(Author's note: So I was like uber excited to see a couple people were already on my alert list, and I just sat there and was like: wow. With some minor interruptions, here is chapter one...hope it's what you were wait for?)

They lost.

For the first time in their lives as a show choir

they lost.

Their own shock apparent through the automated mechanisms of proper loser etiquette, a laughable lesson at the time, just in case. But now it was a harsh reality, each and every member of vocal adrenaline, gulping down his or her acceptance speeches burning holes in their throats. Each and every one of them, glaring with narrowed envy in their mind's eye.

She would say it's kamuptuz , for crimes he'd past committed and he would call it divine intervention…if he had time for such petty things as past childhood divinities.

But whatever it was, he was sure she'd sealed their fate with her god damned solo- the tears- feigned innocence she'd learned to cry on cue. Her own strenuous years of training shinning through the stage lights and reflecting through those tear drops. The pianos and fortissimos of her flawed angelic vocals, just shy of the screams only he could make her utter, rude hands fumbling mutely under the cover of the night.

Her own damned image, the doe-full innocence, and nativity pooling through those haunting eyes…like a smile that could reach everywhere but; she shone, radiating confidence and masking all those little insecurities, each and every one he memorized, that she liked to hide so well.


Something years of vocal, dance, and theater classes had never required. Something so seemingly insignificant, and futile; but as her voice choked with a variety of contrasting pain and anguish, melded into one melodic bar of music, emotion became their biggest pitfall.

He tried to understand it, rushing in waves through his brain, his mind running eons faster than his frozen body could manage to compete with.

He broke her heart, finally able to settle the score he could never put to rest, with the crack of an egg shell-

And yet..she haunted him with her face, the quiver in her voice as she commanded him

"Break it, just like you broke my heart."

...another thing he couldn't forgive her for.

Jesse St. James never took orders from anyone. And so a new scored to settle was marked in his book.

"New Directions!" the loathsome name printed elegantly in tiny script on the winner's card, 6X8 inches of glory and the inconceivable fate. The announcer, letting the title superciliously roll off his tongue as the over dramatized abundance of balloons and confetti fell to the floor, with the whoosh of breath every singer, spectator, and teacher had been holding, between overly glossed and chapped lips.

He seethed, eyes locked, on that beaming smile,just enough for pre-professional whitened teeth to show through, throwing her arms around the gangly frankenteen. His goofy grin and scarecrow figure, brain too, acting solely on emotion, connecting with her own dazzling grin.

His fists clenched ruefully in his pockets, almost ripping the carefully hand stitched seams, his body aching with misunderstood jealousy, bordering on obsession- because even now he knew she still belonged to him.

She always belonged to him.

But even deeper her feared, that He still belonged to her. That doe-eyed gypsy, with eyes of melting chocolate held him within her grasp. Damn Those eyes, that even when he'd defaced her, as yellow yolk dripped down her face and hair, humiliating her. And still she continued to stare after him, like a waking dream, a never-ending nightmare of those eyes.

She danced with them- that group of misfit comrades. Celebrating their victory, smiles and glassy eyed tears of relief; unbelievably blinking through their apparent shock and finally cutting through the one chain that held them together:

The fairy tale of hope and optimism.

Almost perfect, was this sickening hallmark scene unfolding in front him, instead of on some children's network.. where was the morale of this effing story? Lost among McKinley High and it's band of make shift singers.

Almost perfect was the way the light hit the champagne colored sequins of her dress, the cut just right on her perfect dancer's frame. The way the light refracted blinding rainbows and glittering stars…the same stars in her eyes… her signature.

Almost perfect was the way her dark locks curled, just above her mid back, teasing him with each swish and flick of dark brown-never out of place.

Everything was almost perfect; because that's the only way you could describe her; the epitome of almost perfection:

Rachel Berry.

(A/N: Wow, so big feat for me, because i've never been able to write a multi-chapter! Let me know what you think kay! And i'll try to write more soon! I have work tomorrow so if all else fails I will hopefully post again Friday after school! Seriously though, worth another chapter? But secrets are mine to keep about what comes next.)