AN: Soccer action and Faberry interaction. I really had fun writing this chapter and the next. All of you, thanks for reading and reviewing. Your comments are always dear and meaningful to me.
P.S – This goes to everyone, but most especially to the citizens of Tumblr: 50 Shades of Grey is everywhere. And oh my god, just… oh my god.
Chapter 7 – Scratching the Surface
She doesn't see Quinn for a week, and it occurs to Rachel that maybe they're just one of those few people who meet once, twice, thrice—but will never have a purpose to stay connected in the long run. Yet there's still a part of her who thinks she can always choose to go to great lengths to win Quinn's friendship. Maybe more. But the fact that Quinn had said nothing when Rachel mentioned if she'd see her again sometime, just makes her more certain that she has probably driven Quinn up the wall.
So she goes back to not thinking about Quinn, or at least helping herself not to. Every night after dinner, she climbs to her bed, and reads the few remaining pages of 'A Solitude of Prime Numbers' and tries not to keep comparing Quinn to one of the novel's main protagonist.
A while later, Rachel finishes the book with a look of indifference. A cup of warm milk rests on her nightstand, as well as the notebook she uses to draft her paper for her Theories of Personality class, and hesitation gripping her heart. It's not a question of who anymore—she's already set on writing about Quinn Fabray—it now revolves on whether or not she can pull through without being guilty of borrowing the details of someone else's life without their permission.
But if she's right, and they're only going to meet once, twice or three times—then it doesn't really matter, does it?
xxxxx
"*The more you say, the less people remember," Rachel reads aloud today's Motivational text from her dads, which in her opinion, doesn't feel motivating at all. She replies to their text with the usual "Thanks" and "Love you", briefly wondering if they filter these quotations to suit their daughter's personality and work as some form of reprimand.
In the end though, it only worries her to think how much truth relies in the statement. After all, she's more than aware of how much she is fond of words—perhaps too fond for most.
xxxxx
The quarterly general assembly of Middle C incoming recruits and regular attendees has apparently chosen a rather secluded conference room. It took Rachel about five minutes of asking around—Brittany won't answer her calls—before she started doubting if she's got the dates in her calendar mixed up. She hasn't been able to concentrate on anything these days. Damn those stupid dreams; she can do better without waking up on the floor with a prominent swell on her forehead more than the usual.
Rachel had almost lost her willingness to attend the meeting, when she suddenly came across a faint tune coming from down the hallway. And if there's one thing that will never fail to catch her attention it's a horribly off-key rendition of Barbra Streisand's "Happy Days Are Here Again".
And that's how she ended up sitting in the front— newbies get the 'privilege' of being the center of attention— and gripping the edges of her chair as she listens to another student sing the final lines of a Miley Cyrus song.
"That was an incredible performance, Casey, you've definitely improved. Thank you!" Brittany exclaims with a hearty smile, clapping and hauling everyone in the room to do the same. The corners of Rachel's lips curl up in a lenient smile, thinking if all of them had just seen the same performance. It's acceptable, but far from "great". Rachel knew what a great performance is like. She considers organizing a Juilliard tour once she becomes an established member. And since she's a former student, it's not hard to hack free tickets for everyone to discover what a "great" performance truly is.
But she's taking things one step at a time, and right now as she thinks of a song to go with her introduction, she tries to forget Santana's face while the Latina made a crafty remark on her disheveled appearance this morning. "You have no reason to be ashamed", Santana had said with a wink. "I do it all the time."
There had been many ways she could have answered that, but all that came out of Rachel is a horrible blush that spread down to her neck.
"Rachel, are you ready?"
Rachel looks up to find Brittany and everyone else eyeing her with much excitement. There's a good chance that she have been introduced to them beforehand, seeing she might be the only one in the room with credible experience in singing.
"I am," Rachel answers. She's never unprepared for anything that involves knocking off an impromptu performance of 'On My Own'.
She goes to stand on the wooden platform and with confidence, lifts her chin. "My name is Rachel Berry, and it's a pleasure to meet all of you today. I picked a song which I believe is nearly in everyone's vernacular knowledge of Broadway tunes."
Almost immediately, her eyes automatically close as soon as she hits the first lines. 'On my own, pretending he's beside me…'
Her diaphragm expands and deflates in time as if it has a life of its own. It's quiet— except for the slow exhilaration of air coming from mouths agape in awe. But it can also be that little bubble she enters every time her voice takes flight, because it's during this moment when she feels separated from others, so that there's only herself and her song that moves, and exists and breathes.
There's not a thing in this world that can make her feel more alive than this.
Rachel finishes her song with a stunning smile and her eyes flutter open to stunned faces that reminds of her of the last time she performed at Nationals. There are still no words to describe that experience, and perhaps there will never be. Brittany breaks the spell with a slow clap, which others soon follow with a noise of approval. Rachel proudly takes it all in and returns to her seat, heart brimming with satisfaction.
