prompting him to elaborate.

"Karofsky," he clarifies through his tears, and I haven't heard that name in months. I'm pretty sure he left the school. I mean, he stopped the slushy facials around the time Quinn returned to Head Cheerio after Beth, and enacted her tremendous power. But -

"What about Karofsky?" I ask, suddenly wary of what he's about to tell us.

Kurt sniffs. "He - he tried to kill himself."

I gasp, and Quinn's eyes widen. "Oh, my God," I say. "Is he okay? What? What happened? Why? I don't - "

Kurt shakes his head. "They found out," he says.

I'm so confused. "What?"

"At his new school," he says; "they found out."

"They found out what? Kurt, what did they find out?"

Kurt blinks, his eyes pooling with more tears. "That he's gay."

Quinn makes us tea, and my dads go upstairs to their bedroom. I realise Quinn needs to do something to stop her mind from focusing on what Kurt's just told us, and I'm certain this entire situation doesn't help with my dads' worries about Quinn and me out there in the real world. People can be cruel and, in this world, they are determined to break you. I've seen enough of that regarding my dads and my talent, and goodness only knows what Quinn has seen. Through her words, I'm still learning.

Kurt and I settle on the couch, and Quinn sits in an armchair, her body tense. All my hard work to soothe her, just gone. The two of us are listening to Kurt say words, telling us about the true reasons behind Karofsky's bullying of him. He tells us about the first time Karofsky kissed him, and how he's been keeping the secret of his tormenter for months. Quinn and I share a significant look at the sound of that, but neither of us says anything. Kurt tells us that Karofsky decided to move schools, in the hope that he could reinvent himself as someone who wasn't so full of hate. For himself, and for others.

Quinn shifts in her seat, and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around her.

Kurt explains how Karofsky contacted him, asking for advice and attempting to befriend him. "It didn't take very long for me to realise he wanted to be more than my friend," he says, shaking his head. "It's my fault they found out. I - I rejected him, and - " his voice catches in a sob, and I wrap my arms around him instead, trying to console him.

"It's not your fault," I tell him. "You know it. I know it. And Karofsky knows it."

"But, if I'd been more discreet, maybe none of this would have happened," he presses.

"No," I say. "Kurt, what happens is always meant to happen." I say this and look at Quinn, channelling her in a way that makes me feel closer to her and her faith. I think she's where I find my strength and, if that isn't profound, then I don't know what is. "Karofsky will get through this. All of us, we're going to help him and support him, okay? We'll go visit him tomorrow, if that's allowed, and we'll make sure he knows he's not alone, okay?"

He just nods against me, and my arms tighten around him. I look at Quinn over his shoulder, and her eyes are on my face. They're telling me something: her fears and her hopes. This - all of this - is important, in our lives right now, and in our futures. Just, why does it have to be this hard? I feel as if we haven't had a blissful and easy day in forever, and all I want to do is sit quietly in a corner, Quinn in my arms, and just be.

"Rachel?"

I blink once, tearing my eyes away from Quinn. "Yes, Kurt?"

He takes a calming breath. "I know you spent a lot of time working on the setlist for Regionals, but I was wondering if we could possibly sing something related to..." he trails off. "No, it's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Quinn says, surprising us both by speaking. She's been silent this entire time. "Kurt, you're right. We should sing songs in support of Karofsky, and any other kids struggling with similar thoughts or problems."

"Being gay is not a problem!" he suddenly snaps, harshly, and Quinn barely recoils, having probably expected some kind of reaction. I assume she's dealt with worse.

"No, it's not," she says, as calm as ever, even though I'm bristling at how he's speaking to her. "But, struggling with it is."

"And how would you know?" he shoots back and, for a terrifying moment, I think she's going to give us away. I don't think I would be against it, but I think it's something we should probably discuss first. Hell, we're still waiting on having that coffee with Blaine to talk... about... things.

Quinn leans forward, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I see it," she says. "I've watching you struggle, and I've seen it take its toll on Santana in a way she'll never admit to. But you are all so strong, and you've all survived, with the help of your friends and family. Not everyone has that kind of support, and I think it's a good idea to remind those who are struggling that they're not alone and they will emerge stronger than before, because being true to who you are is always going to be worth it."

I look at Quinn. She's saying too many words, and my heart is thundering in my chest. Does she - is this her way of telling me that -

Kurt sighs heavily. "I'm sorry, Quinn," he says lowly. "I didn't mean to - "

She interrupts him. "It's okay," she says, shaking her head. "Today has been emotional, and I won't begrudge you the way you react to it. This could have been any one of us, and I hate the idea of anyone thinking themselves so alone that they actually resort to - " she stops suddenly, and presses her lips into a thin line. Her eyes meet mine in mild panic, and I hear what she's not saying.

