AU; very very AU
i loved you first, i loved you first.
beneath, the stars came falling on our heads.
but they're just old light, they're just old light.
It's like every other Thursday, and just like every other Thursday, he's there in first period with a smug smirk on his face, his eyes leering and probing. She doesn't look at him. It's best to ignore the problem until it faces her directly, so she bites her lips and chews on her pen and does her best to smooth the goosebumps on her neck. They travel up and down her arms and stifle any words in her throat.
The bell rings and she half-expects for him to wait for her outside the door, and for a split second, she's sure he will. But he glances at her - like she's someone he's never met before, a new and dangerous and exciting person - and turns away.
He's just like her. He'll walk away before he has to get hurt.
It's like every other Friday.
He's in her sixth period, half-asleep with his chin in his hand. She sits on the other side of the room, and if she really concentrates on the lesson, she doesn't even have to acknowledge that he's there.
She stares harder at the board.
She blinks up at the biology teacher. She's sure he asked her a question but she was too busy not thinking about Puck to pay attention.
It's a Saturday and she sits around hoping for the phone to ring.
She glances a little too much at the screen; she hears it vibrating more than once but it's only a figment of her imagination. She thinks it lit up once but that, too, existed only in a dream-world.
She's not waiting for him to call, but she still can't believe he hasn't. He should have. He hasn't spoken a word to her since she…
Her phone lights up again. She swears it must be him this time, it can't be in her head.
Incoming call: Finn
She isn't disappointed.
In fact, she's rather glad he hasn't called. She doesn't want him to mess up her life even more than he already had.
But she stares down at the screen a bit more, watches the name flash incessantly in bold letters.
She doesn't answer.
She's still not waiting for him to call.
She wakes up early on Sunday for church. Finally, some normalcy, something she can always be sure will be there. Church never goes away, like milk in the fridge or Raisin Bran in the cupboard. It's always there.
But she slips into white silk and stares at herself in the mirror, trying to figure out what looks so different about her. Her face is still the same, her eyes still bright, her smile in tact.
With a subconscious hand, she presses her fingers to her lips. Her mirror-self mimics the movement.
Unconsciously, her fingers wander to her stomach.
He still hasn't called.
She still doesn't care, but she checks her phone once more before she leaves, just in case.
It's still like every other Monday except he's not looking at her anymore.
It's like he can't bear to see what he's done.
It's still fine with her, still perfectly okay; she doesn't mind. It makes things easier. After all, it was only a moment of weakness, that night. It was a Wednesday, wasn't it?
She can tell he's avoiding her. She wants to laugh. When did he become so weak?
It's not as if she cares. Hasn't she already made that clear?
Two weeks later, she marks off another date on her calender in red ink. She counts again, in her head, just in case she's wrong. It's a Tuesday. Her period is officially late by three days.
The first thing she does is Googles it. Her solution to everything is to find solid facts to prove herself right; if half the world sees the world the same way she does, with the glass half-full, then there's at least a 50% chance she's right.
Irregular periods are common in teenagers, she reads.
She refuses to acknowledge it could be anything more than teenage hormones, anything more than a slip-up in mother nature, for a full hour before she slips off discretely during lunch and winds up in a gas station buying a pregnancy test.
She's just making sure, of course. Proving herself right.
She stares down at a pink plus sign, a clear mockery of her own self-righteousness, and thinks to herself, just for a moment, he still hasn't called.
And this time she realizes that it bothers her.
More than it should.
There's something different about her at school Wednesday. She feels the whole world must see it. They must see the tiny little creature growing steadily in her stomach. They must see her chastity belt strewn across the floor of his truck, the burns of his kisses on her neck and arms. She feels everyone can see it and she's being whispered about in the hallways, that girl that Puck impregnated.
She still doesn't like to say the word, or even think about it much. She likes to live for the now, work for the now, and as of now, no one knows or sees it. She can remain normal until it all comes crashing down.
She feels that he must know, if no one else does, because for the first time in nearly three weeks, he looks at her.
Out of spite, out of anger for both him and her own self, she drags Finn down for a kiss and watches the jealousy and rage fume a silent battle in his eyes.