"Oh my god, Rachel. That was…" Brittany's voice trails off weakly, as her blue eyes continue to glimmer with excitement. In a flash, Rachel finds herself showered with compliments:
"Astonishing!"
"Why aren't you famous?"
"Britt, we need to fire that Marilyn Manson dwarf and replace him with Rachel."
"You should be on Broadway."
Rachel keeps a smile wave after wave, and ignores some slightly inappropriate comments that should earn a slap at the least. She makes eye contact with Brittany—who mouths a 'thank you'— and the gratitude reflected in those blue eyes are enough to compensate for that short amount of time wherein Rachel felt close, yet also too far from home.
xxxxx
"Hey, not so fast," Brittany grabs her wrist and gently tugs Rachel away from the door. "Don't you want to come and say hi to Quinn?"
More than anything. But at the same time, she can't seem to shake off the image of Quinn from all those times she woke up on the floor.
"Cheerleading practice at one," Brittany explains after Rachel's lack of response. "We're sharing the field with the soccer team."
"Would Quinn want to see me?" Rachel's voice slightly falters. She checks the time on her wrist watch—1:30 p.m.—and frowns at Brittany.
"Duh, of course. Why wouldn't she?" Brittany replies without a second thought.
Rachel decides not to answer that. She wishes Brittany isn't so enthusiastic about the idea of bringing her along. Just this morning, she had felt with finality that there wasn't any point in seeing Quinn again. She knows the early signs of a stupid crush that's unlikely to go anywhere, and she knew better than to feed it with opportunities such as this.
"I, uh— give me two minutes to think about it."
Brittany raises her eyebrows but says, "Take all the time you need. I'm always late for cheer practice anyway."
xxxxx
The first thing Rachel notices when she meets Brittany's squad is the distinct way they braid their hair into a very attractive pony, looking like someone out of 18th century England. Most of them have blonde hair the same length as Brittany's, and it's hard not to stare at their gorgeous smiles that should easily win them Miss America.
"Hey girls, I'd like you all to meet my friend, Rachel. She's Middle C's newest recruit and also Santana's roommate." Rachel doesn't miss the way their foreheads crease a little at the mention of Santana and she now understands fully what Santana meant when she said couldn't return to the team. There's an unspoken alliance between the players and the cheerleading team and Rachel herself wouldn't dare stand less than ten meters away from a hot-headed Barbie mob.
And yet, the way Brittany says Santana's name— Rachel can't detect an ounce of anger or bitterness in it.
"Wow, you're all so pretty..." Rachel blurts out without thinking and clutches her bag closer to her chest, suddenly feeling smaller. They laugh in chorus and even that sounds exactly how they look.
"I'm sorry you're living with Santana. That bitch." A tall redhead chisels in.
"Jessica." Brittany says sternly, shaking her head in disdain.
"It's alright, San already filled me in. I think I understand well how everyone feels about her."
Brittany shrugs warily. "I see," she deadpans, not meeting Rachel's gaze. "Listen, I really have to change. I'm going to leave you my bag of Cheetos and my PSP to keep you busy."
"O-Okay. I'll just be here. Or somewhere…" Rachel mutters distractedly, remembering what she came here for.
"Oh, and Rachel," Brittany yells over her shoulder, pointing towards the far-end of the field. "Quinn's over there."
Rachel nods and starts making her way towards the sidelines, choosing a spot where she can watch the squad and the Violets at the same time. Her eyes automatically searches for a short-haired blonde with a slender built and it takes a while before she spots the one she's looking for. She's wearing a jersey of rich violet color and the number eleven plastered across the back.
Despite the distance, Rachel can still see clearly as Quinn tackles an opponent with a look on her face that sends a thrill down Rachel's spine. The other girl dodges a second too late—causing her to lose her footing— and Quinn pivots her ankle expertly to drive the ball towards the opposite goal.
And god, the sight of Quinn looking like a rag doll drenched in sweat shouldn't turn her on but it does. Because aside from the obvious truth that Quinn's incredibly beautiful, there is something valuable in seeing someone in their element. She never knew that Quinn's body could be capable of this. And the blonde might not be aware, but she's communicating to the brunette more than she ever did in the last two times they got together.
It's impossible to take her gaze off of Quinn as the blonde charges for a goal, her movements becoming increasingly rough but still graceful at the same time. "Fabray!" One of them yells frantically. Rachel eyes stay faithfully glued to Quinn. "I'm open, Fabray!"
Either Quinn didn't hear her teammate or dead on ignored her, because she's showing no signs of stopping. She sprints towards the goal and maneuvers the ball away from the defenders, before stopping abruptly to lock her left heel. In the near future, Rachel will learn that this is the posture Quinn makes every time before executing "the kick".
"The Kick" pertains to that nail-biting event in which a player strikes the ball full-force, for the purpose of aiming a goal. And it's unbelievably attractive when Quinn does it.