This thing that Karofsky attempted; Quinn has thought about it. Or, Lucy has.

But it's a sin.

I swallow bile. Is the only reason my girlfriend is currently sitting here, alive and breathing, because she's too scared of ending up in Hell, to take her own life? My breathing changes quite dramatically - increasing exponentially - and Kurt looks at me curiously. Quinn. Oh, Quinn. I want to be near her. I need to touch her and feel the solidity of her. I need to feel that she's still here, with me.

"Rachel, are you okay?" Kurt asks, his bloodshot eyes widening slightly.

I can't look away from Quinn, but she doesn't move. She's frozen in place, and the longest moment passes between us and around us. She knows I know, and I don't even know what to say or do. "Quinn," I say, and my voice sounds strangled in my throat.

Kurt looks between us. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

Quinn takes a measured breath and clears her throat, somehow managing to recover. "Kurt, do you have any ideas for songs we could possibly sing?" she asks. "I'd suggest you get them out now because it looks like Rachel's already coming up with a setlist right now. Including choreography."

Kurt glances between us again. "Is that what's happening right now?"

I manage to pull it together enough to nod my head and drop my gaze. Maybe if I'm not looking at Quinn, we can get through Kurt's visit without my totally giving us away, because I just realised that my girlfriend might be broken beyond repair; that I'll never be able to fix her.

Quinn handles the conversation then, keeping Kurt distracted while I try to wrap my head around what I think I've always known about her, but never allowed myself to acknowledge properly. I'm convinced that majority of the world's population has thought about suicide; maybe muttered it under his or her breath or entertained the idea in order to get out of having to do something they didn't want to, but this is serious. Quinn considered it; I'm certain of it. I absently wonder if she's written about it at all, or if it's all laced into every word of pain she's ever written.

Really, our lives were so much simpler before Valentine's Day. How do we get back to that? How do I get back to worrying over whether or not Quinn is going to find my stupid little heart Valentine? I almost scoff at the fact I though life was difficult before.

Slowly, I come back to myself, and the three of us decide on three songs to show solidarity and strength through adversity. Quinn works up most of the choreography, quietly consulting with Brittany over the phone a few times. Kurt and I do the vocal arrangements, seamlessly assigning singers to the various parts. He doesn't even fight me, which I really appreciate. I don't think I have much fight in me anyway, and it looks as if he doesn't either.

When we're semi-satisfied, I send emails to the entire Glee Club and Mr Schuester. There's no grumbling and nobody complains. It doesn't matter that David Karofsky has humiliated every single one of us at one point; this isn't wished on anybody, and we're nothing if not all-inclusive and supportive of our fellow students in need. We have new songs to learn, and I worry about the strain this puts on Quinn, Santana and Brittany, but Quinn assures me it'll be fine. They'll just sleep for days after we win on Saturday, apparently.

When Kurt leaves, he's much calmer. I think we've managed to convince him none of this is his fault, but I text Blaine anyway, just letting him know he should be wary of Kurt's emotional state. I try not to read too much into the fact that Kurt ended up here and not at Blaine's in the first place because, well, I have my own significant other to take care of now. Quinn remains in her armchair as I lock up and switch off the downstairs lights in preparation for turning in for the night. Quinn is staying. I don't even care if it's a Wednesday night. She's staying, with me, in my arms.

I assume my dads are asleep when I lead Quinn up the stairs and into my bedroom. We're quiet as we both perform our nightly routines, taking turns in the bathroom and preparing for the following day. Quinn is leaving from McKinley at eight o'clock, and the preliminary rounds start at ten o'clock. If they make it to the second and final round, they should perform again in the afternoon, probably around three o'clock, which is a time I could possibly make if I skipped my last lesson - or last two lessons. She'd probably keel over if she knew I was considering bunking for her.

We crawl into bed at the same time, settling in beside each other, our arms seeking contact as if it's a default setting. I close my eyes and breathe her in, trying and failing to get my heart rate to slow or the trembling in my fingers to stop. Quinn's arms tighten around me, and I burrow into her that bit more. I've always harboured this fantasy that we could occupy the same space, but even I know physics won't allow it. A girl can dream, though.

"Rachel," she whispers, her lips pressed to my hairline.

I hum in response.

"They can never know," she says.

I breathe out. I don't want to agree with her. I want us to be able to make decisions about our lives without having to consider anyone else. But this is Lima, Ohio, and we're not in control here. The narrative will never be our own. She's Quinn Fabray, daughter of two socialites and upstanding members of the church and community, and I'm Rachel Berry, the daughter of two gay men. It doesn't matter what those men have accomplished. Society can't look past the person they've both chosen to love. Quinn and I, we're not safe here, which is why I say what I do.