It's a dangerous game to play, and she knows she's going to lose. He always knew how to beat her.
... ... ...
It's her turn to avoid him.
He likes how the tables are turned, and he's done playing coward, and now she's in his footsteps, falling into those sweet, easy steps. It's like a dance that she already knew. He didn't have to speak a word to her.
He has her in the palm of his hand.
She just doesn't realize it yet.
It's a Friday and it's particularly hot today. He watches the sun bleed from the back window of his truck and fingers idly the cross necklace she left for him.
He can play games, too.
He drags his hand underneath the freshman's skirt. He can't remember her name. Ashley or Allison or something like that. She smiles coyly, like he's something she wants. It's a lie. No one really wants him. They all think they do but he finds a way to mess them up somehow.
Quinn brushes past them with the air of someone who couldn't give two shits if he fucked the girl right in the middle of the hallway.
But before he can continue on, she stops and pivots slightly to the side. "Amanda," she says, in that dangerously soft voice of hers. "You can forget about that extra spot on the team." She smiles now. "We can't haveanother whore on the team."
He removes his hand and stares appreciatively as she retreats, her head held high and her hips swinging to the side confidently.
He can't be sure if he won or lost, so he calls it a draw.
He moves his knight to check position and joins her celibacy club just to see her squirm. And she does.
Every time she preaches about virtue and chastity and abstinence, waiting until marriage, he can't help but snort laughter.
She ignores him. She's already a coward. She might as well play deaf, too.
He wonders for a split second what would happen if he told everyone - not just his mirror or his sister or his pillow - that he has seen Quinn Fabray naked, that he has fucked her until she said his name, screamed it.
But even he knows there's a difference between winning a game of chess and crumbling the board into dust.
And he's never even played chess.
It's been a month now. Exactly a month. He knows because football season has been going on for a month, and they celebrated the kick-off of the season with wine-coolers and pre-marital sex in the back of his truck. A month. It feels like years.
There's something different about her.
It's not the hair or the eyes or the face, and she's still wearing the crimson uniform every day.
But there's something different. He can't quite put his finger on it, when all he wants to do is grasp it in his hand.
He wonders why he's counting off the days, like he's looking forward to something that won't ever come. Since when did he keep track of the last time he fucked a girl?
He can't remember the last time he took a shower, but he remembers that it was thirty-two days ago that she ran desperately out of his truck, leaving behind her little cross necklace and her dignity.
He sits on the roof with his sister, Lizzie, and as she shivers underneath her blanket, he lets the moon catch the silver of the cross.
It shines brightly, before the glow is gone and it's simply inanimate and… gone.
He's never religious, but he thinks he might get it, just a little, why she's so adamant on her religion. It's always nice to have something to believe in, to believe that someone loved you no matter what, no matter what you did.
He stares at his sister. "What if I told you I did something really, really bad to my best friend?"
"I'd tell you to fix it," she quips. "If you can."
He blinks at the swirl of stars in his eyes. He's a little drunk. The stars dance like acrobats playing a private show. "I can't fix it."
"Then don't try to." She follows his gaze and doesn't say a thing about the way his hands crushes a silver necklace in his palm. "Just do what you want," she tells him.
It's a Wednesday.
He comes to her with his heart in one palm and his guitar in the other.
"Game over," he says, and watches the relief creeping along in her eyes. She smiles at him. The last time she smiled at him was exactly thirty-three days ago. He's still keeping track.
She blinks at him. "Why'd you bring your guitar?"
He closes his eyes and strums a chord. It echoes throughout the cold room; the walls are all around them. It's as if it's all their own.
In a slow, soft voice, he sings, "Because you are my heaven."
She listens the entire time, her eyes giving nothing away.
She holds his gaze for a split heartbeat and takes the cross necklace from his fingers. She smiles. He can't help but smile back, pressing his palm into the warmth of her stomach. He can't feel anything moving but she assures him the baby is alive and well.
They watch twilight settle over the horizon in the back of his truck. Her hand slides over his as the sky turns a dark shade of purple and swirling stars appear in the velvet.
It's a Thursday.