She hears more than sees Quinn hit the ball hard with her left foot. Rachel's breath hitches, as she follows it fly straight between the posts and—
– And into the possession of the keeper. Rachel's eyes quickly snap back to Quinn just in time to see the look of distaste on her lips. But other than that, she merely jogs back to the other side with a mild expression. A smile creeps its way to Rachel's lips. She likes that it's a visage of Quinn she's thoroughly familiar with.
xxxxx
She had waited for everyone to disperse and leave the vicinity before she approached the locker room, reciting a line in her head she intends to start with. She feels ready and not quite, but as she turns around the corner, she's utterly unable to come up with a clever line.
"Quinn?"
Seeing her up-close in entirely different from watching her several meters away. Quinn's just so much vivid this way, that Rachel's dreams are suddenly lurking behind her and making her stomach twist because if she were in Quinn's position and aware that the person standing in front of her are having inappropriate visions of her that didn't involve clothes, well...
That's a good reason to break eye contact and run for the nearest exit.
But Quinn had claimed to be different—a manifesto that other would deem pretentious— and that only drives Rachel to think of Quinn's reaction if she casually revealed what kind of dream she's been having of her for the past several nights. Except, Rachel's not confident she can handle a situation like that.
The blonde's on her knees, sorting out her sportsbag with utmost concentration. And it's odd how watching Quinn—still faintly sweaty and worn out from her recent physical activities— is causing her heart to beat in uneven intervals. But that's the permanent principle of attraction: there's nothing a person can do to see or feel otherwise.
"Hey, Rachel," Quinn drawls out slowly over a towel caught in her arm. "What brings you here?"
"Brittany dragged me, literally. I went to meet the rest of the Middle C org members this morning, which was rather more pleasant that I expected." Rachel moves across the room and runs her fingers along the edges of Quinn's locker, wrinkling her nose at the distinct smell of paint on metal.
"Okay, but what brings you here?" Her eyes are fixed at the top of Quinn's head, but there's no denying the smile Quinn's voice when she spoke. Rachel ducks her head even though the blonde can see her, vaguely realizing that she often fails to answer Quinn's questions right during the first try.
"I-I wanted to see you." Rachel breathes deeply as soon as the words left her mouth.
Quinn stiffens for a millisecond— a reflex of some sort that Rachel wouldn't even notice if her eyes weren't raking all over the blonde's back. Quinn hums quietly, as Rachel's thumb keeps circling a tiny hole on the metal plate to distract herself.
"Well, what can I do for you, Ms. Berry?" Quinn finally responds, zipping up her bag. She looks at Rachel expectantly but in a kind manner. Her eyes look tired.
"Nothing, Ms. Fabray," Rachel answers evenly. "I came here because I came here."
Quinn smiles at that, eyes finding the ground again. "How's life, then?"
Rachel halts her movements and walks around to face Quinn. She can't help the confusion that settles over her features as it dawns to her that Quinn's asking her a question for a change, initiating an actual conversation that didn't involve too much inappropriate stares coming from the blonde. In all their previous interactions, Quinn had merely followed whatever direction Rachel set for them. It's…confusing, but most of all finicky—it makes Rachel suddenly conscious of her actions and how she regards Quinn.
Most people would give a response along the lines of 'fine', but Rachel takes the time to actually reflect on her life and what it means to her. Quinn must've sensed this because she pushes her things aside and reclines against the bench, shifting most of her weight on her elbows.
"I'm doing okay… in some areas." Rachel says with a shaky breath, there are a number of things she wants to share with Quinn, but she also remembers today's Motivational text of saying more and being remembered less. "Quinn, are we okay?"
"Why wouldn't we be?" Quinn asks, and Rachel curses the way her body reacts to its low, husky quality.
"Because the last time we talked, I asked you a question and you basically ordered me away?"
"Ah," Quinn says and runs a hand through her slick hair. She considers Rachel for a tense moment before continuing, "I didn't mean to, but I have curfew on Mondays."
Rachel decides not to believe that. But she's also not in the position to warrant truth or feel disappointed at being lied to.
"In any case, I want to apologize for assuming that you were offended by my… nosiness on the romantic aspect of your life…" Rachel says, shuffling her feet.
Quinn nods and manages to change the topic by asking Rachel more about the areas of her life that weren't okay.
"It's a long story," says Rachel. "And a large portion of it doesn't have anything to do with me."
Quinn hums in response and it annoys Rachel how Quinn's adamantly respectful not to prod further on the subject.
"Do you have to leave right away?"
Quinn shakes her head. "Not really."
"I'm picking up some books at Barnes and Nobles. Maybe you'd like to come with me?"
"Maybe…" Quinn replies softly, getting to her feet. "I assume you're an avid reader."
"Correct. You read often too?" Rachel asks with a hopeful smile.
"No," Quinn replies curtly, before looking at Rachel in the eye. "But I want to give it a try."
Her insides melt into each other, and something beneath her chest begins expanding, and expanding—
"So, Barnes and Nobles?"
Quinn smiles lopsidedly. "I'll drive you."
*quoted from François Fénelon.