"They can never know," I echo.

"I'm sorry," she says, and she sounds as if she desperately means it. "I am so sorry, Rachel."

"Me, too."

It isn't until she falls asleep that I feel the weight of her apology fall onto my chest, making it difficult to breathe. Why is she apologising? Why am I apologising? We shouldn't have to apologise for the person we're choosing to be with; choosing to love. We shouldn't, and I hate that this is what we've been forced into: apologising for being together and keeping our relationship hidden in the shadows. It makes me so angry, and I feel so defeated at the fact that it's all necessary. We have to hide because the consequences of our relationship are too high, for all parties involved.

It doesn't make me hate it any less.

I realise rather quickly that I can't get to sleep, so I slowly remove myself from her embrace, press a kiss to her forehead, and get out of bed. I move to sit down at my desk and lean back in my chair. We haven't talked about anything. We've barely discussed Karofsky or his suicide attempt or her thoughts on the matter. She's just always seemed so strong and put together, and I wonder just what that family of hers has to have done to break her this way. We haven't talked about the effect seeing her father has had on her, and we haven't even come close to discussing the bank or the lawyer.

After.

We'll talk about it after Regionals. I reach for a random notebook, just because I want to read her words. I want to learn and understand more about her. Just, anything. It's a random passage, marked as a 'failed experiment?' in the top corner. I read it anyway.

.

thief

Time waits for nobody. I am purely independent.

Despite the complaints, curses and prayers, I exist only for myself. Even though I am used and abused, I continue to endure for those of flesh, who are forever ungrateful. Time has complete control. I am not afraid to use it. I have survived the prodding, the begging and the whining for so long. And yet I continue to venture on as if I am needed; as if I am liked or valued; as if I have an influence on how people live, and as if I have control over what is perceived as more important.

Time pauses for nothing. I am limitless.

"Time is a thief with a loaded gun; the sky runs by while the days are gone; the night falls prey to another sun." I have been called the servant of death for, when the 'time' comes, life reaches its pitiful end. Human beings question my work as if they could understand its complexity. Time is unpredictable. I am the ruler of growth. I allow for blooms to bear witness to the day and allow lovers the cover of night. Time governs all. I am the conductor of the circling seasons, bringing forth the chills of Fall; the freeze of Winter; the blaze of Summer and the buds of glorious Spring.

Time is the initiator. I am ageless.

"In reality, killing time is only the name of another of the multifarious ways by which Time kills us." I am apostrophised. I am addressed as if I am human, in order to be condemned. Again, I am compared to death. As insulting as the malicious remark could be; I realise that earth-inhabitants strive upon contradictions. Time is responsible for death. I am not God. If I were God, I would not be addressed in such a way. I would be respected, honoured, even admired, and definitely not worshipped or idolized. Time is, rather, the devil's companion. I am not dedicated. I do not exist for the purpose of opposing the Heavenly Being who has placed me in my responsibility.

Time is a mastermind. I am perennial.

"Time is what prevents everything from happening at once." I have been criticised since I came into existence: the very beginning. I have been told I am the cause of unnecessary stress, for there is never enough of me in supply. Conversely, during those treacherous lessons and meetings; I am called upon to accelerate. Time works alone. I am used as a manmade constraint. I have yet to be defined. Oh, how these beings have tried and tried? I have never understood how their minds function, and I do not foresee that ever occurring. We are the same. For, like them, I too am seeking a truth.

Time is not human. I am everlasting.

"Clocks slay time… time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life." I find it awfully putrid that I am believed to be governed by an object. I am responsible for my own righteousness. Time exists to serve. I am a cliché. I can be 'set aside.' Or, my favourite: 'time flies when you're having fun.' As if I am known. As if I can be understood. As if I am feasible or definite. It is as if I am tangible. I am not seen, invisible to the naked eye.

Time is undefined. I am eternal.

Time waits for nobody. I am purely independent. The light and the darkness bow at my command. The winds and rays bend at my every peril. I exist with the grace of fulfilling the work bestowed upon me. I am inherent to the masterfully majestic happenings of the world unknown.

Time is not to be slayed.

I am immortal.

.

"Rachel?"

I look up to spy Quinn sitting up in bed and looking at me with bleary eyes. Her hair is a blonde mess, and she looks all kinds of cute as she rubs her right eyes of sleep. "Hey," I breathe, unable to stop myself from smiling at her in the dim light.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

"Nothing," I say, setting the notebook down and trying not to look guilty about choosing to read over being wrapped in the comfort of her arms.

She shifts to lie back down. "Come back to bed," she murmurs sleepily.

Without preamble, I rise to my feet and pad across the carpet, slip into the safety of her arms and do my best not to cry.

I fail.

"Let's go, McKinley!" I scream, bouncing up and down in the bleachers. "Whoo! Come on, McKinley!"

Blaine laughs at my antics, but he's also on his feet, clapping his hands and whistling. We're the only two from Glee who decided to come watch the cheerleading squad. I really laid into the football players because, really, how could they not come and support the cheerleaders who support them during all their losses? I was especially disappointed in Finn, but he just cited that they all had new songs to learn. 'Maybe another time.' I wanted to strangle him.

Kurt declined in favour of... wallowing about Karofsky, which is something Blaine and I have actively not discussed. I can feel a bit of tension about the subject, and I'm choosing not to get involved. Though, we are scheduled to visit Karofsky when Blaine, the Cheerios and I return to Lima.

"Isn't it just weird to cheer for cheerleaders?" Blaine asks, and I let out a laugh as my eyes settle on Quinn. Of course, the Cheerios progressed to the second round of the competition, and now they're performing again. This one is for the win. They're just moving into position on the blue mats in front of us, and my heart is beating wildly in my chest in anticipation of what's to come.

"I should warn you, Blaine," I say; "I may dig my nails into your skin when Quinn is in the air."

"That's okay," he assures me. "It can't be easy watching her do all these dangerous tricks. Even I get a little queasy watching them assemble the pyramid, and she isn't even my girlfriend."

I shake my head. "And she has this nasty little habit of injuring herself," I add. "Honestly, it's as if she likes being in pain, the little menace that - " I stop suddenly, my voice catching. Because, well, there it is, isn't it? I replay the words in my head, blink a few times, and then look at Quinn. Jesus. I am so not ready for everything that comes with Quinn Fabray.

"They're starting," Blaine says, his hand gripping my forearm. We sit back down as the Cheerios grow still and the crowd falls silent. There's a beat of absolute quiet, and then the music is blaring. I don't recognise the song, but that's to be expected when it comes to Quinn, who was responsible for choosing the accompanying setlist. There's music in that head of hers I couldn't even dream up. It's jammy, though, and then they're dancing and moving and flipping and swinging legs and arms and -

And then they're flying, and my nails dig into Blaine's arm. He grimaces, but says nothing. Quinn's smile is mega-watt, and my heart is beating in my throat. I mean, the routine is flawless; it's electric and so synchronised that I'm actually jealous of how they all move together. Glee could never be like this. We're not all coordinated enough, and people generally don't care enough.

"They're amazing," Blaine murmurs when Quinn does a split in the air. A sky split, as she calls it. Oh. I didn't know she was that flexible. I flush at the thought, and then gasp when she does a turn in the pike position. Just what is she trying to do to me?

Thankfully, there's no pyramid involved in this routine, but there is a complicated stunt involving Quinn, Santana, Brittany and another cheerleader that makes me stop breathing, because they're doing backflips, forward flips, double flips, sliding under each other and flying through arms and ohmygod. Honestly, my blood is pumping when the routine ends with a struck pose and jazz hands. Their smiles are huge, and everyone just knows they've won. It isn't even a competition anymore, really.

Which is why, when they do announce William McKinley High School as the Regional winners, I'm not even surprised. Proud beyond words, but not surprised. My girlfriend is a born leader - ruthless as she may sometimes be - and she's built to be a winner. And she's mine.

The Cheerios are still celebrating when Blaine and I brave approaching them to tell them our congratulations. It'll be innocent, just fellow Glee Club members wishing their teammates well. It'll be fine. I spy a few recruiters hovering nearby, and I imagine they're just waiting to approach the celebrating girls. But, for now, they're being respectful and letting them enjoy this moment; a moment I selfishly want to share with my girlfriend.

But.

"I love you, guys," Quinn suddenly yells, her smile wide and infectious and, instead of revelling in how happy she looks, my world draws to a sudden and painful halt at the sound of her words. I love you. She's said them so easily, drawing Santana and Brittany into a tight hug that makes one of them squirm and the other squeal in delight. "I'm so happy, and I just love you both so much," she practically sings into Santana's ear.

"Yeah, yeah, we love you, too, Q," Santana says, rolling her eyes.

She laughs gloriously, and her eyes light up when she spots my approach... that has stopped. Her arm is still draped over Santana's shoulders, her posture loose and open, and I get a wink out of my blonde.

I blink.

Because, really, I can't tell who I hate a little bit more right now: me or her.